Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

A Fall

It was the deep reds and oranges of the leaves that she missed the most. Along with the colored leaves of autumn came a bite in the air that seemed to call out to the impending winter cold, like some sort of bad omen. But even on the chilliest of days, she would sit outside on the porch, clutching a mug of tea in her frail hands, watching the blurry treetops wave back and forth as if they knew she was there.

There were no leaves where she was now; she could see trees, sometimes, with their tall reaching branches, and there were rare moments when she caught a glimpse of a flash of red and orange outside her window. But it never lasted. Just a moment's glance, and then a fast-moving car or a cold concrete building would block her view. Even if she had still been able to see them, she knew those leaves would soon fall, to be trampled or driven over, whichever occurred first. They lacked the resilience she had once known in the leaves of her old home.

She thought she remembered a time when those fallen leaves would be raked into a pile; a pile which doubled as a child's plaything. Now they collected by the side of the street, in an ugly brown piled of mud and trash. She could remember, too, a time where the air was fresh and clean no matter where you lived, and you could see the stars every night. It was different now. Now the trees seemed to be choked out by the smog and the dust, and with them too, their leaves.

It didn't matter anymore if it was winter or autumn or spring. All she could see was pavement and steel. The leaves seemed to have disappeared.

More writing by this author

Blogs on This Site