Intricate veins spanned out, over the faded maroon, of the Autumn leaves she had clutched in her smooth and youthful hands. At Seventeen, Chloe was by no means ugly but she had never been the girl to get the guy. Time and again her round, brown eyes and her soft, cherry blossom lips had failed her, failed to lure - to ensnare - the promise of love from the skinny, shy boy who may have smiled a second longer than the others, the football player who asked for some gum, that one time... a while back or the artsy boy in her Lit class who would rather coat his skin in patterns, lacking both rhyme and reason, than listen to Mrs Earnshaw's speech for a minute longer.
On this day however, as patchy leaves rained down around her head like an asteroid shower and she squealed in delight for once, she was not thinking of kisses and her quaint little townhouse in London, she became something else. Her father was already scooping up the next handful of dusty fragments, when she launched her attack; Flying forwards, she thrust the leaves in his direction, glee shining in her eyes as she fell into him and sunk onto the floor against his legs.
As the sun's presence began to dull in the sky, Chloe thought retrospectively about her earlier unwillingness to clear out the garden, it seemed that there were more leaves than before and bitter frost was nipping at her heels like an over eager Dachshund. Her smile still stuck to her face even then, this had been the best day for her in a while and the darkness slowly enveloping the ether would not take away her joy, not now.
YOU ARE READING
Not Cringy Title
FantasyI don't often get the urge to write, it's a specific mood I have to be in to want it. I really do love literature, plays such as The Crucible (Arthur Miller) specifically. I'd love some advice on my writing, always wanted to ask for it before but do...
