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Error 403 (Forbidden)
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Running Away From Home…It Works Every Time In Fiction | Killzoneblog.com
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Running Away From Home…It Works Every Time In Fiction | Killzoneblog.com “Feeling trapped and running away” stories are fun to read and even more fun to write because there is a whole lot of latitude in that phrase … … - Most searched keywords: Whether you are looking for
Running Away From Home…It Works Every Time In Fiction | Killzoneblog.com “Feeling trapped and running away” stories are fun to read and even more fun to write because there is a whole lot of latitude in that phrase … - Table of Contents:
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Run away. | Writing dialogue prompts, Writing promps, Writing dialogue
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I Run Away : A Short Story : Running Away – 723 Words | Bartleby
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Thrice Running Away Analysis
Thrice Running Away Analysis
Similarities between Eveline and Hills like White Elephants by Ernest Hemmingway
Similarities between Eveline and Hills like White Elephants by Ernest Hemmingway
Compare two short stories where the characters face difficult
Compare two short stories where the characters face difficult
Compare And Contrast High Noon And The Most Dangerous Game
Compare And Contrast High Noon And The Most Dangerous Game
High Noon Vs The Most Dangerous Game Comparison Essay
High Noon Vs The Most Dangerous Game Comparison Essay
On The Rainy River Analysis
On The Rainy River Analysis
Open Mindset In Celia Behind Me
Open Mindset In Celia Behind Me
The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber Essay
The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber Essay
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The Things They Carried By Tim O ‘ Brien Essay
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The Book of Jonah Essay
how to write a runaway story
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The Runaway Child, short story by SilentbutDeadly
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Running Away
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Run Away – A Short Story by Zoe Dobbins – Reedsy Prompts – Page 0
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The first time she ran away, she was six. Her bare feet burned with scratches from the brush underfoot and her sides ached from exerting herself for so long. All she could think about was getting away from it all – the hate filled sneers that had taken over the faces she thought loved her, their arms hurling stones while their mouths screamed curses. Even her sister, her dear, dear, Lyla, who used to pick daisies and make up stories for her, turned her back. And her sweet, innocent, naive six year-old brain couldn’t even begin to fathom why. She had simply talked to the newcomer who needed directions. She had proudly remembered the manners her father insisted upon, knowing it would make both him and the stranger happy. And he smiled back and chatted with her. That was it, a short conversation with a traveler, before he graciously thanked her, shook her hand, and bid her adieu – and before her simple world came crashing down, covering her skin in yellow and purple bruises shaped by hatred. And so she ran as fast as she could, still barefoot from sitting on the house steps and watching butterflies. Away into the woods, past the old well, and onto a dusty dirt road. She followed this road until she found another village.
She lived a relatively quiet life in that village until she was eleven. A kind old grandmother took her in, telling the other townsfolk she was her granddaughter come to live with her. Gran, as she came to know her, cleaned up her scrapes and bruises without question, and provided the love that had been so violently robbed from her. Her mishaps turned from betrayal to mistakes every child makes. She climbed too high in a tree one day, falling when she suddenly found herself face to face with a very angry squirrel. Another time, her socks were lost to the creek while she waded. Her life seemed to return to an almost normal state, aside from the incidental nightmares that left her crying in a cold sweat. Normal, until the day she found herself wandering through the meadow with her few friends. Normal, until a young lady with a baby asked her where she might go to get a safe place to stay. Normal, until her friends stared at her in horror after she gave her polite answer with a glowing smile and a little wave to the gurgling baby, receiving a quick hug and pat on the cheek. Normal, until the townsfolk began to look at her with fear in their eyes and none except Gran talked to her. And so, this marks the second time she ran away. However, this time, instead of running from malice, she was running from fear-filled glances that would not meet her eye.
So, she followed the dirt road again, disappearing in the dead of night, saying goodbye only to Gran. Confused, sad, and lonely, she traveled through two more villages until she found a place to stay with a young family, so long as she helped out with the kids. And here she stayed, cautious and dutiful, careful to stay out of situations that could attract attention. She spent her time wandering through the nearby forest and gazing down towards the water of the wishing well. Nobody was told when she sprained her ankle on a tree root, nor when she lost a very warm winter hat to a tumble down a hill thick with trees. No, she was the picture of a quiet, helpful servant, saving her meager wages in a hidden pocket in the great big coat she had been given when she first arrived. Only the whimpers during a flashback or nightmare indicated she was in any sort of stress.
This continued until she was sixteen. One fateful day, while she was hanging clothes out on the line to dry, she once again caught the attention of the entire village. An old woman asked for a cup of milk. So, of course, she politely smiled, and offered a bit of bread and cheese as well. The old woman thanked her profusely, insisting on giving her a necklace with a small, worn rose pendant. That exchange was seen only by a neighbor out repairing his roof, but word spread like wildfire. Before the day was done, villagers were gathered outside of the house she stayed in, whispering accusations about her to each other. When her master demanded she go outside and make everyone leave, she was astounded. Once again, she had garnered the attention of the entire population of her new home. Once again, all eyes were on her. This time, though, there were no glares or faces turning hastily away. Instead, doubt stared back at her. A stocky, middle-aged man pushed to the front, studying her for a long moment.
“Who gave you that necklace?” Suspicion drenched his words as she reached up to touch the rose hanging from her neck. Confusion was making her vision cloudy and her thoughts slow. A long, tense moment went by while she tried to understand the simple question.
“A-an old woman. She wanted some milk, and she seemed tired. I gave her my lunch as well, and she gave me this as thanks.” She stumbled through the sentence. Understanding felt like it was sliding in and out of her grasp, and she struggled to focus on what the cross-armed man in front of her was saying.
“An old woman,” he drawled, obviously thinking she was lying, “gave you that necklace, simply because you gave her your measly lunch? Do you take me to be a fool?” His voice had risen, his cheeks growing red in anger. All around him, heads were shaking in disbelief. Someone near the back snorted, and a few others muttered in anger.
She didn’t know what to say, she didn’t know what to do. Faces were staring again, some in unbridled fury, most in suspicious disbelief. Her thoughts were tumbling, her vision clouded with images of rocks flying towards her face and nervous glances. Her fingers were shaking while numbness crept out from her furious heart, coating her limbs. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t think, she could barely even breathe. The world was crumbling around her for the third time, and there was nothing, nothing she could do. She had been careful, quiet, but she had found this dreaded attention anyway.
“She’s a mess, isn’t she? Perhaps insanity? No wonder she thinks some old woman gave her that necklace! Pretending she wasn’t one those grotesque old hags. They’re not able to afford a decent meal, much less a necklace like that! Oi there, tell us the truth you fool, and stop dilly-dallying about it!” The stocky man’s words only bolstered the crowd’s already excitable mood. Now, though, instead of suspicion, they were looking on with disgust. People were openly jeering, some pointing, many chuckling. The lying girl in front of them had morphed into a thief, untrustworthy and stupid. Maybe she was even crazy.
“I am not lying, I am not insane,” she said faintly. The numbness turned into a burning fire all across her skin, igniting a painful and rebellious side of her she had tried so hard to bury deep. There is too much attention in a rebellious nature, even a curious one. Too many stones.
She stood straighter, feigning confidence as well as she could. Her shock was fading, although her fear was not. Reason had begun to creep in, telling her that if she could convince them she was telling them the truth, they would leave.
“I am not lying,” she repeated, louder this time, “An old woman wanted milk. I was hanging clothes on the line, just before lunch, when she stopped and asked me for a favor. I asked what she would like, and helped her. She was overjoyed. I don’t think she’d had a proper meal in days, nor had somebody helped her the way I had in a very long time. So, truly, she was so thankful, she told me I had to take her old necklace. She said, ‘When you see it or feel it, remember the help and joy you gave to an old woman in need” and put it around my neck. I tried to refuse; she didn’t have much, and it might have some value to her, maybe in trade for money. But she ignored me, thanking me again and again, explaining why I must take it, and left. That is all, that is what happened. I am not lying.” The villagers seemed stunned to hear so much come out of the quiet servant girl at once, but the surprise quickly faded. Soon, countless jokes were quietly being made, passed from neighbor to neighbor.
“I bet she stole it, probably from some poor, unsuspecting traveler. Could be from that caravan that passed through the other day. She’s trying to trick us, the insipid little thing. Let’s just go home, I’m sick of hearing this pathetic girl’s lies,” a voice called from the back. A few mumbled arguments unfolded. Nevertheless, the crowd seemed to agree and slowly dispersed. More jeers and jabs were called up to that front porch stoop, but she didn’t feel ashamed; relief left no room to feel anything else. Her thoughts seemed to clear a little bit. Finally, they were leaving. Finally, she could hide again. This time, though, she did not want to run. Not yet, anyways.
That thought changed over the next day. After the night before, everyone seemed to have subconsciously agreed that she would be their new victim. Everywhere she went, people pointed and whispered, throwing haughty glares her way. Jokes were made at her expense, finding humor in the girl who was suddenly nothing more than a common street thief. A couple of people came up to her to taunt her, bolstered by friends standing a few yards back, laughing. No matter what she was doing, attention seemed to find her. She went about her chores, but visitors kept coming to the house. She tried to read in the woods, climbing a tree, but was harassed by a gang of school boys, yelling about ‘the thief girl that thinks she’s a squirrel!’
That evening, she gathered up her things. She put on her oversized coat, checking for her meager stash of coins, and grabbing the few books she had. Most of the money she had saved up had gone into them, and she wasn’t willing to leave them behind. Then, for the third time, she ran away. Her pounding feet sounded like drum beats in the silence of the night. Running down the steps, down the path, through the town square, down the barely paved street, and onto the dirt road. The familiarness of this dirt road felt good; it was an escape, a way out, and it would lead to safety. At least, safety for a short time. So she ran and ran, into the night, leaving nothing but a small dust cloud and many cruel jokes behind her.
By the time morning came, her legs and feet were aching. She had been running for hours, sprinting when she could, walking quickly when she couldn’t. Never stopping, needing to put as much distance between herself and the cruelty of rejection from yet another town. And so now, in the dawn, she walked. Her legs carried her shakily onward, her eyes dry from dust and her throat parched. But still, she stayed on this dirt road, never stopping, never turning around. It seemed she was radiating heat, panting and sweating like she hadn’t ever before. She vaguely noted extra warmth on her collarbones, cheek, and right hand, but thought nothing of it. Nothing, until her throat began burning so intensely it stole away what little breath she had left. Her hand instinctively raised to touch the painful spot, but instead found the rose of her necklace. Only now did she stop, and only after she realized she could not investigate her necklace and move at the same time.
She reached back and unclasped the necklace, eager to remove the burning pendant from her throat. Nervously, she placed the rose in the palm of her hand and bent close to examine it. As if by magic, the rose unfurled, the interlocking petals spreading. A chamber was revealed, with a small piece of paper rolled up inside of it. She reached in, curious, and pulled it out. Unlike the pendant itself, which was still burning, the paper was as cold as ice. Her hands were shaking with the extreme mix of temperatures, but she pushed through the pain. Unrolling the paper, she read a short, concise note.
“If you are reading this, you are in need. You, with the powerful eyes that see past the monstrous masks others have placed upon us, have helped when no one else would. You have guided us with no selfishness in your heart, and we will now guide you. Place this letter back into the pendant and wait where you are. We will find you soon.”
A wild mix of emotions spread through her as she reread the note, thinking she had not quite understood. Hesitantly, she rolled up the curling paper and placed it back in the center of the rose, carefully. As the rose began to return to its original pose, the paper started to melt. Her last glimpse of the note showed only a small pool of glowing liquid. Simultaneously, the rose began to cool down, becoming a comfortingly normal temperature.
As she remembered what the note said, panic began to set in. Stay where you are, and wait. Stay where you are, and we will find you. Stay where you are, and risk the last town searching for you, catching you, chasing you. Doubt and fear clawed their way into her heart, and she shuddered. Willing herself not to bolt, she took a deep breath and sat down. She would wait, she would be found, and she would be helped. They would explain everything, from the stones to the fear to the disgust, and she would be safe. As she sat there, her uneasiness increased. However, she refused to run away. She had done enough of that. Instead, she would let herself be found, and she would learn to find herself.
Running Away From Home…It Works Every Time In Fiction
The writer must face the fact that ordinary lives are what most people live most of the time, and that the novel as a narration of the fantastic and the adventurous is really an escapist plot; that aesthetically, the ordinary, the banal, is what you must deal with. — John Updike
By PJ Parrish
The first time I tried it I was five. I didn’t get very far, just up to the shopping center where a nice sales lady gave me a lollipop and called the cops. They stuck me in the cruiser and we drove around until I recognized our house. My mom didn’t even realize I was gone. Such dangerous times back in the Fifties…
The second time I tried it was about two years later. I was mad about something, so I took the jar of peanut butter and crawled out the milk chute. But it was really cold and I couldn’t get back in, so I sat on the swing set in the backyard until my mom saw me and let me back in.
I am a wanderer by nature. Luckily, I am now married to a man who loves to travel as much as I do. But he still gets upset when I wander too far ahead down the hiking trail.
I am going nuts staying put. Which is why I seem to be gravitating right now to books and movies about trapped people who run away. I am re-reading one of my favorite books right now — Madame Bovary. It’s beautiful and great for many reasons, but I am particularly drawn to the idea that Emma Rouault , before she became Madame Bovary, had possibilities. But she married a Dick Decent, and now she’s imprisoned by the walls of her house and she’s bored stiff. Her only outlets are shopping and affairs. She tries to run away. Things don’t end well.
Books about women who run away (usually to find a better version of themselves) have always appealed to me. I loved Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild, about her 1,000-mile solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail. (made into a decent movie starring Reese Witherspoon). Then there was Richard Yate’s novel Revolutionary Road, a devastating story about a couple trapped in a suburban hell. The tragic character is poor deluded April, who fails as an actress, marries for security, and dreams of running away to Paris:
“Sometimes I can feel as if I were sparkling all over,” she was saying, “and I want to go out and do something that’s absolutely crazy, and marvelous…”
Which reminds me of the line from one of the most famous runaway novels, On The Road:
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who …burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
The main character Sal is depressed after his divorce and wants to run away. (Men running away in stories are seldom seen as neurotic. They are just…adventurous!) So Sal takes off with his friend Dean on a cross-country journey with the hope of finding…something:
“Somewhere along the line I knew there would be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the line the pearl would be handed to me.”
The trapped character who runs away to find the pearl is a classic fictional archetype/trope. I created one myself in my stand alone She’s Not There, an amnesiac who, thinking her husband is trying to kill her, takes off on a cross-country run and eventually finds the truth. And herself, of course.
These characters can be really attractive in normal times. Right now, when we all feel so confined and isolated, they might speak to us in especially powerful ways.
I’ve been watching a lot of old movies lately. I doubt the programmers at TCM realize it, but they’ve been scheduling a lot of runaway movies lately. In just one week, I have watched Kramer vs Kramer, Under The Tuscan Sun and Shirley Valentine.
Tuscan Sun has Diane Lane, freshly divorced and pathetic, taking off on a friend’s ticket to a “Gay And Away” bus tour of Italy. There, on a “bad idea” whim, she buys a broken down villa and tries to unblock herself enough to work on her novel, which she abandoned when she got married, — even as she takes up with the juicy Marcello.
Shirley Valentine is an English matron who was a firebrand in school but life intruded. Now she’s married to a schlub workaholic husband and making cocoa for her ungrateful daughter. She spends her days in her tiny kitchen talking to the walls and staring at a travel poster of Greece. A friend drags her along on a holiday, where she meets Costas and…well, it doesn’t end the way you’d expect.
And then there’s poor Joanna Kramer. She gave up a promising career to marry and have a child. But she snaps one day and leaves them both, disappearing into the feminist ether until she realizes she needs her boy — but not her man.
On my last plane ride, I watched Where’d You Go Bernadette? It’s about a self-involved neurotic architect who has lost her creative heart. She hates pretty much everyone because she hates herself. Or the version of herself she has become. Bernadette is really an unlikeable character and after the first half hour, I was ready to give up and watch ESPN, but the story got better. And then really good. And the ending is terrific.
But for women on the run stories, you can’t beat the golden oldie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. Anyone who says Martin Scorsese doesn’t get women needs to see this. Newly widowed Ellen Burnstyn packs up her surly pre-teen and heads west, hoping to make it to Monterey Calif where she will go back to the singing career she abandoned when she got married. Marooned in Arizona, she becomes a waitress and finds love in the arms of a hunky woke rancher Kris Kristofferson. But after she tells him to kiss her grits, things don’t turn out like you’d expect.
Okay, to be fair, not every great runaway story stars a woman. Remember the ending of Mad Men? Poor tortured Don Draper, drummed out of the ad biz, escapes from New York and goes west of course. In an Eselen therapy session, listening to someone describe himself as food in the refrigerator that nobody wants, Don breaks down. The last image is Don seating in a lotus, smiling. Cue the music: the groundbreaking 1971 TV ad for Coca-Cola, implying that Don will probably not escape after all.
I’d like to buy the poor tired world a Coke right now.
Any favorite runaway books or movies?
I Run Away : A Short Story : Running Away – 723 Words
I ran away when I was ten years old. It was a small argument with my parents that provoked it. The situation was contentious and furor. I wanted to have a sleepover with five girls from school, they said that we couldn’t fit five other girls in our apartment. I lashed out at them, throwing a full-fledged tantrum, and then I left. Marched out of the door, ignoring their calls for me to come back. My plan was to spend the night at my grandparents house and go back in the morning. It was a short walk, only four blocks to my grandparents, but I didn’t make it. On the second block the light was about to turn red. I convinced myself I could make it and ran out into the middle of the street, only to get struck by a car. Funny, I don’t even remember dying. I don’t remember what it felt like, or if I saw God waiting for me. As soon as the car hit me, my eyes closed, only to be snapped open a few seconds later. But I was no longer in the street, I was in my favorite park. I looked down to see my wrinkled t-shirt and jeans had been replaced with a long, flowy white dress. I felt odd, almost hollow. I broke out into a sprint, and ran in the direction of my house, but when I reached the front gate of the park, I was thrown backwards by an invisible force. I hit the ground hard, and let out a painful groan. I slowly got up, ignoring the pain in my side. I started to run out of the park when I was thrown backwards again. I couldn’t leave. Why couldn’t I leave? Out of the corner of my eye I
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