Many thanks.
Yes, I do need to clear that ‘wall climbing’ confusion, thanks for seeing it.
Same for ‘ached’ and ‘stinger’.
Short Story / Burnt Oak Lane
I was just eight, it was a stupid thing to do, but I was just eight.
It had been a long walk back to the house, four years to the day from when we had moved to our new home. I stood in the road and looked at the house over the low front garden wall.
The new owner must have had an interest in gardening, there were flower beds, roses, even a small manicured lawn. The old flaking paint on the window frames and doors had been scraped off and replaced with shiny black gloss. There was little really for my memories to latch onto.
I turned and walked up the road.
To my right, all the neat semi-detached houses, all clones of the same design. To my left, a small wire fence in front of tall trees and shrubs. They went back about three meters, and on the other side of them the eighteenth hole of the golf course. As kids we had played in those trees.
At the top of the road, it branched right, but a dirt track continued in a straight line. Now the two sides changed. To the right, another wire fence in front of a huge grass field. As long as I could remember, no one ever used that field, yet a man came regularly and cut the grass. To the left, there was now a hedge made out of holly bushes. The deep green leaves tipped with sharp brown needles. They didn’t just hurt if one stuck in you, the small wound went on aching for ages.
The track went on for about one hundred meters, before opening out into the park, the ‘Glade’.
Then the hedge branched left and, on the right, trees formed a barrier.
For some reason, they built the toilets where the track emerged, yellow bricks, red tiled roof, woman’s entrance nearest me, men’s the other side. Once I had been desperate for a crap, but found the men’s side locked. The woman’s door was open, and I rushed into a cubicle. I don’t know whether it was dead or alive when I sat on it, but a wasp was on the toilet seat and the sting went into my bare backside. I had rushed home to have mum pull it out.
I needed neither a pee nor a crap now, so I followed the hedgerow to the left.
It didn’t go very far, just abruptly ended and was replaced by a high brick wall. I sat down on the grass, my back against that wall, and looked into the park.
It was an L-shape here, with the left branch eventually leading to a small lake.
Once, a friend had knocked on our front door. When I opened it, he pulled his jacket open and revealed a huge fish he was hiding inside, he had caught it in that lake. I can’t remember, but I don’t think I ever tried to fish there.
Straight ahead of me, the narrow strip of park meandered along, a small stream near the edge. A mixture of trees and grass, that part of the “Glade” was like a beautiful secret valley.
Once I had climbed a tree by the side of the stream, climbing higher and higher until I found a branch large enough to take my weight. I sat in the nook, and in front of me, nestled in a bunch of smaller branches, I found “The Observer Book of Birds”. About two inches wide, three tall, it had a small foreword, then a page for each of the birds in alphabetical order. A small lithograph, either black and white or color, and then paragraphs for ‘habitat’, ‘call’, ‘eggs’, concise details to help recognize the bird in the field. I kept the book for ages, but have no idea when or how it eventually disappeared.
I felt the brick wall against my back. That wall had been the source of one of our great adventures. My brother and I would take turns to give the other a leg up. Once on top, we would reach down and help the other join us. Then we would both leap down onto the ground on the other side. We then had to be fast, rushing to the apple trees, grabbing as many as we could before the black dog barked and raced towards us. Then, same routine with the wall, and we’d both collapse back on the park side, the dog still barking. Sometimes the owner would join it, yelling over at us, “We’ll get you one day, either the dog or I, you’ll pay, you see if you don’t!”.
Then we’d wander back down the secret valley and sit by the river as we ate our stolen fruit.
I didn’t want to climb the wall by myself, so I rolled over onto hands and knees and crawled back to sit in front of the holly hedge.
It had been a long, dry autumn, and beneath the hedge piled masses of dried leaves, both holly and from the surrounding trees. I reached under and gathered some of them into a small heap.
At eight, I hadn’t started to smoke, that would come later, but I had a box of matches in my pocket. I have no idea why, I must have had a plan when I put them there, but I really can’t remember.
I set light to the leaves, and they rapidly caught fire. I watched for a few minutes, then stood up and walked back to the track, along it to the road, and started my walk back home.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw plumes of black smoke rising, the fire hadn’t gone out.
I read in the paper the next day, the fire had spread and three fire appliances had been called out. Funny, I never heard their bells as I walked home.
The fire had ravaged the hedge, then moved on to the trees fronting the golf course. Hot embers had also drifted over towards the houses, and the firemen had to both fight the fire and put out the embers.
One fireman had tripped in the trees, falling down and either a large branch or a tree had fallen onto him. The others rushed in and pulled him out, but his mask had been dislodged and he had inhaled a lot of smoke. A later news item said he had been invalided out of the service.
It was a stupid thing to do, but I was only eight, and I have no idea why I did it. It was all over fifty years ago now.
By coincidence, the road was named “Burnt Oak Lane”.
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Korp reviewed Version 1 -
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Interesting anecdote, but too laden with description to truly grab the reader’s interest. Half of the story is spent describing the surroundings. While that’s a relevant and important part of many stories, you overdo it here. I’d like more time spent on what you did there and less on precisely what there looked like. Your method of description was also very ho-hum and lacking in colour; try spicing it up: similes, metaphors, etc.
The sitting on a wasp thing has to be one of my greatest fears. I thought that part was funny, if wince-inducing.
Out of curiosity, which parts are fact and which are fiction?
Editing:
“I was just eight, it was a stupid thing to do…”
”... was little really...
“We then had to be fast…”
Grammar:
”... gardening, there were…”
Change comma to colon.
“The deep green leaves…”
This sentence is a fragment.
”’... see if you don’t!’.”
There’s an unnecessary period at the end there.
”... smoke rising, the fire…”
Change comma to semicolon.
”... the next day, the fire…”
Replace comma with the word that.
”... no idea why, I must…”
Change comma to period.
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MichaelDark reviewed Version 1 -
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Let me start with a suggestion for some , ‘how to write’ material…
Sorry. I couldn’t resist!
I would suggest some creativity in your description of the landscapes. You ‘tell’ okay but it needs to be shown. You are on the right track with animals and inscets. Buzz some bees around the flowers. Playful squirrels. Maybe a skunk or raccoon. Birds in flight. Use their actions to SHOW me the fertility of the flowers, etc.
Place some golfers on the 18th. Their voices could easily be heard through the trees. Have some human activity around the homes that you write about.
Was that your former home? I believe that it was but others might miss that. Create a ‘memory to latch on to’ so the reader can latch on to it.
Show me how the leaves smouldered. Show me the flames. Show me how an 8 year old, in all innocence, was distracted away from what was surely a situation in the making…Was it his hunger for his mom’s special dinner? Did he have little league practice (I’m in the USA)? What was it.
The sudden emergance of the book was a bit rough. Bring it in with a little more creativity. “I could feel it coming loose from the grip of my pocket”.
Anyway…I hope this helps.
Feel free to add me and hey, don’t play with matches!!!!
Cheers!
MD
trident reviewed Version 1 -
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It’s an interesting enough proposition – but is it a short story or flash fiction?
You need to consider splitting your sentences up. For example the first two sentences could be…
I was just eight. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was just eight.
It had been a long walk back to the house. Four years to the day…
I also had trouble distinguishing between what was set in the present and what was a flashback – especially the fire – it wasn’t until the last line that I realised that was in the past. It occurs to me that this might be your intention, but if so, you need to invest more in the deception – make it seem far more heinous, before revealing it as a plot of an 8 year old. This would also render it far more complete as a short story.
ames_plaza reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this story, it was simple but very vivid and felt real and nostalgic. The only thing that i felt could use some work was the paragraph when you said “i didn’t want to climb the wall myself.” It was just a weird transition betweem the older “you” and the younger “you.” You need to make a better distinction between them because for two paragraphs i was rather confused as to which version of the character was playing out the part.
I also found a few other minor things to consider. Nothing big, just nit picky things.
“They didn’t just hurt if one stuck in you, the small wound went on aching for ages.” I would suggest just using the work “ached.” Strong verbs help to drive a piece, the other words aren’t really necessary.
“the sting” stinger.
<3 ames plaza
LexiLane reviewed Version 1 -
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-I really liked your descriptions. You’ve made it very easy for the reader to paint a picture. Particularly when you were describing the house, all the changes that were made to it. :)
-You write well – particularly your descriptions. And I enjoyed the ending. For awhile I felt like the story really wasn’t going anywhere and had no meaning – but once I reached the end, I was satisfied.
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