Hobbs Lane: short story
Sometimes life (and the week) catches up with you. Between work, writing, and the chaos of daily things, I didn’t have the time to rewatch and break down another B-grade sci-fi.
I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment - editing the second book of Burn the Sky: Redemption, as well as writing the trilogy that follows. Deterministic time travel isn’t the easiest story to write, but this story chose me, so I have to tell it.
the cover page has been edited to remove personal details
Instead, I’m sharing something from my creative writing degree — a short story titled Hobbs Lane.
The brief of this piece was 1000 words (+/-10%) and required the inclusion of lawn ornaments. I can’t remember the exact question - I didn’t write any of those down. At the end is my reflection on writing this piece. It’s hard to fit a story you really want to throw words at into a cap of 1100.
This one’s a little different from the Almost a Cult Classic lineup. It leans into quiet tension: the flicker of hazard lights on a foggy street, the hum of an engine that won’t quite die, and that strange feeling when familiar suburbs turn unfamiliar. Inspired by Quatermass and the Pit (1967), it’s part psychological unease, part suburban myth.
This story came from my third subject (I skipped a few non-writing assignments). At the time, I thought this was my best writing yet, but it improved even further in the weeks and months that followed.
As with all my assignments, I am posting them unedited.
The main feedback I received from the tutor was detail and showing instead of telling. My grade was 72/100, and here is part of their closing feedback—
You've presented an intriguing short story but there are some aspects that would benefit from further development.
I would like to see further characterisation for your protagonist to have a better sense of who he is and his general mannerisms (and how his demeanour changes when scared).
Your narrative would also benefit from further tension and complications
AaCC returns in a few weeks with another deep dive into the weird and wonderful corners of retro sci-fi cinema, but for now, here’s a piece that explores a different kind of fear — the one that hides between the streetlights.
Hobbs Lane
The oil light, followed by the engine light, glowed on the dash like a pair of beastly eyes, and I knew from experience my antique oil burner wouldn’t last long at freeway speeds. That temperature gauge climbed towards the red zone as the exit I’d passed hundreds of times before felt like it would never come.
Just one more bend and a beacon of lights pointed at the exit sign, offering that promise of relief for the geriatric engine labouring me along. The moment my indicator began blinking, I checked the rear vision mirror for a safe moment to pull over on the slim shoulder. A line of traffic with their angry, flashing amber pushed me off the freeway, extending the torture.
The gauge climbed higher.
My slick hands slipped on the steering wheel.
Sweat dripped down my back.
The dwindling line of traffic followed, eventually leaving me alone.
My only company now were rows of lawn ornaments that stood like an honour guard of shrunken and petrified residents along the narrow streets.
Finally, I pulled over in a laneway. Where was this street? What suburb was this? I killed the ignition, and the keys jingled between my fingers, but the engine ran as though possessed for what seemed like a minute.
Between the cooling engine ticking, silence rang in my ears. My voice crackled from a parched mouth. “Why didn’t I just use an emergency zone on the freeway?”
Putting on the hazard lights, I pushed open the door. The hinges groaned like decrepit old bones, and the frigid night air rushed in. It chilled my damp back so that not even an energetic self-hug provided warmth.
“Where am I?” Condensation temporarily clouded my way. “I guess I have to take a walk.” Those lawn ornaments silently watched, guarding the blacked-out houses behind, while their shadows reached for me.
‘Hobbs Lane’, that’s what the street sign said; There could be a hundred streets in the area called that. My phone gave me more bad news, two percent, nope, one percent. This is going to be a short conversation. “Hello, motor club? My phone is about to die. I’ve broken down in Hobbs Lane, but I don’t know where that is.” The usual phone static dropped out, and the screen failed to show signs of life. How much of my plea for help got through?
Glancing back, a fog bank crept in, obscuring my car’s slow, blinking amber lights, making my heart sink. I could just imagine the mechanic pulling out their gun, putting a bullet in its head and saying, ‘There’s nothing that could be done.’
A shiver ran up my back, extending to goosebumps down my arms.
Well, it should be warmer in the car.
My footfall echoed between the houses. “Hello?” I called out into the silence. “Hello, anyone there?” The chill in the air was more noticeable now than it had been earlier. If only I hadn’t left in a hurry for work that morning, then maybe I would have packed for the season. Rummaging through the car for anything to keep warm or for entertainment, I couldn’t even find an old Refidex to look at; everything was digital, handy in one place.
The cold continued to bite, and the world slipped away into darkness.
A scruffy, silver-haired, bearded gentleman climbed off the train platform and headed toward a large black object partly exposed at the end of the tunnel. Timber and other things began moving by themselves, while the object made everyone go crazy with its brain-melting sound.
It was just a dream, some movie I’d seen, a nightmare, and I didn’t want to go there. I flung open the door and rolled out onto the road to shake off the sleepiness, but the night seemed darker. Blink, blink, blink. The hazard lights dimmed with every blink, and soon even the auto club wouldn’t find me if it continued like that.
A noise I couldn’t quite figure out echoed between the buildings. That squealing or grinding gnawed at my brain; its omnipresence was colder than the night. It didn’t make me go crazy, but which way do you run?
Where do you hide?
Its source drew closer.
Finally, it had a direction. Finally, it had a distance. It reached the end of the lane and passed the street sign.
Blink, blink, blink. Those dying lights blinded me.
The enigma stopped just outside of what I could see, and my eyes strained to make sense of the moment.
A croaky voice called out. “I’m here for you.”
Words seemed to fail as I tried to swallow. “Umm, what?”
“You’ll be dead soon,” the voice continued.
Everything stopped.
And then faded to black.
All that was left was me and those four words.
I blinked. “What?”
The squealing and grinding started again, approaching closer. “Your battery.” A scruffy, silver-haired older man with a beard emerged from the darkness towing a wheeled trolley. “Auto services club.”
Relief flowed like the exhale of condensation from my breath.
“Yer, my old truck doesn’t start in this cold, so I had to bring my trolley. I only live around the corner.” His squeaky trolley had one tyre, while the empty rim scrapped along the road.
Words still slipped in my mouth while I tried to make light of the moment. “What’s with the tyre?”
“Oh, that. It got damaged, and I’d not got to the store for a new one,” he said, parking the trolley and running his hand over the open door frame to reach for the bonnet catch.
“What suburb is this?”
The mechanic gave what seemed like a deep, out-of-character laugh. “This is Hobbs End, mate,” he said, then buried his head into the cold engine bay.
A few minutes later, the mechanic had connected jumper leads to a battery on his trolley and had my car running again.
“Thanks,” I said as he locked the bonnet down. “How can I get back to the Freeway?”
“You’ll have a devil of a time gettin’ back, but if you turn right here, head down until you reach Kingswood Knoll, turn left, take the next left after that awful-looking garden, then Clyf Wynd, and that’s spelt …”
All these names and directions already had my eyes glaze over before I began driving.
“You got that?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
Right, left, left again. I couldn’t find Clyf Wynd or the awful garden. After ten minutes of driving around, I pulled over, wound down the window and squinted through the fog at the street name. It read Hobbs Lane.
Reflection of the short story, Hobbs Lane.
I am a pantser, plain and simple. Most of my writing takes place as a movie in my head; one scene happens after another. I find I can’t visualise a plot without having a moment to spark that fire of a story. My first story, The Cheese Fight didn’t turn out to be the story I was interested in. Writing Exercise 3 from week 3 wasn’t my first choice, but after two others had posted their versions on the forum, I gave it a go.
This is an activity on converting a telling summary, entering a convoluted suburb with lawn ornaments into a showing story. The beginning had me write in first person POV actually driving from the freeway and being the eyes and ears of the reader, truly changing the text into a story. I continued with the promise of the premise from the opening, where the POV is being chased into the described suburb by other cars, where the feeling of dread continues. All the language I naturally continued with had a foreboding tone that should have only one conclusion. I would hope the story carries the reader into the loneliness and fear of the POV.
I find part of storytelling is stacking events. When I reached a moment of waiting, I introduced a sound to be feared through a dream directly inspired by the movie, Quatermass and the Pit (Baker, 1967, 1:17). When the POV wakes, they are fear-locked by an omnipresent sound echoing between the buildings.
Most of my thoughts for stories are action and science-fiction-based, and writing something outside of my repertoire was refreshing. Starting University has been the best way to expand my capabilities since I began writing a few years ago.
As a seasoned author, I enjoyed where this story took me, as I like suspense and a good twist. The battery dying gave me that added tension, and the provided text gave me the twist, suggesting travellers need a taxi to navigate their way out.
Workshopping helped improve the descriptions of scene movement, and now I have a short story I’m proud of.
Baker, R. W (Director). (1967). Quatermass and the Pit [Film]. Seven Arts Productions and Hammer Film Productions. https://archive.org/details/quatermass-and-the-pit
