Gladioli Wood

Chapter One- 

She was knee deep in dirt, and her once white dress resembled a burnt chocolate color now. She continued to sprawl throughout the field to study every nook of the plants.

Observing and picking.

Observing and picking.

She had been harvesting berries of all kinds since dawn. It was late in Spring and she was intent on plucking every piece of fruit.

The day was settling into the early evening and dark clouds began to sweep across the open skies. The clear blue was being swallowed by the darkness emerging from the East. A deep thunder reverberated.

She was only a half a mile away from the cottage.

Soil and sweat stuck to her skin. She was almost covered from head to toe. She could smell the filth and sweetness from rolling around in plants all day.

She stood, holding her wicker basket full of berries close, and swept her braided warm brown hair to the side. Light drops began to pelt her dirty, pale face.

She ran towards home and the sprinkles heavied into a flood. Mud began to splash her legs with the pounding of her steps against the ground. Her feet sunk into the ground and she threw her head back to taste the sky. Fresh water flew on her face, with her free hand she attempted to wipe off any remaining dirt. A drop landed on her tongue and her laughter filled the valley.

It was pouring. She could hardly see the old cottage a few feet away from her. Though a bit blurry, she recognized a plump figure outside the cottage. She heard his muffled voice through the rain.

Smoke from the chimney was fighting against the cool water. Leaving much room to the imagination, Gladioli raced towards the baked goods that would soon warm her empty belly.

Gaining speed under her, and the terrain below protesting, she urged further. Only a few good strides until home.

Her foot barked at the sudden hard stone below her, and her legs vibrated below her. She jumped under the little awning by the door as her father handed her a blue towel.

He took the basket from her hand and pinched her dark sleeve in his fingers. He sighed before carrying the berries inside.

He returned with a large sleeping gown and warm sweatpants. Since no one lived within three miles of them, he closed the door, and she changed into the clean clothes under that little porch.

She used the water from the rain to clean her arms, legs, hair, and face. She stepped back onto the porch, dried herself with the towel, and stepped into the pants and pulled the cotton top over her head.

Her hair was long and free. It began to curl in the dampness.

She cracked the dutch door open and the smell of cinnamon swept over her. She tiptoed to the little room on the other side of the sitting room she entered.

A small, wooden bed with two pillows and a gray quilt sat to the right of the door and her old, creaky mahogany dresser sat three feet to the left. There wasn't room for much else. Except for the round yellow rug she now wiped her feet on.

After the rug soaked up the rest of the moisture from her feet, she pulled out a huge pair of fuzzy socks from her top drawer and stuffed her cold feet into them.

She returned to the sitting room and sat next to the fireplace–which was burning. She landed on the creaky wooden floor with a thud, and sprawled out on the gold and sage carpet before settling close to the fire.