She gently cooled her lavender tea before taking a generous sip. When she finished, she looked up to spot a boy in the distance. Her father assured her that their new house would invite wonder from the villagers of Bosque. Her opal eyes shimmered as the boy cautiously approached her.
The monologue cut her off. Slowly her face darkened. She waited until the orange flicker lit up every window. Smoke rolled from under the carved door as she lay down the phone and walked away.
[No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.]
Her eyes were the fathoms-deep blue of an unforgiving sea, and they spoke of centuries.
Chimney smoke curled against the wind and snaked toward the ground. Its tendrils, dense and chill, sank their claws into the crevices of nearby houses and trees.
In her hands, she cradled a jar of dirt. To the oblivious onlooker, it seemed like little more than a pile of rocks and earth. To the girl, though, it was everything.
“I’ll miss you,” she whispered to the surrounding forest. “But you’ll always be with me, wherever we go.”
(No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.)
Togetherly, both tree and house stretched and yawned, but did not move their feet, the rooty steps, on which the little girl sat. They fluttered their canopies and windows to blink away their sleepiness, and opened the front doors and trunk knots, both saying,
Seven branches zoomed from the arch above her head, wrapping themselves around her as leaves of tender green grew at the speed of a time lapse, adding their caresses to the hug. She giggled, the house shaking with her. Together, like a choir, they sighed “it’s good to be home.”
In her hand, a mirror that reflected back at her the sad smiling faces of her mother, her grandmother and all the women that came before her, gilded in gold, an heirloom that she has held on to for years.
(No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.)
As she looked up at the sky her little face reflected an anxious anticipation, as if she were waiting for something to happen. Far above clear white clouds drifted silently across the blue dome of the sky., where a flight of birds traced a delicate line over the far mountains.
(My 50 Words)
She gently cooled her lavender tea before taking a generous sip. When she finished, she looked up to spot a boy in the distance. Her father assured her that their new house would invite wonder from the villagers of Bosque. Her opal eyes shimmered as the boy cautiously approached her.
Lovely challenge. Here is my hat being tossed into the ring:
Shiny red shoes followed the girl out the door, coming to rest beside her.
“One for the day ahead and one for the friend unmet.”
The girl recited, each shoe upon her feet.
“We will be late if we don’t hurry,” the shoes replied.
“To the graveyard then?”
“Where else?”
Her phone rang. The girl sighed.
“Yes dad, I’ve done what you asked and I.....’
The monologue cut her off. Slowly her face darkened. She waited until the orange flicker lit up every window. Smoke rolled from under the carved door as she lay down the phone and walked away.
Hi Bertus, as this is just 50 words I'm going to assume you are submitting this as a part of my 50 words? Just confirming as I add you to my list 😊
Yes, couldn't help myself....high contrast with your prompt, I know....
[No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.]
Her eyes were the fathoms-deep blue of an unforgiving sea, and they spoke of centuries.
Chimney smoke curled against the wind and snaked toward the ground. Its tendrils, dense and chill, sank their claws into the crevices of nearby houses and trees.
Slowly, she smiled. Her time had come again.
(My 50 words)
In her hands, she cradled a jar of dirt. To the oblivious onlooker, it seemed like little more than a pile of rocks and earth. To the girl, though, it was everything.
“I’ll miss you,” she whispered to the surrounding forest. “But you’ll always be with me, wherever we go.”
(No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.)
Togetherly, both tree and house stretched and yawned, but did not move their feet, the rooty steps, on which the little girl sat. They fluttered their canopies and windows to blink away their sleepiness, and opened the front doors and trunk knots, both saying,
“Good morning,” to the little girl.
(My 50 words)
Seven branches zoomed from the arch above her head, wrapping themselves around her as leaves of tender green grew at the speed of a time lapse, adding their caresses to the hug. She giggled, the house shaking with her. Together, like a choir, they sighed “it’s good to be home.”
(MY 50 WORDS)
In her hand, a mirror that reflected back at her the sad smiling faces of her mother, her grandmother and all the women that came before her, gilded in gold, an heirloom that she has held on to for years.
And now no one ever will know which came first
(No one knew what came first; the tree or the house. And no one had ever seen anyone living there until early one morning when smoke could be seen coming from a chimney.
A little girl, no older than seven, walked out the front door and sat on the steps.)
No witch. Sighing, she muttered the rhyme.
"Baba Yaga, Baba Yaga,
In your chicken footed house,
Baba Yaga, Baba Yaga,
Rooted down on greenland ground.
Baba Yaga, Baba Yaga,
Listen to my plea this day,
Baba Yaga, Baba Yaga,
Make those nasty children pay!"
Then the door creaked open again.
Ooh I like this new approach... I'm sure I'll join in - it might even be today? 😊
my fifty words.
As she looked up at the sky her little face reflected an anxious anticipation, as if she were waiting for something to happen. Far above clear white clouds drifted silently across the blue dome of the sky., where a flight of birds traced a delicate line over the far mountains.