Day 6 Continued – It’s all in the detail

While we get to talk about characters and characteristics later, part of what sets the scene is the details, those little things about people, places, and sometimes just everyday items that will make a story from routine to, well, slightly more interesting.

For others to find these details relatable makes it even better.

I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower, but I’m sure there’s a detail that can transform words on a page into a picture in the reader’s mind.

Walking across a meadow isn’t just walking, it’s watching the swirling grass as the breeze pushes it one way then another, all around the sounds of birds, and insects.

For added colour you could add a dog, about the same height as the grass, one minute bounding through the grass, the next hot on the trail of a small animal like a field mouse or rabbit.

Above, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, not a hot day, but warm, the sort you don’t need a jumper.

It could be the first day or the last day of the holidays, or you could be staying with an aunt or uncle on a farm in the countryside, in the distance the farmhouse sitting in a familiar position overlooking the valley before it.

There could be a babbling brook, a small bridge to cross, even though it is not very deep, and hiding in the rocks, fish waiting to be caught, taken back to the house, and later become part of supper.

And tying the elements together:

It was almost the end of the holidays and I didn’t want to go back to the city. The last few weeks had opened my eyes to a world I had never known existed.

Sitting under the apple tree on the edge of the grove I looked out across the meadow that fell gently down towards the creek when the other day I had taken my aunt’s advice and went for a dip to cool off.

Now, looking out and trying to put a permanent image of the scene before me in my mind so I could remember it in the coming weeks and months, there was something new, different, than the other days.

Yes, the grass, as high as Cyclops, my aunt’s dog, was swirling in the breeze, and was bounding as he always did through the grass, searching for a rabbit, or he just caught a scent. Yes, the sky was blue, though now there were whispy clouds in the distance, perhaps an omen the weather was about to change, but that was not it.

A different sound from the birds chirping and the insects buzzing, someone singing not loudly but as they would to themselves when they knew no one else was around.

And, then I saw her, a girl my age, long blonde hair tousled by the breeze, in a summery dress with flowers and birds. The elusive Erica, the girl from the next farm, who, my aunt said, sometimes came to pick some apples to take back to her mother to bake apple pie.

Apple pie that was to die for.

When she reached the grove she saw me and stopped. The happy, cheerful expression turned to one of curiosity.

“Who are you?”

“Andy. I’m staying with my aunt. How come I haven’t seen you before?”

“I’ve been here. You have not or I would have seen you.”

True. I had spent most of my time, up until this day working with my uncle in the barn and on the tractor ploughing other fields. I was only here because my aunt had sent me to get some apples fresh from the tree.

“I have been helping my uncle.”

…

It started out as an awkward conversation because I was not very comfortable around girls. Those that I knew, in the city, were not very nice. By the end, I had found a new friend, and it made it all the more impossible that I had to go home.

And, although I didn’t know it then, it was the start of a relationship that would continue until the day we both died.

…

It of course needs refinement and more interweaving of the elements around us, but it;s a start.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025