"I oughta kill you."

"You wouldn't do that, Frank. Don't be silly."

"You sure about that?" says Frank pointing his gun at Mark's face.

Mark holds up his hands to show Frank he has nothing, no gun, nothing like a knife, nothing. "Don't be silly."

"Silly? You think I'm silly?" smiles Frank as he pulls the trigger.

Of course, we have nothing in the way of a table and because chairs are not possible the best we can do is sit with our backs crunched up against one of the big branches, knees up, and do our writing like that. My side of the tree fort catches slivers of sunlight all day long while Jimmy's side winks off and on with sun.

He probably thinks he's got the better deal, but I don't mind. The sun helps me think, I think.

"How did that sound?"

"Not bad," I say, which is my way of saying I didn't like it. Jimmy knows this and looks up at the branches and then back at me before crossing out what he had written. "I mean, it wasn't bad, not really, but it sounds old, even tired. We need something new."

"What do you mean? It's a story about murder." His crossing out becoming harder, stronger, tearing the paper.

I smile at this and say, "We need to give our characters more time to get angry, to reach that point where they need to use a gun, more of a build-up. We don't want them killing right off the bat, on page one. Right?"

"I guess," he says, and goes back to looking up at the leaves that have suddenly become twitchy and alive before slipping another chocolate into his mouth.

When he first brought his chocolates up, the way he hugged the tree trunk, digging his fingernails into the bark, I saw how his pocket bulged and when he sat he struggled to get the chocolates out. When he finally wrestled free a handful of chocolates, some jumping this way and that, bouncing over the boards, he quickly stuck one in his mouth before offering me one. I said no thanks. I think back to when he sat down like that, struggling mightily to get the chocolates out of his pocket, and how it would have been so much easier if he had simply stood up to get the chocolates out. But again, that was Jimmy.

The tree fort was my idea, you know. Jimmy simply said it was a 'Good idea' along with 'I was thinking the same thing' and ending with 'When do we start?' Of course, I've always known him to be more of a talker than a doer. How about that time I said let's go fishing and he said, 'Great,' and so who brought the poles, the worms, the fishing net? Who brought the extra line and hooks, just in case? Who knew where the best fishing spots were on Weber Creek? That's right—me. He brought a bag of potato chips and a swimming suit. Or, how about the time he had just finished watching a movie about World War One and insisted we dig a secret tunnel under the fence, alongside the rose bushes; and I—bored in the middle of July—said of course, but here we go again: who brought the shovels, who knew where the softest place to dig was, who brought the water, and a screwdriver, just in case? Yes, right—and so there you have it.

But never mind, the big oak in the corner of the pasture was for sure the stuff of tree fort, Jimmy or not. Its branches were leg-thick with some of them almost a perfect tree fort floor-flat. That, and it was high enough to keep others out; and if we did it just right, hiding it among the leaves and clutter of smaller branches and twigs, nobody will ever know it was there unless they decide to stare long and hard.

That Friday in April, or maybe it was March—anyway, after school for sure—I was the one who carefully picked through the gray, worm-eaten boards that Dad had thrown in the corner of our shed, all the while making doubly sure to be on the lookout for black widows. Once I had a good load, I carried them through the pasture, around the goats, to the big oak tucked in the corner. And I was the one who went through Dad's Folger's coffee can full of nails, taking out the rusty ones that he would never miss. What did Jimmy bring? He brought a piece of rope, along with a bag of potato chips and those chocolates of his. I told him we needed more than potato chips, chocolates and some old-ragged rope, and he laughed, thinking I was making some kind of joke. And I was but wasn't. "What do we do with such a piece of useless rope?"

He shrugged and with a handful of potato chips firmly in his mouth, mumbled something about climbing, or tying branches together, or . . . Oh, and another thing: I brought the hammer too. Dad had two hammers but only the newest, brightest one worked, and he hadn't used it in months, ever since the goats broke through the fence that night in February, or maybe it was March—anyway, it was a cold night for sure. Of course, they didn't go anywhere, not our goats; they just decided to break through the fence and stand there on the other un-fenced-in side, as if to prove a point. The next day, after shooing them back where they belonged, he fixed the fence, using the same broken boards but this time making new holes to nail them extra tight to the fence posts. All the while the goats stood there watching him, as if to say, Good job. But sure enough, just after I took the hammer to the tree fort and left it there, thinking the coast would be clear for a night or two, Dad, mid-breakfast, began to wonder out loud where his hammer might be. 'Haven't seen it lately. But I know it's around here somewhere, right?' The 'right' part was aimed at me but Dad being Dad didn't look at me, and I said in a kind of self-defense, 'I don't know where it might be, but I'll take a second look in the shed for you.' I could tell he liked that answer and after one more gulp of coffee, he gave his chair a loud I'm-done-with-breakfast-but-I'll-be-looking-for-that-hammer-when-I-get-home push back and headed off to work. That made me doubly mad at Jimmy. In short, (which is wording that I like to borrow from Mrs. Hunt, our English teacher) Jimmy did nothing more than watch, finger that silly old rope of his and stick chocolates and potato chips into his mouth while I did all the work, and now he calls it our fort, and although I don't correct him, deep down we all know the truth.

But it was writing time. That's what the tree fort was all about, a place to do our writing because the stories on TV were no good—ask anybody (after three minutes it was obvious that the friendly neighborhood baker was the killer, or nobody in their right mind screams that loud, no matter how many ghosts they might have seen squatting in their closet, and nobody giggles when the dog barks at two cats walking along the fence). In short, if we put our mind to it, we could do better.

"Yes, yes, so we need to make sure the beginning is strong but to the point. Know what I mean? Strong and to the point," I said.

"Sure, strong and to the point. No problem," echoed Jimmy.

"Harvey, why are you looking at me like that?" she said, slowly putting her cigarette in the ashtray.

"Honey, I just want to get a better look at you, that's all," he smirked.

"Harvey, what's that in your hand? Harvey, what is it?" And she quickly got off the couch.

"What, this?" He held up the rope, letting in dangle back and forth.

"Harvey? Harvey?"

We looked at one another, saying nothing; and when that happened, I torn the page out of my journal and let the wind take it.

We have two old cigar boxes, one for his pencils and notebook and one for mine. We had only one pencil sharpener and Jimmy wanted to keep it in his box and I said 'Fine' but his notebook cover couldn't be green because mine was green and after thinking about it, he said 'Ok' because blue was his favorite color anyway. To make the writing easier, I went back to that same old pile of wood in the shed and found two ragged chunks of plywood. Once I snapped them in half—one for Jimmy and the other for me—they were just the right size for writing on.

Of course, the tree fort has nothing like real walls, nothing you could call a roof. The branches and twigs and leaves will have to serve for the time being. The best writing time was in the afternoon, with Mom taking what she called her mandatory rest and Dad still hours away from coming home, and doing homework for sure was the very last thing on our minds. That reminds me of the time I brought a big canteen full of water and told Jimmy it was an Army canteen, although I didn't think it was. He held it in both hands like it was something special, saying, 'It sure is heavy and cold.' He took a long drink before handing it back to me, saying again, 'Sure is heavy. I guess Army canteens have to be heavy?' I wouldn't mind being a soldier. At least for a while.

Right about then two crows decided to land in the medium-size branches above us and argue. Crows are like that, but before shooing them away, I waited to see what they would do once they saw us, heard us: as a rule (which is more Mrs. Hunt wording) crows don't care much for people, it's not that they dislike them, they're just uninterested—and I don't blame them—and so once they saw us, heard us talking, they got bored, maybe even rolled their eyes, before flapping away in a final squawk.

"Where were we?"

Jimmy said, "Strong but short or to the point. The story needs to start like that. But wait," he said as he was about to eat another chocolate, "Strong and short. What do you mean exactly?"

This is where I usually get angry with him but then again this writing stuff takes time-- everybody says so. "You know that movie we started to watch yesterday but it was so boring we turned the channel after twenty minutes?"

"Yes."

"Not like that."

He nodded like I had said some kind of wisdom and we returned to our writing. But, like always, it wasn't long before Jimmy leaned over, putting his journal and pencil into his cigar box, announcing, "I've got to go."

"What? We just got here," I said, trying out my best how-dare-you tone.

"I know, but Mom wants me to go with her to the store. I said I would but then hoped she'd forget but she didn't, and so I have to go. What can I do?"

"Tell her you forgot."

"No, it doesn't work that way with her. You know that."

He stood up, brushed off something on his pants that I couldn't see and stepped to the two-by-four slabs that served as our ladder down the trunk. We really only needed three pieces of two-by-four, but to make the fort seem higher, taller, longer, I nailed in six.

With Jimmy gone I looked down at what I had written.

A gun shot echoed through the night. Someone yelled and then someone else, and then another gun shot. "Who's shooting," a voice yelled. The only answer was another gun shot, louder. And then, "He's got a knife."

The next day was a Tuesday, or maybe a Wednesday—but May for sure—and a long line of dark clouds ran from here to there. If the clouds decided to come this way, there'd be a big rain for sure. That's when I turned to Jimmy and said, "You know this isn't working, is it?"

Jimmy, waited a moment, finished his chewing, licked his fingers and said, "What do you mean?"

"This writing stuff. Let's admit it, we don't know what we're talking about."

"What do you mean?" he said, looking deeper into an almost-empty bag of chips.

"Look, we need to be honest with ourselves, we need to write about other things. We need to write about what we know. Don't all good writers say that?" I said, feeling the first spit of raindrops.

"But we don't know anything, not really," he said, looking up.

"Sure we do, we know a lot."

"What? What do we know that we can write about?" he said in his best double-dare voice.

Although the rain had arrived, it wasn't serious yet. Still, I scooted to the right where the leaves were the thickest. "I don't know. Fishing? Swimming? You like swimming. How about school? Mr. Willard's wood shop, Miss. Lofty's History class? How about that time Alvin Dark puked during Study Hall?"

"Are you kidding?"

If I looked to my right and reached up to push aside one of the skinny branches, I could see all the way to my house. I could see my bedroom window. I could see the goats walking the fenceline as if they were prisoners looking for yet another way to escape.

"How about this?" I held up both hands to show him. "This."

"This what?"

"This tree fort. Let's write about our tree fort."

Jimmy snorted, "Nobody cares about stuff like that."

And just like that the rain became angry serious, bringing a bigger wind. The tree fort moaned, the branches swayed, the leaves shook, even rattled, and as I rushed to scrambled down, I shouted back at him, "Sure they do."