Young Writers Society

I wrote a very silly story last year, when I was exploring with point of view. I'm wondering if anyone can give me any critiques or some helpful suggestions? The one comment that I "always" get from people who read my works (basically friends and family) is that my writing is awkward. They can't find anything gramatically incorrect about my writing, but something about my sentence/paragraph structure seems very awkward to them. I am hoping to see if anyone here can point out my flaw and can point me in the right direction to improve on. Thanks in advance.

The Harvest

By E. Lee

Oct 15th, 1910

On a splendorous autumn’s day, whilst treading down the soiled fields of the old cemetery, a squirrel came pondering to me. Curious, the little thing was, tilting his head back and forth as it watched me picking apples from a tree. If it wasn’t for the abundance of trees, this little thing would have been watching old Mr. Forelock instead; and as we all know, his loco wife bakes the best and only squirrel pie in all of Vancouver. (Although no one else has tried it themselves, besides Mr. Forelock)

The harvest had been scarce this year. There had only been a few days of rain in the spring and summer, breaking record lows and leaving most of the farmlands in the city dry. Only when pumpkin season came in October did the skies tip several weeks of rain, flooding the fields and destroying anything the city actually had.

The neighbouring farms had to order pumpkins from the north and Alberta so that the city would actually have some to sell. The loads had arrived at the crinkled railways in the hub of the city this morning, but they were stalled, due to a possible sabotage of the shipment. Everyone was so hyped about the war that if a pin needle dropped, people would run screaming into their homes or shelters.

On one of those nights, when the sirens went off, I had exhausted myself to sleep, baking Halloween goodies, cookies, and pies. I was having a dream, a really bad dream. The new conservative party was chasing me with taxes or pumpkins over their heads- I forgot which, because something shuffled in the distance and had startled me awake.

Sweating and petrified, I unhid from the hood of my night robe and opened an eye. She appeared before me, a faceless figure, frantically ruining my pies. Wielding a knife in her hand, she realized I was awake, but before she could use it, I clogged her on the back of her head with my rolling pin.

She collapsed onto the floor, blood trickling down her neck. Stunned for a second, her head eventually stopped spinning and she ran for it. She swayed out of the door, leaving a trail of blood behind her. She made it out- I suppose.

And now, the next morning, here I am: the sun warmer than ever, the fog thicker than ever, the squirrels are as curious as ever. My husband was worried when he heard the news, but I knew his heart said otherwise. He reeked of perfume and alcohol- must have been drinking with those patsies down pastry lane again.

Oh sweet hubby. If only those women cared for you as much as I do. Why else would they be wielding knives? There, there. Go to bed. I haven’t had enough time to catch more squirrels, so I had to improvise. Mrs. Forelock’s baked Mr. Forelock a new pie! And in the morning, you can have some.