This is the first chapter in a book I decided to write then lost among my unfinished stories. It will eventually become a collection of short stories but until then please enjoy the first draft of this story. Comments would be appreciated as well!
There was a day in a year, that is long gone from me now, when I was truly happy.
I was nearly six back then. It was the spring of 1998 and the snow had just finished melting away. The sun brought the flowers to bloom and the breeze warmed you rather than chilling to the bone. This was barefoot weather. The type of weather when the beauty of the world exploded in front of your eyes and you couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of running through the new spring grass and digging your toes in the dirt. But perhaps the most glorious thing was that it was the season of the wildflowers. The wildflowers grew all over, but deep within the woods, hidden from the tangled tree trunks and snaking creek waters was a secret place. The secret place was where the prettiest flowers rested their roots. The wildflowers thrived there and as you broke through the final tree line and took your first look at their magnificence your breath was stolen away. This place was magic; magic that can never be described accurately.
I do not have the image immersed in my mind. It has faded throughout the years, turned to little more than fuzzy memories. But the feeling has remained. The memory of the magic experienced is engrained in my heart. Most of the woods have been torn down to make room for developments. More houses for more and more people spring up like the wild flowers. The houses spring up as the wild flowers are torn from their soil and tossed away like trash. That is what human kind does. They take beauty and destroy it. We emulate only progress, and regret nothing more than what could have been. One day someone will find one lowly wild flower clinging to the brinks of its life, and think “My, what an ugly little weed.” Where I will gaze lovingly upon that fighter and cry over its forsaken brothers and sisters, praising that little plant for the magic it brought to my life; for the memories of a time where I was truly happy.
On a second note, my friend texted me a random jumble of words and phrases the other day which he claims are NOT under any circumstances a poem. I disagree. Let me know what your opinion is! ((it's posted below for all you dolts out there))
Grey geese fly
as the birds sing
I sink
down down
into the depths of addiction
Rebellion
At the cost of eternity
So in closing, the above is a poem. And I write stories that make very little sense. Oh and check out these spiffy stairs ^.^ CLICKY CLICKER THING
A bientot!
