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Published by X. F. Pine
This story concerns a mysterious treehouse found in the woods at the end of an innocent summer.
This story concerns a mysterious treehouse found in the woods at the end of an innocent summer.

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categoriesBook Excerpts
Published by: X. F. Pine on Nov 03, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Alfred shows up with a gun that he
borrowed from his Stepfather’s bureau. Dennis
arrives with a handsaw that is almost as big as he is. We will use the saw to cut the enemy treehouse down permanently. This treehouse is far in the woods and we have to hike to get there. The construction was built by invisible kids who have been stealing from backyards across the neighborhood. We are sick and tired of it. Over the last two summers we built our own immense treehouse at the edge of the cliff at the bottom of my backyard. Our treehouse is built out of wood we found from an abandoned construction site on Union Hill Road. We carried what we could through  yards at dusk all summer. The only money we spent was on new nails and some rope. Our treehouse is built within the center of a massive gray swamp maple with ten trunks that resemble two outstretched hands; palms touching and fingers pointing up. Our treehouse has three floors and a drawbridge on pulleys that go to another set of trees. It is like an immense ship that creaks in the wind. We know
it would be famous, but we don’t want the
general public to know. We built ladders out of
two by fours far up the trunks to the top of the tree. Alfred has trouble getting down sometimes as he is a little overweight but Dennis is like a monkey when he gets into the trees. He has the ability to climb up faster and further than anyone I know. In a few weeks school will start up again and we will all have to go back inside and be trapped in classrooms listening to teachers drone on and on. It is our last chance to destroy the other enemy treehouse. I caught a glimpse of the structure myself on a scouting mission and
recognized my neighbor’s stolen lawn furniture
sitting on a platform high in the trees. I also saw the hammock that disappeared from my own backyard a few weeks ago. We discuss who the kids might be as we
venture through the trails. It’s a Saturday
morning and none of our parents know we are doing this. Dennis says the kids must have weapons. All I have is a small pocketknife. Alfred takes the gun out of his backpack and waves it
around. It’s a small harmless BB gun but I don’t
know the difference. The gun makes me nervous as Alfred has no common sense whatsoever but th
at’s why he’s one of my best friends. I tell
them to be careful of all the poison ivy near the trail.
Alfred tries to shoot out an insulator on one of the telephone poles near the cliff. He misses.  The cliff goes down to the train tracks where
kids aren’t supposed to go. We’ve been told by
everyone that killers and druggies hang out down there under the bridges. On occasion we have put nickels and pennies on the tracks to see them become flattened and misshapen. At 5:20 pm the diesel train comes by and there are stories that kids
have gotten sucked up into the engine. It’s a
rush to stand in the middle of the Union Street Bridge when the diesel passes underneath.  The sun is hot, but there is coolness under the canopy. We meander by the giant clay mound near where neighbors collectively dump their lawn clippings. The grass has the most unique sweet smell of fermentation in the late summer. Alfred talks about how his step-father was eighteen in Vietnam and how all they used to do was smoke pot and fire a large cannons under camo nets. They never saw the enemy just like us he says. As we trudge on Dennis points out that we are near the old rock that sits on the edge of the cliff. The rock is reportedly the giant tomb of an old Indian that lies underneath. It has a vague

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