Gusts blew the leaves in circles, making a tunnel of reds, oranges and browns. The gust of wind bit into your flesh leaving its marks upon you, a chill ran up your spine making the hairs on your arms stand to attention in fright.
Autumn was here, but Winter wasn't close behind. The early nights and later mornings, the leaves falling to their deaths onto the hard mosey ground below.
A carpet of rich leaves, crunched underfoot, the gust of wind howling a chilling song of mourning.
YOU ARE READING
A Story a Day...
Short StoryI am going to challenge myself to write a piece of prose or poetry from a word that I have picked at random :)
