Short Stories and Flash Fiction: April Issue

The Gully—Shirlee Jellum

Located at the end of the block, the gully was a jungle of Douglas fir, red huckleberries, salal, Oregon grape, and wild blackberry, crisscrossed with bicycle and hiking trails. Halfway down the hill was our rope swing. We’d hang on tight, throw ourselves into the air, arcing high above our friends who cheered and clapped below.

One time a group of kids from the next block showed up, uninvited, demanding a turn. We lined up, arms crossed, refused. They threw rocks at us, a large one hitting my forehead above my right eye. I wanted to tattle, but adults were not allowed in our world, so I swallowed my tears and carried that scar, a bump the size of a pebble, into my adult years.

We built secret hideouts deep in the trees under overhanging limbs, doorways made with salvaged wood that required passwords for entrance. We’d sit cross-legged in a dark circle, telling ghost stories, laughing at dirty jokes. Once we dared each other to undress, embarrassed and excited, until a timid girl raised her shirt, breasts swelling like tiny plums. Suddenly ashamed, we found excuses to go home. She never came back.

Another time we were digging a hole when a shadow passed over the sun. We looked up, gasped as a pterodactyl—long pointed head, sinewy neck, gray wings the size of kites, taloned feet tucked under the belly—slowly flew over the trees. We dropped our tools, scrambled up the embankment, hid in my friend’s basement, whispering about the dinosaurs invading the neighborhood.

Winter brought sledding, trains of mittened and muffled kids—hands holding ankles, heads hunkered down, racing over the runs of packed snow and ice, flying and rolling and crashing. We’d laugh until someone wet her pants or smashed a finger then we’d all trudge home for cocoa.

The gully was not a place of solitude but of social gatherings, a refuge where kids ruled, time meant nothing, and life was endless play. We collected our adventures like badges, whispering and bragging, reminiscing and planning, until we grew into our gangly bodies and moved onto other games and secrets.

Now the trees and berry bushes are gone. Multi-level homes crowd the hillsides, yards landscaped with stepping stones, ornamentals and bird feeders.  Instead of bike paths and trails there are paved driveways. Children play on plastic jungle gyms behind fences.

Overhead I search for the slow undulating flight of a heron.

Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher who publishes fiction, nonfiction and poetry. When not writing she enjoys gardening, traveling and backpacking. Recent work can be found in Field Guide Poetry, Persimmon Tree, 101 Words and Visible.

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