The Night - Original Writing

As he leaves, they notice that the leaves have all turned orange and the air is no longer warm. Every autumn thereafter, the trees at the Bailey farm stay green for a week longer than the trees to the north, and then change overnight. In the frost on the farmhouse windows the Baileys read the words, “See you next fall.”

However beautiful it is, though, the magic of fall is in its transitory nature. Leaves from green turn yellow, turn orange, turn red to brown - until they're on the ground. Trees strip down to almost nothing. Warm wind turns chilly until it's got teeth that bite. Put out your tongue to catch a leaf but by then, it's too late - turns out, you've caught a snowflake.

Hey, that looks like Katy, he squeals to himself, spotting her through the haze—or so he thinks. Buzzing in closer realizes that this leaf is just that—not his friend KatyDid. Fluttering back towards the tops of the trees, he stalls in mid air—unable to move.

Rion calmed from his night terror easily, and he and Percival went back to sleep. When morning arrived, Rion shot out of bed with a grin, full of his typical energy. He had no memory of his tears and screaming the previous night, which was just as well; the boy deserved peace after all the heartache he had weathered.

While I mournfully headed back with Brittany, I glanced back at the tree, noticing a few remaining leaves fall down to join the ones on the floor. My mind started to wonder again. I started to question motion of the leaves and other objects.

Lush red and orange leaves touched by morning dew fill the limbs of an old Oak tree, rustling as the wind slowly made her way by, teasing the edges of the leaves and tempting them to come with her. The weaker ones went, not realizing their fate, twirling in her presence, following as far as they could manage in the air, encased in feelings of happiness and freedom. Soon, however, the wind died down; causing the leaves to drop and crumble onto the ground. They couldn't express their feelings of remorse so they crumbled in on themselves, shutting out the wind. She came back at times, and some fell for it, the ones that hadn't learned their lesson, they followed her again. Each that did, were ripped to pieces. The tree, in the end, had been robbed.

It was a bleak summer’s evening with the shadows deepening on a path that ambled down between bitternut hickory trees and then cut sideways across a field of tiny green grapevines. There was a wind beginning, small gusts that rattled the fence posts and set the dandelions dancing in unison on the broad expanse of lawn. Rain spotted our shirts and glistened on our nylon backpacks.

The birds were singing a melancholic tune. But off by the distance, a Red Maple was working. Photosynthesizing in the sun was a young Red Maple. As the it is photosynthesizing, it is contributing to the carbon cycle. The carbon cycle is essential to the Red Maple’s life to which it is the source of its food and life. Then came a strong gust of wind that made its leaves surfing in the air. As the gust of wind passes, a bag is caught on its branch. As if the wind was a messenger, the tree knew what was coming.

After two days, surrounded by concentrated stillness, a thick fog released from the fields around the house. The earth’s exhale of summer surrendering to the cool night air of autumn. It rolled across the back road. By morning, the trees outside the kitchen were responding to the mist, kissing their branches. Black walnuts. Last to leaf out in spring, first to shed them in the fall. The first to accept this new

“Don’t say that babe,” Thom assures her, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. “I bet you’ll make the scariest plant there is!”

My feet shuffled through the hundreds of orange and red leaves covering the ground, but I paid no attention to them. They were normal, common, like the presence of grass in a field. They were just a part of my surroundings. All of my attention was focused upon myself, and getting my dog walked. This was a chore to me, not a leisurely stroll.

It was the time where the colour of the leaves starts to turn orange and yellow, where it gets chilly, where the leaves slowly starts to peel off the thin twigs of the trees. They were both lying there, looking up into the sky, sun beaming against their porcelain-like skin. Both as quiet as ever only the

The light reflected off of the green and yellow of the leaves and the trees, making the trees seem much larger than they normally would. Rustling of the leaves was the only sound that could be heard over Frisk’s breathing. The rays of the sun warmed their sweater. All that could be heard is the soft crunching of the leaves underfoot. The birds rustled impatiently as if waiting for Frisk to leave. Yet they still continued through the bulk of the woods, breathing quickly. Frisk looked at their hands shadows of leaves and flowers covering the warm light. The knuckles white still from the firm grip they held, small indents in the palm from their nails. Frisk took a deep breath, putting a small hand on their heart.

The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning

In a tumult of wind and rain, a hail of twigs and leaves thundered through the trees and tore the arching grasses out by the roots. The deer bolted and hid, quivering, in the darkest thickets. The sky boiled, and the younger saplings were bent almost to the ground. Even as the shadows bounded up the stalks and blades of weeping grass, and the soft plink of falling rain quickened to a constant hiss and sputter, the sun found its equal. A thousand stars came down to earth and unleashed their pent-up fury on that wood.