The Meadow

January 8, 2012
By Anna Rankin BRONZE, Indianapolis, Indiana
Anna Rankin BRONZE, Indianapolis, Indiana
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

It was a buttery autumn evening when Casie Summers walked up the long winding path that leads to her best friend Millie Bryan’s house. She passed the long blades of brittle, dead, unevenly trimmed grass, and the narley, twisted, rose bushes protruding from the sides the of the hard cement sidewalk leading to the from door. Even though she wasn’t even on the hard, cold stone porch yet, she could already smell the smoky, moldy scent of alcohol and cigarettes that was emanating from not only the house itself, but the grass, the bushes, and even Millie’s childhood swing set. To any stranger, Mr. Kuntingham was your average, run of the mill man. He had his priorities, but he was also a lowly drunk. Therefor he had no time to do petty things like keeping up his family’s reputation for being one of the most prestigious and classy families in all of Ashville, Pennsylvania. The reputation,apparently, does not apply to all of the family.
While Casie was deliberating this disturbing occurrence, she had barely enough time to register the fact that she had made it to the door before she felt a stinging pain along her nose and chin, she had ran into the door. Now this is not the first time that this has happened to Casie. She would often become so enthralled in a subject that she would completely lose her bearings and smack right into what ever happened to be in her way. Whether it be a long, coal colored lamp post or a short, very hard, green dumpster, something always managed to hit her in some way. As she pressed her elegantly painted pointer finger onto the little glossy black doorbell, she couldn't help remember the smell that seemed to explode from the house in waves as soon as you open the door.
As she predicted, as soon as the door swung open, creaking ever so slightly, Casie started gagging. The stench emitting off of that house was unbearable. It reminded her of every horrible thing she’d ever smelled multiplied by fifty. Casie quickly pretended that she has been over come with a coughing fit. She didn’t want to see Millie’s eyes brim with tears as she realized that she was gagging because of the essence of her 19th century colonial house. Just the sight of her on the verge of bursting into a gargantuan fountain of warm, salty tears. When she invited Casie in, she stepped in cautiously, dodging piles upon piles of trash and junk. You couldn’t see the floor, or most of the walls for that matter.
Millie led Casie to the backyard, which miraculously escaped most of the devastation from inside. They weren’t interested in the dry, mostly dead and decomposing flowers in the backyard. As they head to the back of the yard where the vegetation is so thick and hard to maneuver through, which is why they chose it. Peter could barely maneuver his own house, so he wouldn't even dream of trying to come back here. After squishing our bodies through the prickly thorns and misshapen branches, we finally made it to our destination. The meadow was a vast spans of land that seemed to be every color humanly possible. There were purple and ivory mini calla lilies floating on the glossy surface of a sparkling natural stream that flowed around the structure. The light shimmered off of the azure and turquoise liquid flowing downhill. Millie and Casie discovered this place one day when they were looking for Millie’s bangal Sissy. She’s is strictly house cat. She doesn’t have any claws and can’t catch a mouse to save her life, which would be the case if she ran away. As they followed the constant meowing of Sissy, they came upon a stream, it was about dawn when they stopped for a drink and the sun came out from behind its hiding place to reveal a magical sight. There were giant sunflowers blooming just outside the creek, along with giant lotus entwined to passion flowers hanging on vines, the tips of the stems just barely submerged in the clear crystal water.
In the very middle there was an old swing set with old white crackling paint and roses winding up the ancient posts holding the whole thing upright. It was magical and wonderful, their little bit of heaven. A place where Peter couldn’t find us and all others were oblivious too. So they started going there many times a day, but one faithful morning, when Peter was sober he caught sight of Millie making her way through the branches. Thinking she was trying to escape he ran after her, and when he finally found her, he dragged her back and forbid her from ever going near the enchanted woods again.
They tried to obey what Peter said but it was just too hard. They limited their visits to once a day, twice if they could manage it. So they decided, everyday after school, they would tell their parents that they had boring stamp club and spent hours in that meadow playing games and doing homework. They never knew if Peter saw them squeezing between the branches, but if he did he never mentioned it. And maybe they never would.

The author's comments:
I've always been fascinated by the idea of a perfect little forest utopia where you can go and be yourself. Never be bored or burdened by the outside world, only fascinated by what's in front of you.

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