There are a few things I think this piece needs to focus on. Firstly, I do not have a title. The working title throughout was "Weeds" but I do not like that as a finished title. Second, if any of you find things you feel I should change, but don't have suggestions, just let me know what sections you feel should be rewritten. Should I draw certain parts out longer? Cut others? Any and all suggestions are appreciated and will be considered. Thanks in advance to all who reply.

Where the title would be, if I had one

It was a pleasant spring afternoon where I found myself sitting upon the old, worn porch swing. The swing had been there when we moved into this house, and it was old then. We all suspected it was going to break with every new occupant, and often found ourselves in disappointment when another guest left unscathed. A light breeze was blowing and the air had the soft scent of rain as docile clouds slowly began to congregate over our small town. It had been a difficult day for papa; I could see it in his eyes. He never spoke much about what he was thinking, but that never stopped us from learning through his eyes. They held so much wisdom, so much love. I never expect to see a set of more vibrant, intelligent eyes for as long as I live. It was why I felt so terrified when I saw the way his eyes looked after our radio (it was a Straussmen, the newest model. I’ll never forget how excited I was the day papa brought it home, opened the box, and showed us just what could be had in life with a little hard work, and a lot of prudent saving) had been switched off by his trembling hand. I won’t confess to know exactly what was going on, but papa decided to sit us down and explain the reasons such a calm sounding radio broadcast could place so much terror into his eyes.
“Now, I just want you kids to know, everything will be alright. What they just announced on the broadcast was that our country has finally joined The War that is currently being fought on the other side of the world. Our country has been attacked, but everything is ok for now. We will be fine here. Everything will be fine.” But there was something about the look in his eyes that told us even someone as steadfast as papa was terrified by these events; and even though we all shook our heads that we understood, and that we would all be brave and not be scared, we all knew that he could see the same fear in our eyes.
Since it has often been my nature to ask just about any question that I could think of, just to understand as much as I could, I decided to ask papa one to hopefully ease my own fears; “Papa. What are they fighting for? Not our men, but the ones who have been fighting for so long, you know, over there?” I asked pointing in an arbitrary direction.
“Well son, they are fighting over land.”
“Land?”
“Yes. Too many people all want the same land that they all feel belongs to them. They all want what that land has to offer, what they can gain from its exploitation. They all expect that the group they are fighting will concede that land to them.”
“But can’t they just live on some other land?”
“It’s not quite that simple. I promise I will explain it when you are a little older.”
It was that last phrase, “when you are a little older,” that I had always resented. Every time I told papa that I wish I were older now so he could tell me everything, he always told me that I would grow old in my own time, and in time grow far older than I wished to be. I never believed him when he told me that.
And so I was left with these thoughts as I gently rocked back and fourth on the swing, letting the motion match the relative calmness of the afternoon; it seemed nature never bothered being worried about the concerns of man. I decided to stretch out across the wooden slats and watch as the clouds moved sluggishly in whatever direction the winds preferred them to move.
I woke up to a loud crash, and a sore head. It appears that nature sought the delight we had sought so many times when waiting for a guest to bear witness to the swing’s last moments. The chain nearest my head had finally decided, with a little help from the wind, that it had carried its share of the burdens of man; unfortunately for me, this meant a splitting headache and a few splinters where it is not quite proper to discuss with others (needless to say I won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day). So I laid there for a few moments, trying to recall that fading dream about that one person who did something worth dreaming about when I noticed that the garden on the side of the porch had been overrun by weeds. It had used to be a beautiful garden when momma was still alive. Papa had always wished us to keep it that way, but I guess the young don’t always do as they are told.
So I got up and walked down the two steps to the lawn and over to the garden to see just how bad we had let it become. The first thing I noticed was the green; that thick, pervading green that had tried to swallow all those wonderful flowers that used to be the envy of our neighbors. Mostly it was filled with common weeds, so I decided I would start to pull a few, just to free up this one amazing flower I could barely see through tentacles of the vines that had surrounded it. Bright yellow petals with an even more spectacular orange in the middle were my prize as I pulled more and more weeds. After I had freed a visible ring of dirt around the flower, I looked at the pile of weeds now behind me. I was amazed to see there were at least twice as many as I had anticipated when I started. After watching that lone flower for some minutes, I couldn’t but help to wonder what else I would find hidden under this mat of flowing foliage. I started pulling weed after weed, until my hands were indistinguishable from the soil.
I could not believe that after pulling so many weeds, I had cleared so relatively little space. The thicket was far too dense; the weeds were not even only killing off the desirable plants, but had begun to kill each other. A dandelion was being strangled by a vine whose roots were being uprooted by another plant whose leaves were pierced by the thorns of yet another. What could make that many plants all vie for the same patch of land in our garden? What made our garden so desirable to the weeds at all? Why not share the space and live in harmony, instead of destroying what was beautiful to begin with? After pondering this for several minutes, I couldn’t help but realize it seemed strangely familiar. I threw all the weeds in the trash can by the curb and rushed in to ask papa just why I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that it wasn’t the weeds I had been thinking about at all.

(And that the swing had finally broken).

08/12/2006

I also have failed in my attempt to get the paragraphs to be indented. Pam, I know you've told me before, but does anyone else know the tag? I tried [pre] [/pre].

Please do not reply to this in the current moment. You can if you wish but I am going to just take a general hiatus from alot of things right now. My work load is too strenuous at the moment to even pretend I'm an actively posting member. See you all in a while, and you can still feel free to reply, I just won't see it for a few months