I began to wander off a lot from the age of nine, allowing myself to go places even when I was told not to. One day on my usual walks, I came upon a finding that led me to the conclusion that the world was a discovery book and I only had to have the courage to turn the pages. That day, I had wandered off after being told by my mama to stay put. I sauntered into thick trees that took the shape of humans with their branches spread out wide as though in greeting. I climbed old-looking rocks that wore smiles and twinkles. After some minutes of meandering, I reached a bubbling brook and crossed it only to discover a place my nine-year-old mind could only describe as wonderland. Ahead of me lay a stoned pathway to a blue-roofed gigantic thatch house. The house looked magnificent, like a dwelling for royals. All about were little thatch houses of varied colours with goats grazing outside them. The environment was serene except for the occasional chirping birds and whispering butterflies. I got bewitched upon seeing the tallest women I had ever laid eyes on emerge from some of the houses. They all were on white soft cotton materials from head to toe. Their ears shot out from their headwraps as though in an attempt to kiss the sky and then tell it a secret. These women were olive-skinned with large heads and on their lips shone the deepest shade of black I had ever seen. When one of them smiled at me, stars came down from the sky to reside on her face. More women came out of the houses and headed towards a wide-mouthed well. They surrounded it and took turns fetching something from it. It was liquid, only it wasn’t water.
The brook babbles, rolling and stumbling along, with all the grace of a growing boy with limbs bigger than his balance, stopping and pooling at cool rocks or strange bugs, before rolling back and rushing forward
Ann of Green Gables was inspired by brooks running through yards. I imagine her skipping gayly through the grass and dipping her toes in the cool water and laughing along with the music of the water tripping over rocks.
Valerie
Brook.
The water stream thing, and the name.
Brook Shields.
Brook behind a childhood friend’s house. We walked along it once and found goldfish. We were giong to capture them, but then someone came out of his house and said they were his. He put them there, in that section of the stream. I’m glad he noticed us. In retrospect, he should have put up signs or walls or something more protective for his fish.
NQ
The brook formed the boundaries between her field and the neighbor’s field. Sometime, in the far past, far enough that no one can remember what happened, they haven’t talked to each other for years. Even if people have a version of the story, it changes from person to person.
I began to wander off a lot from the age of nine, allowing myself to go places even when I was told not to. One day on my usual walks, I came upon a finding that led me to the conclusion that the world was a discovery book and I only had to have the courage to turn the pages. That day, I had wandered off after being told by my mama to stay put. I sauntered into thick trees that took the shape of humans with their branches spread out wide as though in greeting. I climbed old-looking rocks that wore smiles and twinkles. After some minutes of meandering, I reached a bubbling brook and crossed it only to discover a place my nine-year-old mind could only describe as wonderland. Ahead of me lay a stoned pathway to a blue-roofed gigantic thatch house. The house looked magnificent, like a dwelling for royals. All about were little thatch houses of varied colours with goats grazing outside them. The environment was serene except for the occasional chirping birds and whispering butterflies. I got bewitched upon seeing the tallest women I had ever laid eyes on emerge from some of the houses. They all were on white soft cotton materials from head to toe. Their ears shot out from their headwraps as though in an attempt to kiss the sky and then tell it a secret. These women were olive-skinned with large heads and on their lips shone the deepest shade of black I had ever seen. When one of them smiled at me, stars came down from the sky to reside on her face. More women came out of the houses and headed towards a wide-mouthed well. They surrounded it and took turns fetching something from it. It was liquid, only it wasn’t water.
The brook babbles, rolling and stumbling along, with all the grace of a growing boy with limbs bigger than his balance, stopping and pooling at cool rocks or strange bugs, before rolling back and rushing forward
Ann of Green Gables was inspired by brooks running through yards. I imagine her skipping gayly through the grass and dipping her toes in the cool water and laughing along with the music of the water tripping over rocks.
Brook.
The water stream thing, and the name.
Brook Shields.
Brook behind a childhood friend’s house. We walked along it once and found goldfish. We were giong to capture them, but then someone came out of his house and said they were his. He put them there, in that section of the stream. I’m glad he noticed us. In retrospect, he should have put up signs or walls or something more protective for his fish.
The brook formed the boundaries between her field and the neighbor’s field. Sometime, in the far past, far enough that no one can remember what happened, they haven’t talked to each other for years. Even if people have a version of the story, it changes from person to person.