favorite places to write as a child

writing prompt taken from https://redravine.wordpress.com/2007/05/30/100-writing-topics/ using a random number generator for the challenge.

Also take a look at my life as fresh fruit.  Also taken from redravine.

On a final note, I didnt really write much as a child, actually I disliked any sort of writing with a passion. So instead I wrote a fictional passage that stuck to the prompt.

*********************

Where the Sun Whispered.”

The sun reached through the window, stretching across the classroom floor to just barely warm my arm.  On my desk was the shadow of the class sunflower just slightly angled as if it was ready to take the lead in a waltz with its’ leaves stretched out as arms.

I kept my head down as Mrs. Peterson concluded her lecture on local landforms as I pretended to scribble notes.  The rest of my classmates sat with their backs straight, faces forward, legs shaking, and with anxious arms ready to grab their backpacks.  They put the clock behind us on purpose.  I always knew it was almost time to go because of the sunflower.

The bell sounded, and the class erupted in speech as usual.  I waited a few moments to pack up.  People are always in a rush to leave.  I always waited to see if the sunflower ever found it’s dancing partner until the buses pull up blocking the sun.  It never does, but he waits.  Everyday.

The walk to the bike rack was always an exciting time, because I knew it could take me to my favorite place.  I found it on one of my first days at this school.  I was trying to find a shortcut home, and took a route past the concrete roads.  No fences, no signs.   The entryway consisted of a few bulky bushes with just a tiny gap enough for me, and my bike to fit through.  I would have never found it had I not fallen off my bike as I tried evading a squirrel one day.  Just beyond the bushes were trees who’s tops I could just barely see, but there was one special tree.  The one with hanging moss that changed colors throughout the year.

You could hear the chanting of the brook just before reaching the entryway.  Just past the bushes was a fairytale.  The trek along the path was filled with wonder, and fresh misty air.  Somehow there was a path; I never figured out how it got there, and I never saw anyone else here before.  It was a small dirt path which seemed to separate the grass as I passed.

Frogs skipped across the calm brook without a care, they were always moving.  The song of birds always filled the background regardless of the season.  Large stones rested on the side of the path untouched by anything but bright green and lush moss.  Flowers and shrubs placed themselves neatly throughout the area.  I had always imagined forests to be only green, but there were colors.  Lots, of colors.  Purples on the side of trees, yellow reflections off leaves, clear blue water strolling along the brook path, and reds of all shades among the different flowers.

It was always nice to take it slow.  It was always nice to be here.  The tree with hanging moss was just a small distance from the entrance.  My favorite was when the mosses were white.  The tree always seemed to welcome my bike.  It rested perfectly along its side as the moss hung just slightly above it as if they were protective arms.

The sun peeked through the moss outstretched branches of leaves.  It always pointed at my seat on a large stone by the tree.  It was my chair.  I dropped my bag, and pulled out my writing book, and took a seat on the stone where the sun whispered through.

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