[Suggestions Welcome] :D
an excerpt

It was, indirectly, his parents' fault that Fawcett McCall climbed up, and subsequently fell off, the tallest tree in the forest. It had been they, not he, who chose to move from his comfortable suburbia to the high rise flats of Oban; a town which was at its most attractive when seen from half a mile away. At least, that was Fawcett's take on it.

And, while considering choice, he certainly hadn't been consulted on the name Fawcett. 'Fawcett'. A five year old could be cute with 'Fossie' and a twenty-five year old might be able to pull off 'Fawcett McCall'. But he was twelve and, as such, just plain old Fawcett. 'Tap' was the least of the nicknames he had suffered under in the past. Back home he had a cadre of true friends for whom the name had just become a matter of fact. These strangers - these punks, as Fawcett thought of them in the back of his mind - found his name fresh and hilarious.

Which was why he was climbing the bloody tree in the first place. Up and up, until the branches were too slight to hold his weight and the trunk was slimmer than even his waist. Fawcett poked his head through the canopy roof and gained an unparalleled view of the sun sinking across the bay, already half eclipsed by the Isle of Mull in the distance. The clouds were burnt umber and the town of Oban was dusted with gold.

It was beautiful, in its way. Even he couldn't deny it there and then. A dozen fishing boats rocking in the bay. The last trickle of tourists moving towards the restaurants. The stately arrival of one of the Oban ferries, a monument of black, and white, and red, drifting towards its berth. The insignia of the lion, normally pale yellow, now a fiery gold.

Fawcett felt at peace in that moment. Enough to distract himself from the fact that his 'friends' had abandoned him five minutes before. It pushed past his doubts for this new home and this new way of life. And, most importantly, allowed him to ignore the fact that he wasn't entirely sure he could get down.

The calm held until the sun set. He called for help, quietly at first, believing that the boys were hiding just out of sight, waiting fro him to cry. Then louder; as loud as he could cry. No reply. He was in a forest - the Witches, that's what they had called it, and didn't that name seem less quaint in the dark - two miles from his new home and over a hundred from his true home.

When the magnitude of his situation hit, Fawcett's voice froze in his throat. He waited another twenty minutes in the faint hope that the boys would come back. Possibly with some firemen. Or a helicopter. Then he started to climb down.

A minute later, and just fifteen feet below the canopy, Fawcett was just beginning to regain his confidence when the branch he was stepping down onto snapped. He panicked and, as he threw his weight back onto the previous branch, lost his hold on the tree trunk. He tried to plant both feet on one branch, heart racing, and had just enough time to think, 'Okay, I can handle this', before he slipped.

Then there was no time at all. Fawcett hadn't even begun to draw the breath to scream when the end came - darkness overtook him.

* * *

Water.

'I'm dead,' thought Fawcett, 'Go away.'

Water. Sunlight.

'Be quiet. I'm trying to rest in peace.'

Water. Sunlight. Wood.

Fawcett McCall grimaced and , rubbing at his eyes with the balls of his fists, rolled onto his back. The ground, rough against the hand but pleasantly warmed by the sun, shifted underneath him. He shaded his eyes with one hand and, without raising himself up from his back, studied what little of the area he could see.

Clear blue skies. A rolling green sea. A raft of driftwood just long enough to keep him out of the water and no more.

"I'm not dead," he said dully, , answered only buy the slapping of water against the side of the raft. He shivered. "I should be dead. At least, I should be hurt. Really hurt." In spite of himself, he felt almost cheated. "And why the sea? Who put me here?"

Silence and slapping. Fawcett curled up on his raft and chewed on his fingernails for a while. It didn't make him feel any better, so he stopped.

"I should stand up and see what I can see," Fawcett whispered to his hand.

'And if there's nothing?' retorted Doubt. 'Nothing but more ocean? What then?'

"There might be a boat. Or an island nearby."

'There might be pirates. Or sharks.'

"Wouldn't it be better to know if there were sharks?"

'And what could you do to stop a shark?'

"You're no help at all!"

'Fine. Go find some sharks. Go fins some pirates. See if I care.'

The raft fell silent. Fawcett was lonely again.

"I'm sorry. Please come back."

Nothing. For the moment Fawcett's doubt had fallen silent. Lonely once more but, at least, with no one to criticise or distract him, Fawcett crawled up to his knees. He wasn't hurt, exactly, but his body felt stiff and disconnected. As though there were a delay between what he told it and what it did. He pressed on, rising up onto his feet, and the raft shuddered beneath him.

At first there was only an endless line of green ocean, expanding as far as the eye could see. It was only when Fawcett looked over his shoulder that he saw a great galleon in the distance, sails full of a wind that he couldn't feel, turning towards him. The boy gaped, hand paused half-way up his body in a frozen wave, as a black flag, stylised skull and cross-bones gleaming white across the centre, came into view.

A cry arose from the ship; he had been spotted.

Pirates. There were pirates moving towards him.

'Can you see those shapes moving alongside the ship,' whispered Doubt, voice tinged with fear and satisfaction. Fawcett tore his gaze from the figures moving across the ship, scanning the water around it, and he did indeed see shapes flanking the boat. Occasionally one would rise up and break the surface, in the way he had seen dolphins do in T.V.

They weren't dolphins, though.

"Sharks and pirates," moaned Fawcett. "Sharks and bloody pirates."

'You know, I tried to warn you. I did my best. But there's no helping some people.'