Storm Marches was
my third piece of flash fiction written for this class, and I’m quite proud of
the story. It tells the tale of a lost soul looking for love, and while not
intentionally written as a children’s story, the piece certainly has a
child-like tone. I feel that this piece highlights my ability to use
descriptive language. Indeed, it was almost too flowery initially, meaning I had
to do a lot of editing; certain sentences ran on and on, while others contained
awkward phrases that needed rewording. Many were repetitious in language and
word choice, leaving nothing implied, so I think that Storm Marches benefited greatly from being revised for this portfolio.
Storm Marches
There once was a
small fox named Grass Stone, tiny as a housecat with pointy ears like a dog.
Grass Stone's ears were dipped in black ink, as were his paws and nose, but the
rest of him was orange like clay. He had a skinny tail that wasn't quite as
fluffy as he'd like it to be, and wide eyes.
Grass Stone lived
in an old, abandoned farmhouse near a road. He hadn't always lived there; a big
park full of pine trees and large rocks was his first home. He had lived there
with his mother and siblings, until they all got bigger and went their separate
ways. Some days Grass Stone sat in the farmhouse and wished he could be with
his litter again, curled up in a ball with lots of people who loved him.
Sometimes a
butterfly flew through the barn. Grass Stone liked to yip at it in the hopes
that it would come down, all orange and black and spotted; maybe it would even
stay with him for a night or two. The butterfly never did, nor the birds that
made their home in the rafters for weeks at a time. The birds would make little
eggs that became little birds, which grew and grew until they flew away again.
Grass Stone curled
up in the old hay every night and shut his eyes. He didn’t always go to sleep
with a full belly. There was a pain in his chest most nights; it didn’t hurt like
the scars from his fight with the stray cat. It was a strange pain, one that
Grass Stone didn't know how to push away.
One day Grass Stone
woke up to find the orange, black, spotted butterfly resting on his knows. He
immediately caught his breath, not wanting to disturb the little creature and
scare it away. But Grass Stone was still a young, wild thing, and he couldn't
stay still for long. Before the current family of little birds started
chirping, Grass Stone had sneezed, and the butterfly burst into the air as if
thrown up by a hurricane. It flitted away from Grass Stone, out of the
abandoned farmhouse through a hole in the weathered planks. Grass Stone trotted
after it, whining apologetically.
He found himself
slipping between the large, creaky doors. Had the butterfly been sleeping?
Maybe it wanted to stay with the fox, it was just frightened by the loud noise
of his sneeze. Grass Stone just had to let the butterfly know he hadn't sneezed
on purpose, that was all.
The morning light
made his pupils grow like sunflowers. As he made his way through the tall grass
surrounding the farmhouse, Grass Stone could feel dew pass from the stalks to
his fur. It felt wet and clean, like a special bath. He thought of his mother,
keeping him safe and keeping him clean.
Up ahead, the
butterfly made a loop around a telephone pole. Its pursuer tried to keep up,
panting. The sun and the moon were both hovering in the sky on either side of
the insect.
At some point, Grass
Stone realized his paws were dashing over hard, black ground. He stopped and
looked down at the road, only to discover that it wasn't his road, not the one outside his old,
abandoned farmhouse. It was wider, and a red car was racing towards him. Grass
Stone yipped in fear and rushed across the remainder of the street, arriving on
the other side just in the nick of time. The car sent out a rush of wind that
buffeted his clay-colored fur like the breezes in his farmhouse field.
Safe on the other
side, Grass Stone was free to turn his head and look back at the wide road,
black as night with markings as yellow as a dandelion and whiter than the moon.
Splatters of rain gushed out of the road's surface , even as more struck .
Grass Stone, unsure of where he was, turned around and looked for the
butterfly.
He saw a green hill
spotted with powdery white flowers. It sloped down into a flowing creek,
bordered by dark brown dirt on one side and a small clay cliff on the other. A
grove of oak trees protected part of the creek from the storm brewing above. Grass
Stone tentatively made his way through the flowers and grass and rain to the
creek, where he bent his head and slowly lapped up the water. The surface,
protected by tree branches, was smooth, so Grass Stone could clearly see movement
reflected in it. He looked up in surprise and fear.
On the small clay
hill were three foxes. They were all very wet, but they stood up straight,
their eyes shining with curiosity. One of them, whose ears were angled a bit further
back than most foxes, crept towards the edge of the hill and looked down at
him. Grass Stone's eyes closed shut in fear.
He didn't hear the fierce
growl he expected, but instead a soft cry. His eyes opened up, and he saw the
two other foxes side by side with the first. They all watched him and whined.
Grass Stone didn't understand until he saw the orange and black butterfly
flapping above their heads. His tail began to wave as he splashed across the creek
and up the clay hill, where the other foxes started to yip happily.
