The burst of colors were a last swirling fling before the trees went into the final cycle.
It was an order Kirby accepted—birth, growth, decay, rebirth.
The Art of Deception
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The damp air, fat as a soaked sponge, the flickers of light filtering through the trees, the swirl of the oncoming autumn made it all a fine day, in Connor’s opinion,
Mel squinted into the rain and darkness, creeping along the narrow, twisting,
muddy, tree-enshrouded road...
Virgin River
Robyn Carr
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I love to set my stories in fully fleshed-out locations.
When the setting of a story is vivid and realistic, the reader is transported
to that place and time, and they want to get to know the people who live and
love there. When I’m imagining the setting for a novel, I’m looking for a place
so vibrant and dramatic, it plays almost as a character in the story. It lives
and breathes.
Autumn had taken over New England, with its exceptional style. Trees roared with color, and as they passed their peak, the air took on a snap that hinted slyly of winter. Julia @ The MacGregor Brides
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Everyone has heard about the incredible leaf colors that blanket parts of New England and the Midwest during autumn. But to actually see the red, yellow and orange leaves glowing like embers along hilly landscapes, around glassy lakes and dappled among harbor towns is another thing entirely.
It was balmy early autumn, perfect New England weather, with the trees just beginning to hint at the wild color to come in the evening light of a slowly deepening sky. When he got home, he promised himself, he was going to take a glass of wine, sit on his back porch and survey his kingdom.
"Afternoon, sir, ma'am. Hope you had a nice trip."
Philip had an urge to kiss the pilot hard on the mouth for no other reason than his cheerful British voice.
Sweet Revenge
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People tend to think a foreign accent is more interesting and more sexy, says Guy Winch, a psychotherapist from Britain who's long been in the United States, “because in general we tend to value what's less common.”
Americans associate a British accent with someone being “more intelligent, more sophisticated and more competent – and those are all qualities that a lot of people find attractive,”
Then Chris jerked back as the foal shook and shivered and tried out her legs for the first time. "She stood up!" Amazed, he stared at his mother. "She stood right up. Cathy Jackson's little sister didn't stand up for months and months." It pleased him enormously to find his horse superior.
The Last Honest Woman
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By Jon_York, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48375869
Human babies take a long time to do things. They just hang out, letting their parents carry them around for months before they even think about hoisting themselves up and taking a step or two.
That was her picture, the memory Kelsey would take with her, quiet and comforting amid all the colors and the pageantry.
“What are you doing?”
Kelsey said nothing at first, simply took Gabe’s hand in hers. She should have known he would walk into the scene and make himself part of the memory. “Taking a picture. I don’t want all this to get lost with the parties and the press and the pressure.”
Come all ye maidens young and fair / All you that are
blooming in your prime / Always beware and keep your
garden fair / Let no man steal away your thyme.
Connor picked up the melody, flushing a bit when she winked at him and served his soft drink. She served the others as well, singing as she did a song of regret and the loss of innocence.
Conversations hushed, and more than a few hearts sighed.
"Last night, when I got home, and went in to check on the boys. I heard her first. She sings some sort of lullaby."
" 'Lavender's Blue.' It's what you could call her trademark."
Taking out small clippers, Roz trimmed off a weak side stem. "She's never spoken that I've heard, or heard of, but she sings to the children of the house at night."
" 'Lavender's Blue.' Yes, that's it. I heard her."
Blue Dahlia
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"Lavender's Blue" (sometimes called "Lavender Blue") is an English folk song and nursery rhyme dating to the 17th century. It has been recorded in various forms since the 20th century and some pop versions have been hits in the US and UK charts.
The music drifted out, slow and romantic. "Which is this?"
"'The Rose.' It's a ballad—a standard, I suppose, even today." "Do you like to dance?"
"Yes. I don't often, but…" Her words trailed away as he gathered her close.
"Cal—"
"Shh." He rubbed his cheek against her hair. "I want to hear the words."
They danced—swayed, really—as the music drifted through the speakers. A mother with two squabbling children rested her elbow on her table and watched them with pleasure and envy.
In the glassed in kitchen a man with a bushy mustache tossed pizza dough in quick, high twirls.
"It's sad."
"No." She could dream like this, with her head cushioned on his shoulder and her body moving to their inner rhythm.
What ten years hadn’t changed was what was inside.
He was still looking for roots, for his place.
That was why he was heading back to Quiet Valley.
The road still twisted and turned through the woods, up the mountains and down again, as it had when he’d headed in the opposite direction on a Greyhound. Snow covered the ground,smooth here, bumpy there where it was heaped over rocks. In the sunlight, trees shimmered with it.
Had he missed it?
He’d spent one winter in snow up to his waist in the Andes. He’d spent another sweltering in Africa. The years ran together, but oddly enough, Jason could remember every place he’d spent Christmas over the last ten years, though he’d never celebrated the holiday. The road narrowed and swept into a wide curve. He could see the mountains, covered with pines and dusted with white.
Yes, he’d missed it.
Home for Christmas
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Driving in my car I'm driving home for Christmas Driving home for Christmas With a thousand memories
I take look at the driver next to me He's just the same Just the same