~ ♥️ 𝒫𝒽𝑜𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓍 ♥️ ~ 𝓅𝑜𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈

The Boy By The Maple Tree

"How would you like to be made into a delicious roast dinner for me, hmm damned beast!"  Jonathan Silvena cried, clutching a large rooster in a chokehold. The rooster, squawking in horror, wriggled in Jonathan's arms and flailed its wings in a manner that made Jonathan screw up his face and squint his eyes.

"Honestly, Jon, leave the poor rooster alone, he's a war veteran," said Sophie Abernathy, barely looking up from the book she read, sat under the large maple tree. A cool evening, summer breeze licked her arms and made the branches of the trees in the meadow all around her dance and sway like beautiful ballerinas. Sophie imagined the trees as dancers, donning tutus of sage green satin and sleeves of brown lace, their dark hair twisted into elaborately braided buns resembling nests, in which birds of red and blue would rest. 

Jonathan sneered at her, but let go of the rooster, which picked up its little legs and dashed as far from Jonathan as it could get. Down the grassy hills, it stumbled, until it disappeared towards the farm from whence it came; where it would likely tell a harrowing tale of its brush with death at the hands of the Silvena boy-menace to its chicken friends. 

"That's right, run away. Cursed bloody creature, it serves him right to screech like a heathen at five in the morning."

"That seems hardly fair. After all, we don't cook you when you bellow to have to do arithmetics," Sophie said, while she turned a page.

"That subject is from depths of Hell itself, sent to our world just to spite my accursed existence!" Jon said with mock terror.

"Hmm," hummed Sophie. "Yes, I'm sure Hell is filled with absolutely unmentionable things. Heathen chickens and arithmetic problems alike."

"It's enough to turn me out of my sinning ways," sighed Jonathan, taking a seat beside Sophie. "Though, perhaps that sounds much too unrealistic for me. I'll just never die."

"And miss the opportunity for the world to mourn the death of their most favorite hero while you smile up at them?" 

"Sometimes sacrifices must be made, young grasshopper," said Jon. "What're you reading?"

Sophie turned the book to reveal Romeo and Juliet, to which Jonathan responded with a dramatic groan. 

"You girls are all the same, what is the infatuation with sappy tragical romance?"

Sophie rolled her eyes so hard her eyes gave a small ache. "Perhaps we relish in romance books, for we have accepted the fact that no man will ever match the compassionate heroes about which we read."

"I am quite the compassionate hero, I will have you know," Jon said, puffing out his chest. 

"Oh yes, very much so," agreed Sophie. "In the same way as a bed of nails is compassionate, or King Henry the VIII."

"If you had any sense, foolish girl, you would know that I am indeed King Henry the VIII's great-great-great grandnephew," said Jon, tugging the end of one of Sophie's braids.

"How interesting, because last week I could have sworn you were also the great-grandnephew of Napoleon Bonaparte. My my, what a scandal is your family tree."

Jonathan was spared from answering as he picked a slice of watermelon from the basket at his feet and took a bite.

"You know watermelons are a symbol of love," he said, a mouthful of juice. 

"Are they? I can see why," said Sophie, drawing a handkerchief from her pocket and handing it to Jon, who had juice running down his arms and chin, "they do make people look ever so attractive."

He sneered at her as he hastily wiped his face. "But truly, they are said to be sweet as a lover's kiss." 

She looked distastefully at the fruit, which had now become the attention of a pair of flies.