A Walk in the Park

We had a meeting of the writer's group this afternoon. At the last event a few weeks ago it was suggested that we each write a short story, of between 500 and 1000 words, which we would read to the group. The title chosen was "A Walk in the Park". This was a little intimidating, both the writing and the reading part. I've never written a short story. My stories tend to be long and rambling. I had no idea where to start.

Life has been so hectic that I hadn't written a word before yesterday, when I started to make a few notes on my train journey to Appleby. I had a germ of an idea and started to develop it a little. As I started to write the words took on a life of their own - as they so often do - and the idea changed. It wasn't until this morning, with only an hour left to play with, that I took those snippets and turned them into a story, which changed yet again. I need deadlines to focus my mind. It was put together in a rush but was received very well, as were all the stories. There is some real talent in this little group of people, all being pushed and encouraged by our young leader R.

What was most fascinating was how the four stories read were all so very different, but all compelling, and all quite dark! I think these things emerge from our unconscious. I wouldn't like to interpret my own story. I don't really don't know what it's about. That's up to you ...


A Walk in the Park

Never. Not once, as far as I can remember. I enter by the main gate at a jog, already warmed up, and I start the stopwatch, a routine I have gone through hundreds of times, thousands even. I immediately turn right to run an anti-clockwise circuit. It would be as unnatural to run the other way around as it would be to pick up a pen with my left hand. I'm a creature of habit.

I soon pass the duck pond, although the name is rather misleading. For years now its only residents have been a pair of swans, mates for life, quietly resigned to living out their time together, too old to take on that momentous effort to get airborne and find a better stretch of water. No cygnets have appeared since the last of the ducks and geese left. They present a rather forlorn spectacle as they circle around each other, lost in their own endless decaying grace.

On the far side I see the old woman approach, coming to feed them leftovers. She's so frail and emaciated that she could probably do with eating those scraps herself. She's the only other person I ever see in the park. I don't know her name. I've never asked. I've tried to establish eye contact but she always averts her eyes from mine. That's just how people are now.

From the banks of the pond my route goes across open grass, the old football field now wilded into a meadow, the only remaining sign of its former use being one set of goalposts, missing their crossbar. I try to imagine the dribbles made into the penalty area, the crunching tackles, all the goals scored, and those not scored, the ones denied by a great save. But all to what end. There is no record. No trace left behind. The results of those games, so hard fought at the time, are utterly lost.

The original paved paths have long been overrun by weeds and hidden from view. Only my own trail exists now, the one I've created and maintained with my daily footfall. I'm not aware of anyone who follows in my footsteps, although I wouldn’t mind - as long as they adopted the same direction. The narrow path leads around in an arc to the derelict bandstand on the far side of the park to where I come in. I've never heard music being played here although I once was able to conjure up the sound of brass in my head. I can't even do that now. Such echoes of the past are no longer returned, muffled by the emptiness.

This is the halfway point on my circuit. I check my watch as part of my routine. It's a slow time. It always is these days. All I can do is aim to beat my personal worst. That's the only challenge left, one which gets harder with every attempt I make. I've paced myself and I put more effort in for the second half. My legs are starting to burn. I soon encounter the long abandoned playground. Each time I pass I harbour a hope, without any expectation, of finding some children here, once more enjoying the slide or the swings, despite the rust and grime. It would be a great place to build a den, a secret hideaway - except that there is nobody to hide from. 

My well trodden route takes a line between a copse of trees, growing ever more gnarly, and a row of rotting benches. It's hard to conceive of anyone sitting on them now, even without the thistles growing up between the slats. Girls were once wooed on these seats, first kisses stolen, wandering hands slapped. As I pass by, continuing to pick up the pace, I do just notice a single current occupant: a snail inching its way along the top of the backrest of the final bench. Self-contained. The ultimate survival strategy.

A final burst of speed returns me to the main gate and I stop the watch as I sprint past. I look at the time anxiously but I'm happy to see where the digits have stopped. A full fifteen seconds quicker than my slowest, and my fastest time for weeks. Such a little pointless personal achievement assumes a disproportionate significance, but what else is there? Life is no longer a walk in the park for anyone. I wish now it had been once for me. Perhaps I should have stopped to feed the ducks, or stopped to watch a football game, or found out when the band was playing, or brought my own kids here to play on the swings, or sat on one of those benches and talked to a stranger. Perhaps that would have made a difference. Too late now.