- The Runaway Boy - 1st version of true life short story

Tue, Apr 3 2018 10:10pm IST 1
Kane Anderson Stone
Kane Anderson Stone
27 Posts

The Run Away Boy

By: Kaiden G. Stone

Tap, tap, tap, tap - tap – tap. That was all I could hear that night, way back in 1983 as the rain outside splashed on the ledge of the window sill.

I was twelve years old, and I had never felt so alone at the time, even though I shared a dormitory room with three other boys, all of similar age to me. The room had no lamps on. It was so dark that I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I had been sent to bed early that night, for throwing my food at one of the other kids; he had been bullying me all day; so he was asking for it I guess. I thought so at the time anyway.

I had been crying so much after I had been slapped hard across the back of my bare legs. The slaps were so hard that I had bright red hand marks from the punishment for over an hour. My abuser had also twisted my arm, which stung like a Chinese burn given by a schoolyard bully.

This didn’t stop me wanting to escape, which I had planned to do a few days prior to my incident with the food. Unfortunately for me, however, things never went that simple for me in the orphanage, as someone or something always got in the way.

This time it was the local farmer’s dog that sometimes slept outside my bedroom landing; basically, I fell over him as I tried to sneak down the hall in the dark, which woke the night staff up.

Needless to say, I couldn’t sit down properly on a hard chair for days due to the good hiding I received from a member of staff that would put any well-known dictator to shame.

I wanted to reach out to the world outside, beyond my bedroom window, beyond the green field where the farmer kept his chickens, and far, far out of reach of being beaten with belts, slippers and old bed posts.

Just to feel wanted and needed like normal kids. As I never knew what normal was, neither did any of the other kids I lived with. Most of whom had come from abusive homes, where their parents were either drug addicts or alcoholics.

One young kid I knew had no family what so ever. I think they were all killed in a terrible fire or something like that. I was never too sure of the full details. But he was a real loner and was bullied even worse than me, so much in fact that on his ninth birthday, he was found hiding up a conker tree in the grounds of the home.

As for me, well I never had the guts to climb trees or climb up onto the central roof, with a hope of threatening to throw myself off. All I knew was that I wanted to get out of that place. Part of me was crying out for escape but another part of me was frozen stiff with fear on the night I ran away.

This was actually the first attempt of the three times I tried to escape.

It took me a long time to gain the courage and sheer willpower to run as far and as fast as my legs would carry me.

I remember looking at the window, and I noticed it was still raining, I just kept wishing it would stop, in fact, I actually prayed to God for it to stop raining in time for me to climb out of the window. I never had a coat to wear, so I had put on all jumpers that I owned, which made me look ridiculous, but at least I’d keep warm.

I knew that if I didn’t try and get out, I’d probably never do it, and I’d have to spend another six years or more being abused and tormented until I ended up like the kid who was found in the tree. I waited until I thought the other boys had fallen asleep, even though I knew that they weren’t all asleep, and I might be grabbed by one of them at the last minute as I began climbing through the window.

I went to my bed to get the bag I had with some underwear and another pair of trousers in it. Even though I didn’t know where I was going and had even less idea what I’d do when and if I ever got there. I just kept hearing this voice in my head which kept saying, “Get out! Get out!” It was now or never, I thought.

It was then I felt a hand grab me by the leg really tight, as I felt it I had the sudden urge to shout out; but another hand went over my mouth; this is it, I thought I’m really going to get a beating now.

To my surprise though, it was not the hands of an adult, so I knew it had to be one of the boys, and then I heard his voice as he said: “I’m coming with you”.

It was a boy a little older than me, but was another one of the home’s tormented, he was constantly been bullied by his weight issues, even though he was not what you would call overweight, it was more a case of the fact he was simply a big lad, in terms of him being scrawny like me.

He had his arm around me, so I could only move slightly. I knew that I had no choice, but to let him come with me. Otherwise, he would have made a lot of noise; enough to alert the staff that slept in rooms nearby. It was now or never…

Suddenly we heard a creaking sound coming from the corridor, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed into the distance as someone walked from one room to another, probably checking on the dormitories; which meant that the person walking down the corridor would have caught us in the act.

We both rushed to our beds, trying desperately to force our shoes off under the covers. Just as I managed to kick off my right shoe, the bedroom door opened.

Usually, the light switch would have been clicked on, but the only light came from the torch the member of staff carried, so they could catch kids out that were mucking about.

I tried to stop shaking under my sheet, as the torch beam scanned the room, as it cast

a shadow against the back wall. I remember trying not to move, saying to myself, ‘keep still keep still’.

Suddenly the torch beam vanished, as the member of staff walked out of the room

It was then I realised who it was; as the smell of rolling tobacco filled the air and made me feel sick to my stomach. I knew that the member of staff going room to room was

Bernice Sparrow or “Birdie” as we all knew her.

She was what many people in society would call an evil twisted old bat; she liked to bully the younger kids, mostly me.

It seemed that I bore the brunt of most of her anger if I had not done my chores or answered her back, whilst been told off. She hated that.

Once we knew she had gone away from the vicinity of the bedroom door, me and the other kid who I’ll call jay, headed for the window, hoping that this time no – one would interrupt our escape.

I slowly opened the sash window; it creaked and groaned like an old man getting up from a comfy chair on a cold day. The rain had stopped by this time, but it was still bitterly cold. I climbed out first as Jay kept watch, then he climbed out, as I watched out for lights being switched on in other bedrooms.

As water dripped on us from the gutter above our heads, we squatted down and headed for the bottom of the long driveway that leads up to the top.

This would be the road that to an as of yet unknown destination. One that we thought would get us as far away from that place as possible, so we could have a better life, and find a real family.

This was not the case, as we would both find out more than twelve hours later.

We didn’t get very far, and we were eventually found by the police.

We were brought back with our heads hanging low; feeling very stupid and nervous, as we knew that once the police had given us their runaway boy lecture, we would get another talking to, then maybe a slipper across our backsides at the least.

I didn’t try running away again, until two years later…

The Run Away Boy


It was 1983 and I was twelve years old and living in a children’s orphanage in the North of England, on the outskirts of East Yorkshire.

I spent over 14 years in the care system, eight of which were spent in an orphanage and the rest were spent in foster care, until I was eighteen.

The following is a much shortened down real-life account of just one incident that I went through. The time I spent in care, especially those years in the children’s orphanage were some of the worst times of my young adolescent life.

I did, however, have some good times, but they would never outweigh those times that were pure hell.

I wanted to share some of what I have gone through, and this short story is a real part of me and my soul, a soul that has been battered and broken many times over.

It speaks of childhood innocence and the riggers, torments and turmoil of one boy’s life, living in the secluded surroundings of a children’s orphanage. That was originally built in the 8th century.

The names and certain places have been changed, to protect those who were actually there. In total, I ran away from the home three times over a two year period.

I actually spent over eight hours on the run from that place; but the cold weather the fact that we didn’t have a clue where we were heading, stopped us in our tracks.

Until we were eventually stopped by a police car, two very large police officers got out and informed us that we had been reported missing. They had actually been searching for us for some time once the alarm was raised that we had run away. It was quite some time before I even attempted to run away again.

Wed, Apr 4 2018 05:40pm IST 2
860 Posts
Lots of good stuff here Kane. You express the torment and despair of living in the home, and the voice, while not yet fully honed in my opinion, is starting to emerge - somewhat cynical and jaded, but with some hope still remaining.

I’m no expert in memoir and I can’t say at all what the favoured style in this genre is at the moment. In general terms, however, I thought the opening section was a bit too crowded and busy to follow easily, and it felt to me as though you were getting in the way of your own flow a bit. Each paragraph seems almost to have its own separate anecdote or bit of background and I think it would work better if you streamlined some of this. You can always work it in later, and indeed, I thought many of these aspects would be good to expand on.

You start with the scene setting para which has promise but I feel could definitely be tighter. This is the hook with which you need to snare the reader. The rain and the sound of the rain is a good angle to take, but this is the moment in which we need to feel that fear, anticipation, anxiety etc. That sound is what’s standing between you and freedom, after all. I suspect, based on what comes later, that this is the wait before the second escape attempt, but it wasn’t entirely clear to me. You then give the immediate background of the bullying, throwing food, and the consequent beating, followed by a little bit about the first escape attempt, some more background e.g. the child who hid in the tree, and then start to go into a bit more detail on the second (?) attempt. One way to approach it would be to strip it all back so you’re just telling the story of the escape attempt. Don’t worry too much about the background, you can come back to that. All the audience needs at this point is the visceral need to get away and a few details as to why - maybe just the sensory detail of the soreness from the beating and the chinese burn, which would cover the brutality of the home and the bullying from the other children.

Sorry to chuck all that at you in one go - the main thing is that for this particular passage I feel that less is more, and the writing is good and strong but you’re giving us a lot and I found it too much to take in at this stage in the narrative. The writing is strong but watch out for a few cliches slipping in ‘as fast as my legs would carry me,’ ‘now or never’ (a few times), ‘caught in the act’ etc. But you paint a vivid picture, and it’s compelling stuff
Fri, Apr 6 2018 08:27pm IST 3
Kane Anderson Stone
Kane Anderson Stone
27 Posts
Thank you for your honest feedback. In view of the reconstruction of my true life short story. To be honest I actually wrote this write at the moment, when I decided I simply had to try and write some true accounts of my time in care. I was in care for fourteen years, eight of which were spent in a children's orphanage.

I have no plans to write a life biography of my childhood etc, as there are far too much pain and torment. Which I simply couldn't publish in a novel.

I had far more dark times, then good in those eight years. I was there with my brother, who I now no longer have contact with in my life. When I was put into care aged six, I left aged fourteen, and there was only nine of us left, from the 56 that were originally there. It was actually a very well know and famous orphanage, once owned by a wealthy family over 200 years ago. And the land it resides on was actually mentioned in the Dooms Day Book.
Wed, May 2 2018 12:04pm IST 4
6 Posts
Really enjoyed reading your short story a lot! Keep up the good work
Tue, May 8 2018 11:14am IST 5
4 Posts
Kane, I enjoyed your story also and Daed's comments. You had me from the beginning and I didn't drift off. You'll get a lot better critique from others than me, but I'd definitely be following your journey as the story continues. There's a lot of potential here and I look forward to the next update.
Tue, May 15 2018 07:32pm IST 6
John Alty
John Alty
35 Posts
Well done for putting this up for critique. Daeds has given excellent advice.
You clearly have a story to tell and a stack of material to support it.
Although very personal, you are writing for others to read and your objective should be to engage and entertain the reader and to do that you need to avail yourself of the tried and tested writing techniques to best achieve that.
This really needs stripping down in the early parts, I feel; a controlled release of information rather than an outpouring. You may even consider starting the story in the middle and then going back to the beginning before continuing to the conclusion. Just a thought. Good luck with it.

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