Day 29: The Yellow Leaves

The first time the leaves changed colour, people panicked.

Up until that point they had always been green, fresh. Had sprouted fruit consistently, had looked as vibrant as the grass they grew on. Leaves were always green. They always would be. Just as the sun was always blue and the sky a light pink. Trees were life itself, the secret to their breathing. It had been worked out long ago, that without them, without plants or nature, there would be nothing.

Nothing could exist without green. The colour of life.

That too was a theory passed down from generations over fires. A story that no one dared refute. They were at their strongest in the forests, and felt weakest in the desert and other places void of life. It made sense then, to suggest that leaves and stalks and plants were intertwined with the concept of breathing. That trees were rooted to the earth in ways they could never be, that even the fruitless plants provided air itself.

So when, after years of nothing but green, those first trees turned yellow, there was uproar. A fear spread around the forest as every creature began to worry for their lives. Without green how could they breathe? Yellow was sickness, was the essence of disease and all their plants were now infected.

Scouts were sent out, to look for something new. Visited other clans in other forests, other creatures who they hadn't spoken with in centuries, searching for a patch of land that was still living. But all around them was death, the yellow infestation had spread everywhere.

People began to get sick as the air grew colder, and the leaders theorised that perhaps the greenery had also controlled the temperature.

Eventually the leaves began to fall off entirely, and the world became chaos. Rumours spread that they didn't have long, that when the last leaf fell it would be a collective last breathe. They huddled together at night for warmth, light fires and sang songs hoping to cure the trees through the power of words.

But that last leaf fell mid verse.

They all huddled close to each other. Eyes shut, as if none of them could bare to witness the last breathe of their loved ones around them.

Until the youngest of the clan opened his eyes, too little to understand the science of the trees and life, he took a deep breathe in, and out he blew a puff of smoke. With a giggle he tapped his mother on the shoulder.

She gasped when she saw it, the white fumes of smoke. They all began to try it. Sharp. Breathing in without leaves was sharp and harsh. But breathing out, the lightness of the smoke, the air that seemed to exist in their very own hearts. It was magic.


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Friends it is currently 11:47pm and I should have been in bed a while ago, but sat for a very long time trying to work out what to write for today. It's strange how inspiration will hit you at different times and in different ways. This kind of thing is what I like to call soft-inspiration, where you are randomly inspired to write but it's nothing you are overly attached to. A rhythm, flow, or plot will just appear in your head and suddenly you feel yourself writing and writing until the end.
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It's different from being completely inspired to the point where your heart and head spend most of the day thinking about writing, dreaming how you are going to complete the scene, what words to use and how to use them. As though your body is desperate to write, to finish what you can't completely finish without pen, paper or a laptop.


This was Day 29 of my NaNoWriMo project where I am writing a new short story every day in November! Originally all of these were posted to instagram, but the 300 word limit was a little confining so I've come here to post everything I've written and a little bit more!