Evening Frost

They sat on opposite sides of the bench. His gloved hand crept across the slats and she tucked hers inside her pocket. They fixed their eyes on the periwinkle night swallowing the sky. He wiped a puddle of water from between them whilst she scratched flakes of ivory paint from the metalwork.

“We don’t have to come up here.” He noticed the mud clinging to his trainers and scraped it off.

“We do.” She hugged her duffel coat tighter. “We always do.”

“Then stop ignoring me.” He scooped up a rock from underneath the bench, and chucked it at a tree. A fountain of birds erupted from the leaves and scattered away, heading across the sun and behind the hills.

“Don’t you come, then.” She gazed out at the cornfields, the stalks swaying as one mass. “But I’ll be here.”

“And I’ll be with you.” He stared at the daisies, tiny trampled flowers littering the grass. And neither spoke until they donned their hats and rucksacks and strode down the hill.

Author's Note

I'd love it if you could help by reviewing :) I'm grateful for anything, but constructive criticism is best.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is well written with nice description. But I don't see much point. Perhaps you should consider making it longer and defining the relationship between these two.

[Fifi]

Thanks :) I try to write a 150-250 word story every day, so it isn't supposed to be very long. I might try to work on a longer one every few days though, if it doesn't really go anywhere.