Toward the end of her high-strung maintenanced life she fell to finding trees. She looked and looked and remembered from the days when she had loved oaks and beeches and not purses and dresses. She smelled the pungent firs and felt the leafy plums, smiling her silly smile all th while. Her white hair grew long and became a brain, snaking down her back, and when she cut it she gave it to her trees as a parting gift (though she didn't know it was). Soon, though, she grew tired of these trees as well and she retreated back inside to grasp longingly at the taffeta prom dresses she once wore, low cut and pinched in. Why do you not plan trees any longer? she was asked. Well, I'm tired of them she'd say. Her hair dispersed into nests and then the winter hid it and when the spring came again she wished to feel the trees. But her own winter caught up to her and all she could do was gaze with wanting. She died that summer and her last words were Those trees are never going to be understood. I'm glad I paid them little heed.
Author notes
A freewrite for English class. I don't know if it qualifies as anything other than that, so constructive criticism is welcome and wanted.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Good one Nienna...
I like it. Its makes me think, think of the woman who thought of the trees. I like it and I like the ideas in it. I would be intrested to see what comments your teacher wrote on this one. Its intresting, in a great intresting form. Good job. Your as good with stories as with poems.
-Colin Night -
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Wow, thanks, Colin. I was never told I had a comment on this...! I appreciate it. It was never actually graded I don't think, kind of a shame. I have problems writing stories, though, I'll stick with poetry.
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I like it-stick with the stories as well. I rather like them.
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