leaf - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The leaf was a green hand of splendid shiny skin, as if the perfect alien had reached out in gentle friendship. It was as supple as paper, perhaps more so, and in the strong light it was as magnificent as any stained glass.
The leaf reminds me of a church window, of the glass that glows so brightly on sunlit days. I trace the veins with one finger, following nature's architecture from stem to tip. I lift it to the light and let my eyes travel over it. So broad to catch the light, so thin to let the air flow in and out, and just like the church - built a "brick" at a time into a beautiful part of life.
In the dawn light there is a red leaf on the tile. One of Darwin's treasures, he'll be missing it. I wonder how he's getting on with his new mother. I pick up the leaf, so delicate, vulnerable to even the slightest wind. But he could make this last months, rearranging it on the tile, creating his mosaic pictures. I smile but it feels cold to me, as does the bank. I thought without him I would just snap back into my old ways, and perhaps I will given time. Before I know what my hands are doing I'm applying sun block, unsure of why I'm risking a daytime venture, but I have to take this leaf to Darwin. Now.
In the nighttime I can forage Darwin some of the beauty of the day. From the park I bring flowers, leaves and sticks, things that he cannot imagine unless he sees them. In truth they are better than the plastic toys in the suburban homes and they are far easier to obtain. Now that spring has come the leaves are brilliant green, soft and delicate. Darwin pulls a chair to the wall and scales it with a maple leaf in hand, then holds it to the glass. He squeals and almost looses his balance as the light makes it glow. He marvels at his newly invented "stained-glass window," tracing the shape with his finger, over-shooting at every point. Then he turns to wave it at me and this time he really does loose his balance. His tumble is almost slow-motion but I'm too far away to be of any good. I'm expecting screaming but none comes. He's still and I just know he's dead. Then he rolls over still clutching the leaf and I begin to breath again. "It weef! It gween bwight," he smiles.
The leaf that tumbled before her was a red maple, cast away by its wintry boughs to the air that sapped Gina's heat. It twisted against the unseen air, gravity dragging it to it's final resting place. So alive, yet dead, like Papa. Without that caseload he was as good as gone. She tuned back toward the house, without her furs she felt the chill with more bitterness than one of the homeless. Suffering was not her sort of thing. With the leaf already forgotten she had begun to devise a new plan to eliminate the source of her difficulties.
Gina paused, reaching with bangled arm toward a piece of art. It was a leaf skeleton, its green flesh eaten away to leave only a lacy cellulose network - fragile, natural, beautiful in its own way. Her eyes travelled over it's ovoid shape, thrown into sharp relief by the deep plum background. She had already activated her pocket alarm and her security team would be there in a few more seconds to implement her extraction. An overeager shop assistant approached her, "it's cherry - from the first tree planted in Vancouver in the 1930's." Gina sighed.
"It's a common leaf soaked in washing soda and stuck on a cheap off-cut of a fabric chosen the appeal to the masses." The assistant stayed for a few moments, her brain digesting the reply, then she turned on her heels and left, her all-day-smile sagging somewhat.
The leaf that clung to the sole of his shoe would jail him for twenty years. It was common enough, there were hundreds just like them even on the sidewalk outside the precinct. Back in the 1930's the city had planted many cherry trees, and every October the streets were awash with the leaves. Like all the others it was a pointed oval with serrated edges. Like it's brethren it had recently transitioned from deep summer green to sunny hue that defied the gathering cloud and increased rain of the season. Luckily for Mac it had been dry these past few days. He peeled it from the bottom of his suspect's shoe. The bottom had been orange as expected, but the top bore what looked like dried blood, it would be easy enough for the crime scene investigators to say if the blood was still wet when applied. He added the leaf to an evidence bag and celebrated with a pear drop.
In the stack of envelopes was one curiously unlabelled, the same as any random piece of junk. He slid it open nonetheless. All it contained was a simple leaf; deep summer green, finely divided and lacy. It was almost triangular, broad at the base with the tip tapering to an almost point. He knew better than to touch it. Pushing backwards on his chair coasters Mac exhaled slowly, took out his phone and sent a picture to the crime scene investigators. After two minutes his phone buzzed. Poison Hemlock. Conium maculatum. By itself it was harmless, but it had to viewed as a threat.
Robin surveyed the multicolored leaves in his fall collection. He had so many beautiful shades. He had gold, deepest red, brown and every shade of green. He ran his fingers along their edges, some were serrated like a wood saw and others were smooth like a puddle. The maples had five points like the fingers of his hand, but the holly was curved and glossy with sharp little spines. The oak leaf was lobed like a jelly monster and the willow was long and thin like the feather of a bird. When he held them up to the light they seemed to glow like the stain-glass window in church. He arranged them into the shape of a 'fall mythical beast' and glued them to his paper.
The leaf was a murky green. It hung floppily on its long twig. It smelt oaky and felt velvety. It was a curved leaf like a pickle but more like a cucumber.