Down memory lane (standard:other, 1472 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: May 18 2012	Views/Reads: 2854/1909	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Returning to his childhood home after all these years. Is everything as it seems?

As he drove along the winding road, heading into a village, dormant
memories began to filter slowly into his mind. Memories brought back by 
the surrounding fields and greenery. The shapes of the hills, the 
placement of the trees, all served to remind him of the place where he 
grew up, where as a child he played and explored until the lure of the 
world outside took over and he was forced to comply with society's 
demands of earning money and behaving in the correct manner. Don't make 
a fuss, don't rock the boat. Find love, pro-create, keep the wheels of 
your culture oiled. Have some input into its progression. 

Yet, here, that seemed distant, another world, a world he had left
behind, as if he had died, and his spirit was entering a nicer place, a 
paradise, opposite to what he was used to. It was a paradise to him, 
the countryside, or places less hectic than faceless crowded cities and 
stressful concrete environments. Here though, were pleasant memories, 
memories of him as a child, playing in the fields, chasing the cows and 
sheep, exploring forests with his friends, and generally doing things 
that children do when brought up in a small village, surrounded by a 
rural area. 

He slowed down when he passed his old infants school. Although still in
use, it looked unused and derelict, much as it did when he was a pupil. 
The old hopscotch diagram was still there, but rather more worn and 
indistinguishable. Nothing in the village seemed to have changed, as if 
time had left this place alone, perhaps as a relic of times gone by, a 
statement as to how things were, as though change were a stranger. The 
church, the shops, the houses, not quite exactly as they were when he 
had last seen them, time and weather having an unhurried effect, they 
had not been influenced by modern day standards of society. He would be 
surprised if somebody here had a mobile phone, and vehicles, though not 
really needed, because the locals rarely ventured far, probably were no 
more modern than a ford cortina. 

After a short, slow drive, the sites bringing back pleasant memories, he
parked up outside the only public house, and inside it was dark and 
gloomy, harbouring its own unique atmosphere which was pleasing and 
homely. The barman seemed curious and regarded him with a small amount 
of trepidation. Strangers don't often pass through, but when they do, 
they are seen by the locals with slight unease, and in some cases, 
fear. He sat alone in one corner, sipping lemonade. A group of four 
pensioners were sat near the entrance, playing dominoes, while what 
looked to be a man and wife where sat around the other side of the bar, 
not really saying much. They had probably exhausted all conversation 
throughout their married life, and were now probably seriously 
discussing what's been happening in all the soaps, and what should 
happen according to their principles, and whether they should get the 
house fumigated because a mouse had been spotted for a nano-second in 
the back yard, a yard that backs onto a field. Or the popular subject, 
money. How much they haven't got, and if they had this and if they had 
that. He wondered how many regrets older people had. Where they full of 
them, now that they were unable to follow their dreams through? If only 
I had climbed Mount Everest. If only I had completed a marathon. They 
probably had plenty. He wondered what people talked about around here. 
Each other, probably. Gossip was most likely rife, but he doubted that 
anybody here had any animosity towards anything. 

He was in no hurry to leave, so after around half an hour, finished his
drink, and left. It was a stark contrast outside, the bright sun 
dazzling him. He decided to leave his car where it was, and walk the 
short distance to his old house, where he grew up. The road curved and 
sloped upwards, but eventually he reached the semi-detached house which 
he had vacated 45 years ago. This was the first time he had come back, 
and despite the run-down appearance, and overgrown garden, it was 
exactly the same as his memory of it. When he had walked out, he had 
left the front door wide open. It was still the same, inviting him 
back, inviting him home. 

He walked along the path and entered the hallway. Like opened
floodgates, more memories flowed back. The carpet had a thick layer of 
dust, like a separate carpet altogether. There was a permeating odour 
that seemed to hang in the air like invisible fog that was neither 
pleasing, nor repellent. The back room door, beside the kitchen, was 
closed, and he was apprehensive of entering there, because if things 
were as he had left them, and it certainly seemed that way, then it 
would prove to him the fact that this village still had its values 


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