By Pamela Hinshaw - Grade 12
Drops splattered on the ground, thudded against thick oak wood, and startled the other nearby trees, hitting everything with random precision. It was the type of rain that started slowly, but every drop felt heavier than the last, and in 10 or so minutes, those drops seemed determined to destroy everything they could.
The little boy in the red bucket hat approached the giant oak rapidly, with his stumbling little attitude beside him, holding three long strands of grass in his hand. He glanced up from its base, squinting as the water dripped down his soft face and into his eyes, before beginning to climb. His hands and knees under the dark, rich bark satisfyingly ached; the higher he got, the more his limbs burned, and the more his favorite striped blue and green shirt got streaked with dirt stains that his mom would surely have to wash later.
He had finally gotten himself to a specific branch. This branch seemed out of the ordinary from the others, as it was perfectly grand and jutting out at a direct 90 degrees from its trunk. Looking down, he took notice of his feet under the raw feel of the wood, and below at the ground that seemed miles away. The downpour hadn’t stopped; however, instead of heavy drops, it was now a constant stream, seeping into the bark, rustling the dark green leaves, as well as swaying the surrounding towering grass.
The little boy sat with an “Oof,” and hurriedly reached into his back pocket of his navy cargo shorts to grab his first piece of grass. The blade was felt between his small fingers, his red bucket hat tipping too low for him to see, before he swiped it back into position promptly. The grass was damp, and he could feel its miniature lines from the tip to where he ripped it straight from the earth. The little boy placed the blade between his fingers, holding it tightly between his thumbs. He placed his lips to it and blew.
All of a sudden, there was an ear-piercing whistle that sounded out past the gigantic oak tree he was currently sitting high up in, past the meadow of tall grass, and was swallowed by the rest of the surrounding forest. A second whistle chimed, then a third, until the little boy in the red bucket hat was practically out of air.
Once satisfied with this, the second piece was a bit of a struggle. His mom had taught him how to fold, twist, and tie a palm leaf into a cross, but the steps that he needed suddenly came to him jumbled. So he sat there, his tiny fingers fumbling with the strand, until an “Aha!” escaped his lips and ended up startling birds who took their leave from some other tree far away.
The cross was messy, not how his mom usually made it, but he smiled down at it in his hands, knowing she would be very proud of him. The right part of the cross was a bit longer than the left, and the more he looked at it, the more wonky it got. Nonetheless, it was enough, and when the little boy was finally done staring at its perfections and imperfections, he tossed both pieces of grass onto the floor, watching as they swayed with the wind just enough to land in two different places on the ground, which he could no longer see in the mix of green.
He took out his final piece of grass. It felt warm in his hands from the darkness of his damp back pocket. The wind picked up, and the rain had subsided into a drizzle. The trees shook their leaves, but the boy placed the last strand of grass onto his pointer finger, balancing it well. Goose bumps now started on his small form, the air feeling sharper than ever.
The third blade of grass suddenly caught the wind, and he watched it sway in a dance further and further from him and his red bucket hat as it slowly approached the floor. Following it with his eye, the little boy leaned forward to watch it land next to the trunk of the oak; he leaned further. His fingers subsequently got white from gripping the rough bark to keep him steady, and when the final wind ripped through the air, something in him shook. His mind blanketed into fear as he lurched towards the ground.
Then came a blackening silence.
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