Backwoods, A Lost Thought

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 30, 2018

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Submitted: July 30, 2018

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Backwoods, A Lost Thought

The house is made of wood painted dark chocolate brown. It would make a fine fake tree if the roof was green. The left side has three equally spaced windows, divided into twelve crispy white bordered panes. The kind of windows that can be described as elegant.  She looks to the left and thinks there is very little brush to get through, and she could make it to the road quick enough.

She looks ahead again and following the side of the dark brown house, she walks towards the curved waist-high stone wall. The stones aren’t uniform, some are larger and the colours vary, fading into each other; blacks, browns, beiges and greys. Three small steps, also made of stone, cut into the wall to let her access the grass. She looks behind and thinks she could still make it to the road quick enough. Taking a minute to look around she also thinks this is such a beautiful and nostalgic place. It’s the type of place that leaves you with a feeling that a secret world from your childhood is near, and you just need to find it.

She breathes in the place trying to take in as many earthy smells as she can, to later remind her of what it was like in the fall when the soldier leaves turned, left their tree kings and died. She breathes out to make sure she remembers when the fresh wind wasn’t too cold or strong; just cold enough to colour her cheeks and just strong enough so the dead dissenters dance past her feet.

She stands on the grass level which has its own stone path, weaving a way between the stately trees. The kings of the forest. These trees are the best of kings. They don’t need to fight to prove their strength nor take their neighbour down to grow. They stay in their spots and respect their borders. She’s not sure what type of trees they are exactly; spruce, beech, elm maybe, who knows? She only knows some are of the evergreen type because those never change. Although her favourites are the weeping willows, the most regal and delicate, she doesn’t know their name. She searches for their name in her memories but can’t find it. They don’t teach these things at school anymore.

She looks back again but doesn’t see the road anymore.


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