Leaves fluttered in the wind ...
by Joanne Taylor
I remember being a child on my own in the woods. I remember it was very windy and kind of cold but not cold enough to make me want to go all the way back. Not yet anyway. I remember walking along wondering if there were any bears close by and what I’d do if one suddenly appeared. I remember liking being all alone.
The leaves fluttered in the wind. They fell from the trees all around me. I walked on them like a carpet, a multi-coloured carpet of yellows, reds, and oranges. The wind blew them down at me from all directions and impulsively I laid down, as if I were making a snow angel. How long would it take before they covered me? I started to count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve …
The leaves smelled nice. Fresh. Clean. They drifted down and landed on my face. I breathed in deeply.
I forgot to count. The feeling of them falling onto my limbs was nice, much nicer than I had expected. I yawned a bit, laughed because a bit went in my mouth so I blew out and the leaf fluttered away. Another fell and another. I was pretty sure my body was covered now. I didn’t wiggle. I didn’t move. I felt strangely happy—a bear wouldn’t see me now.
Leaves obstructed one eye so I could see them fluttering on the trees only with my left. A few more minutes and both my eyes were covered. My eyelashes felt funny bristling against the leaves so I closed them. They smelled so clean and natural.
I sighed. How comfy it was here in the woods. Much better than my tent, which stank like moldy canvas and my teenage brother’s feet. I wondered, for a moment, what he was doing, and then fell fast asleep.
When I woke up everything was dark. But I remembered I was underneath a blanket of leaves so I wriggled my head up out of the pile I was under and realized the woods were still dark. The day had gone, it was night and the wind had died away, leaving only silence.
The air was cold now outside my leafy bed. I wondered if I should just lay my head back and sleep until morning. I was so tired. I cozied my head back in the leaves, not as fresh smelling now and slightly more crinkle-y, when I heard sudden hard breathing close by. It startled me. Just by its breath I knew at once it wasn’t a bear but something all the more frightening.
At the Cliffside Village Writer’s Group, the creative energy is high and the writing enthusiasm is contagious. To create their stories, they work in twenty minute bursts using prompts and a stream of consciousness process. For more information contact Genevieve Clovis at cliffsidevillagebooks@gmail.com.