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Fall Writing Prompt Responses


The Smell of Fall

By Drew Hendrickson

The smell of Fall, O! So sweet.


It brings a tear to my eye, the smell of Fall,

the birds will leave, the leaves will fall, all while we experience the smell of Fall, vanilla, cinnamon, chai, and hot apple pies are things we love during the smell of Fall, friends, family, and strangers alike grow together and bond during the smell of Fall. Many have loved, many have lived, many have grown during the smell of Fall, The smell of Fall, O! So sweet, brings love, joy, and peace alike, all while we experience the smell of Fall.



Fall of ‘95

By Tom Pinkston

I made roasted onion and garlic soup

and baked bread to go with it.

I courted you with that bread

and I knew

that you knew

what it was

I was trying to do

- get in your pants -

it was true.

But there were more ways to it than just that

I can name them, one by one,

like the candles you burned.


The diesel engine of the passenger train

as it idled in the valley of the buildings downtown where we lived

in our musty old, second floor apartment

the one above the used book store.

The tiny coffee shop half a block up the sidewalk where we both worked part time.

Scones from the bakery on the corner.


A cool night’s draft seeping in through the cracks in the putty,

we undress each other and lay together to get warm - no heat in that old barn of a building.

You open

I test a soft, warm breath across the petals of the orchid you keep

you quiver

and beckon.

____


Another year.

We say, “There goes another, just like the others.”

It’s become stale,

a mold.

It’s not what we want for each other anymore.

We wanted to share

forever

like your mother’s mother’s one remaining teacup

filled with clean water

and the last gardenia.



By Dylan Roggeman

Autumn is a time of falling leaves and aging trees.

Slower bees and the first freeze.

But what I enjoy most of all,

are the scents that warm me through the Fall.

Wet piles of leaves decomposing

The sharpness of the air quickly nosing

Cinnamon and apple intertwined in loving embrace

Pumpkin spice smacking my face.

The smells are intense, like the wood of the fence

Outdoor scents are what make sense

Every kid should have the opportunity

To spend Autumn outside, leaves and the slide

Frozen grass and haunted hayrides.

I think you'll find the smell is reaal niiice.



By Kiersten Graves

I watch as a leaf falls slowly from a tree, fluttering in the wind.

It looks so peaceful and content following every leaf that has gone before it,

dying to make way for the growth of new leaves that will start to arrive when spring

gets here.

As of now, though, the trees will look barren for a while.

It’s been getting colder, and the sun has been hiding for a while. It has rained

for three days straight, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had rained for three

more.

However it didn’t, and the sun is out of hiding.

It would be hard to tell it was raining at all, if the petrichor wasn’t ligering.

Today feels alive, despite the fact I’m in a graveyard, and anything remaining

here is dead or dying.

With a bouquet of Aster flowers in hand, I make my way over to a familiar

tombstone.

I place the flowers on the dirt, tracing the letters carved into the stone.

Cynthia.

How I miss her.

She passed away just last autumn.

I remember it very well.

The aching sound of her voice as she pleaded to stay alive. The prominence of

fear in her eyes.

The surprise when she tumbled back and knocked her perfume bottle off of

the table, shattering into glass shards and leaving the smell of chemicals and

sandalwood soaked into the floor for weeks on end.

The silence after her heart stopped beating.

At first I recall the regret of knowing, but now I’m almost certain I never did it,

and perhaps something else had happened that led to her death.

But if it wasn’t me, then who could it be?

I feel a chill run up my spine.

Who could it be?


I look around the graveyard.

The air always feels a bit colder here, for whatever reason. Maybe it is simply

the shaking of trees against the wind that makes it all seem colder.

I stood up, collecting the old and dried roses I had placed at Cynthia’s grave

just a few weeks before.

Who else would it have been? It was just me. I was the only one there. The only

one with a knife. And the only one to watch her bleed to her death.

The wind kicks up, whispering past me like someone quietly telling a secret.

A secret indeed.

I move back and start heading towards the exit of the grave yard.

I can’t help but wonder if Cynthia will ever forgive me.

Assuming it was ever truly me to begin with.

Perhaps I will never know myself.

The memory haunts me just as much as the regret.

So long as no one knows, perhaps I don’t need to know, either.





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