[prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ ]
It was a brighter red than little Collin’s hair. An oak leaf, with all its points and harsh lines. I kept thinking that it should look cruel and harsh with its many planes and edges. But, like all in nature, it didn’t. It could very well have been a young boy on the precipice of manhood, all limbs and the like. Before the voice would drop, before the muscles would plump. There was a certain kind of charm in the potential for greatness.
But the leaf had fallen from the tree. Turned red and fallen. It would never grow into itself and become something great, something people could’ve stood for.
Never got the chance.