“GD, GD, GD,”stamping her foot in frustration. Ripping off the cloth gardening gloves revealed another blister. “Stupid parents. Nobody else’s has some moralitical, politicalizing dumb reason for not getting a landscaping crew.”
So, she was out in the backyard, AGAIN, with a space-aged rake that still got leaves stuck on it’s spines. Two old thin wood round hampers to load with leaves. Then drag to the compost pit, dump in the leaf zone. “I’m dead. I’ve died. This is eco-green-tree-hugging-hell.”
She glared up at the maple that grew above where she stood, flexing her back, swinging her arms before going back to her rake.
A few rays caught the burnt orange of fall. A sunspot flame of colour. A leaf detached gracefully from it’s branch, beginning to waltz downward in the almost still autumn afternoon air.
“Cool,” she said, reaching for her I-phone to take the leaf’s selfie.
flash fiction: 148 words
Smashing Pumpkins: 2 versions of “Burnt Orange-Black”