Give My Story A Title!, I Can't Think Of One!

Wiz, I really think you should continue writing You're better than you give yourself credit for.

Thanks Aaediwen! i'll try to write more as the inspriation comes. For me, there's no use trying if the inspiration doesn't come first. I end up staring at a blank piece of paper for hours.

How so very true Good luck with it

I agree, no inspiration, no work...

As for a title I don't know. I usually find a certain phrase in something I write or the phrase that inspired me to write in the first place and go with that. Your story brings to mind the sentence of L.P. Hartley's The Go-Between: "The past is a foreign country, people do things differently there." Leastways I think it was Hartley I have read so much lately the authors have started to blur together.

-Keep that pen moving across the page!

Today I decided to post my story on another forum to get some more opinions on it. In the process, I made some MAJOR revisions to it. I would love to hear your thoughts on the new version. Is it better, or should I leave it as it was?

Thanks in advance for sharing with me your opinion!

Leaving Wonderland
By Allen Alderman

It was with some trepidation and a very real sense of sadness that I went to see the White Rabbit. As a child I had spent time with him almost daily. It had been a while, though, since my last visit.

I was not looking forward to this one.

I had no trouble finding my way, as I had followed this path many times before in my childhood. Much had changed since then. The path, once clear and well-worn, was overgrown with weeds, and his hole, once a warm and inviting place, seemed much smaller, not as tidy as he had always kept it. The changes were sobering, almost painful to see.

Finally I reached the door to his hole. I had to force myself to raise my hand and knock. The sound fell cold and hollow on my ears. He greeted me warmly and invited me in to chat with him for a spell. After making sure that I was quite comfortable, he busied himself with making us a pot of hot tea. Once it was ready he poured us each a cup, and then he joined me in the sitting room.

As we drank, he reminisced about all of the adventures we had shared together once upon a time, the stories he used to tell me, the laughs and tears that we had shared. I marvelled at his words. Years ago his stories had seemed so full of meaning, deep, rich and philosophical. Today, however, they seemed shallow and superficial, almost contrived.

After what seemed ages, his words droned to an end. For an uncomfortable eternity we sat in silence, each waiting for the other to come up with a reason to continue the conversation. Both came up empty handed.

He sighed loudly and sat staring deeply into his now-empty cup. His shoulders were hunched and he seemed so very old.

"This is goodbye, isn't it?" he said finally, hesitancy and dread in his voice, an unshed tear sparkling in his eye.

"Yes, old friend, I'm afraid it is," I said, trying to hide the slight tremble in my own voice.

"I knew it would come," he said. "It never lasts for long."

"But there will be others," I said, vainly trying to cheer him up. "As long as there are children who look up to the sky with wonder, to the forest with a sense of mystery, there will be others."

"I know," he said, "but that never eases the pain I feel with each goodbye."

For a moment I struggled to find words. Then, "I will miss you," I said, no longer trying to hide my quivering voice.

"And I you," he replied.

"Thank you," I whispered.

I think he heard me. I hope he did.

With those words I left his hole. I did not bother to look back. If I had, however, I would have seen that with each and every step I took his hole became more hazy, indistinct and, in the end, was no longer there at all.

For a time all was silence.

Then, in another place, another time, a child opened the book, and that wonderful, magical sound called the hole back into existence, more real and more vibrant than ever before.

And, once again, the story began anew....

Yes, so do I want to cry. This is something a little rarer than you think, Allen -- acknowleging the fantasy life of the child and also that you grow out of it, and it is painful. Ray Bradbury had that gift, like almost no one else, his work is just saturated with it. "Leaving Wonderland" works well (like "Finding Neverland"? ) . . . something else is at the back of my mind too, but I will think a little more.

Oh -- about the volley of "said" -- you could leave some of them out entirely. We can keep track of the exchange. Here's just a suggestion:

For a moment I struggled to find words, no longer able to hide my quivering voice.

"I will miss you."

"And I you."

"Thank you," I whispered.