Chatterbox: Inkwell

My story! Critique it Please!

This is an autobiographical short story I wrote and I'm going to submit it to a magazine. (Stone Soup Magazine) So does anyone want to give me constructive criticism? Please? 

When my brother and my mom and I walk to the park that we used to go to more when my brother and I were younger, I feel like I’m walking back in time. I’m twelve and a half, not totally a teenager yet but not really a little kid anymore either. So I can still go back to being a little kid for a while. I have decided to do that at the park.

At La Loma Park, my brother Rafie and I would play on the playground for a little while, then walk up a hill. There was a steep path that led all the way to the bottom. We walked up on a different path, stopping on the way to look down a cliff at the rest of the park, and later slid down the steep one like a slide. With eucalyptus bark and sticks flying into our path, we rocketed down the slope, ripping and dirtying our pants. By the time I reached the bottom I was usually sitting in a pile of dirt that had begun to slip down with me, cushioning me from the rough path, not that I cared much. Then we ran around the base of the hill until we got back to the path that could take us up the hill and started all over again. I loved it.

Today we sit quietly on the bench beside the playground, me, Rafie, and Mom, for a few minutes. The whole park is quiet, except for an eagle on a fence. I realize that the park is empty as well. My memories of La Loma Park all include at least a couple other kids. Some toy trucks and a plastic sieve lie

“There aren’t any little kids with their parents here,” says Mom just as I think about that. “I wonder where they all are.”

“They’re all playing videogames,” Rafie says, moving the arm of a rusty toy construction vehicle. “Hey, this thing is pretty cool!”

“No they’re not,” I announce. “They just aren’t at this park.”

“Uh huh! Little kids don’t play with trucks anymore, they just play with iPods and videogames. It’s too bad. Kids should keep playing with trucks and real toys.” It’s kind of ironic for Rafie to say that. At almost eleven years old, he often argues that he likes videogames better than real toys. I don’t know what change of heart made him say that, but I’m worried that Rafie’s right.

“So you want to make sure that all boys play with trucks instead of computers?” I ask as I sit down in the grainy sand. This would make a good short story, I think. I should write it when I get home.

“All little boys,” explains Rafie. “I’m old enough to play with computers.”

Since I’m nearly two years older than Rafie is, I don’t think that he’s old enough and I say so. By now I’m sitting in the sand playing with a plastic sieve that was there, making the fine sand fall away so I just have the rocks, the important stuff.

“Then do you think you’re old enough to play with computers, Sasha?” Rafie asks. Mom is still on the bench.

I don’t reply, because I don’t have an answer. “Let’s go up onto that hill that we used to slide down.”

Me and Rafie run off to the hill, which is right next to the playground. When we get there, we quickly find the path. I remember that to get to the path there’s a little bushwhacking that the grownups never wanted to do, but this is a bit worse than I expected.  To continue along the path we would have to crawl through a two-foot-tall constriction in the undergrowth, while avoiding poison oak on one side.

“You know what?” I say to Rafie. “I’m just going to decide right now not to go that way.” I remember once we decided not to slide down and followed our makeshift path, or was it an animal path, a bit farther. We got to the top of the hill (which was covered in bushes and lumpy trees like the rest of it) and found a fence that separated the hilltop from the playground. We had been lucky enough to come out beside a hole in the fence! “But there’s another way to get there.”

“Yeah,” Rafie says, noticing the poison oak. Once Rafie thought he was immune to the dangerous plant and touched it. The poison oak oil spread when he touched his face and Rafie got an awful rash on his face.

Later, we trek around to the other side of the hill, to where the hole in the fence is. I almost walk past the hole, but Rafie remembers.

“The hole’s back here, remember?” he tells me.

Together we go through the hole, which is actually a gate. I didn’t remember right. Oh no! This path is covered in bushes! There’s a little poison oak, but I could avoid that.

“Okay, I think we can get through here…” I say. I really want to go to the slide, not to slidedown but just to be there.

“No,” Rafie says.“There’s too much poison oak and brambles. Let’s go back.”

We walk back to Mom and hang out by the empty playground. As we stand on the grass, Mom showing us how to do handstands, I realize that we were trying to get back to being little kids for a while. We almost could go back to being little kids, but something stopped us. Maybe it was the poison oak.

Or maybe we’rej ust too old. Rafie would rather play on the computer than play with trucks; I’m almost a teenager and I spend time on the computer too, usually writing. I don’t know if I care or not that I couldn’t quite be a little kid, but I feel that my trip to the park would have been more complete had we gotten to the cliff.