Hey guys, this is my first time posting (or writing, really) anything. I'll appreciate all comments & constructive criticism. I know this isn't my best work, but It is a goal of mine to get good, so critique away! Hopefully, if you're still reading this, you can see my progression as the story goes on.
One: The Rose
The willow and the duck were conversing one late summer afternoon in that way that only such creatures can converse.
"There must be at least fifteen unhappy moments for each happy one," Announced the duck, who was a very pessimistic creature. The duck looked toward the weeping figure under the willow.
"If your concerned for the girl," the willow replied, "I would not pity her. I can sense she is hungry, yes, but not the most compassionate of girls."
"Poppycocks! She's balling her eyes out! She must feel retched!" The duck examined the figure, "That girl looks harmless."
The little left over baby fat denied the girl any age over seventeen. Her hair was a dark red, almost auburn, which matched the sprinkling of freckles on her nose. Her eyes were a very large gray, blue, or green depending on the light (though reddish right now, what from all that crying). Her figure was satisfying, although she was shorter then most. Her skin, however, was what made her truly beautiful. It was all cream and roses, no scars and no birth marks, no deformities of any sort. Just soft, smooth, creamy skin.
"You are neither as old nor as wise as me, Duck. I can sense things that you cannot. She is a deceitful, self centered person," The willow, however old, was not as wise as it fancied. It hadn't realized that all willows were exactly the same. Willows are the nobility of empathy. The poor willow hadn't had any other willows planted near it to realize what wisdom truly means.
"How can you judge someone like that? She has done nothing to you!" The duck was a very stubborn creature.
"Humph!" So was the willow, "Well, for one thing, her buttocks are crushing my roots! In all actuality, though, I can just sense that she is feeling something that is selfish, immoral, determined, mischievous. I am a mess fretting over what she might to do me and to you," The willow was a well known neurotic.
"I am not go-" The duck was cut short. The door of the little cottage was creaking open, and the little old widow was stepping out. Both the duck and the willow adored her, she always gave the duck bits of bread and cheese.
The widow was hobbling toward the willow, her eyebrows furrowed and her smile sincere. She didn't have any bread or cheese. She crouched over the weeping figure and put her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Oh, dear," said the widow, "come with me and we'll get you a nice cup of tea and something to eat. Right out of the oven. You can explain everything to old Edna after you get something in that flat stomach of yours."
It wasn't till after the two went inside that the duck and the willow figured it out.
"Ha!" Gloated the willow (If it had a nose, it would have been pointed towards the heavens), "I knew it! Now, who got it right?"
The duck muttered something unintelligible.
The widow opened the window, poked her head out, and shushed them.
The one-room cottage was small and plain. There was another door, exactly like the first one, on the opposite end. The floors and walls were made of the same thing-decaying cedar. There was a small shabby bed in one corner covered by a fraying quilt. On the other side of the room, a small kitchen included three cupboards, an oven, a fireplace and spit, two counters, and a large collection of knives. A small two-person table was in the middle of the room. The table had a single rose carved on it.
All this was average and to be expected. What Tevora didn't expect, though, was the absolute silence. When she looked out the window onto the pond (which looked more like a swamp to her, ugly thing), she saw a frog's vocal sac inflate but could not hear any croaking. How Odd Tevora thought.
Tevora pushed it out of her mind, she could not let something so trifling distract her from her intentions.
She put on her big doe eyes (Tevora thought this made her look irresistible, but really she already had big doe eyes, so doing this made her look creepy. Extremely creepy, since they were bloodshot from all that fake crying.), and turned to the old woman, who was placing some food on the table.
"I've been searching for hours for food and help, you see my parents passed away from disease a few days ago and my little brother-oh he is very small- he has it now and I left him a half mile away in a cave and we really nee-" Tevora was cut off. She was a little t'd off, too. She had a beautiful performance planned that would have the widow begging for an encore.
"Now you start to eat up, I think I might have some herbs in my garden that, with a little hot water, will make your poor brother right as rain," She waddled off toward the back door.
Well, that was easy. When the coast was clear, Tevora sprung into action. She pulled out the sack that she hid in her cleavage in one motion. She grabbed the food that was on the table (Ooooh, nummy yummers, baked apple) and shoved it into the sack, then headed toward the cupboards. When the sack was filled up she quietly snuck out, leaving the cupboards half full.
Tevora could hear a squawking duck siren behind her, but kept running strait ahead. Her heart, head, stomach, even her feet hurt (Why hadn't I taken more sensible shoes? Oh. Right. These are my simply divine Gorna Rays from her spring collection).
A quarter of an hour later, the widow returned with herbs and a basket full of fruit. She walked very briskly, much unlike herself, up to her cottage where she peaked inside.
"Disappointing... disappointing," She whispered, walking up to her set of knives. She chose the one with the carved rose, looked it over twice, ran her wrinkled finger down the blade three times, and tapped it tap...tap...tap...tap... on the counter.
She then turned on her heal abruptly. She strolled out the door, past the duck and the willow, and paused in front of the rose bush.
The whole world seemed to stop as the old lady's eyes darted from one rose to another, carefully analyzing each thorn, stem, and petal of each rose. Her pupils contracted and expanded in rhythm. Her nostrils flared in rhythm to her pupils. She panted in rhythm to her nostrils. She stopped.
It was a rose as red as blood itself. It was acutely proportional, with a leaf on either side. It was not quite yet at its prime, the petals being only part way open. Even the due drops of early morning added to its beauty.
She cut it off. She went back inside. She set it on the rose carved table.
The world went on.