Prompt: Leaves
Color swept slowly over the landscape, the leaves on the trees changing and falling to the ground, and dying the world. It was a sight Macbeth had missed in prison, he found to his surprise. There was something about the world's slow descent into slumber that put him at peace.
But this year, whenever he looked at the crimson leaves, waves of annoyance would sweep through him, the large abundance thereof making him rather irritable, indeed.
How strange.