I little something I wrote for Fiction class a couple weeks back.
The lady’s house sat alone, down a dirt road in the middle of a rolling field. Her lawn consisted of dazzling yellow dandelions that were blooming in full. In her garden were fruit trees and climbing Romano beans, every kind of tomato, numerous vegetables ripening in the warm summer sun. Off to the side of an octagon cedar gazebo was a particularly noticeable raspberry bush.
Behind her porch was a single stone path that ambled straight through corridors of lavender, chamomile and an assortment of mint. It met a small koi pond that had blooming lilies floating on its surface.
The dress she had on was silk, very fluid and perfectly white like fresh snow, or perhaps a swan’s wing. The skirt was full length and golden ribbons served as a belt and trim to the neckline and hem. Her mahogany hair had been curled and hung in long loopy tendrils past her shoulders to her mid back. She looked in a word stunning, and yet …
She invited the gentleman in and showed him her cottage. It was hand built of stones and bricks, with wooden rafters from which there were thousands of scented leaves and sprigs drying. There were large glass windows which let in the moonlight and stood open to let in a gentle breeze tickling the Scottish Lace Curtains. Her bookcases were filled with knowledge, adventure and mystery. A river rock fireplace took up a wall of the kitchen, a large stone basin stood next to it.
The lady had counters of polished blonde oak, and cabinets full of dishes, some brightly colored, some of simple clay, all of her hand. She smiled at him and produced an old copper pot, which was filled half full and set over the stove. She turned on the burner as she rolled fresh Moroccan mint and buds from the lavender and set them afloat in the water. After it had boiled, she strained the moss colored liquid into two simple clay mugs, and lit a candle ….
“Where is this place?”
“You’re only dreaming”