One Hundred and One

Short Stories by Lyrics


It was newleaf.

The trees above glowed pink, like berries, like the soft rosy nose of a snowy white kit. The dawn light laced the edge on each and every one of the petals; some were cascading down, gentle like snowflakes, but dense like a blizzard, leaving its home to return to its roots, to live, to wilt- to die, to die.

The small pale ginger she-cat looked up, green eyes reflective like pools of liquid leaves, rippling- gently, softly, quietly.

The warm, damp breeze barely ruffled her fur. She blinked, once, twice, like how dew on aloe dripped into the vast like, once, twice.

Who was she?

She padded on, the intertwining paths soon leading her further and further away from her origin; she padded on- like a petal lost in the wind, she drifted, drifted, drifted.


It was greenleaf.

The branches, once embellished with rosy petals, now fashioned a bushy green pelt. Bits and pieces of fur shed from its body, falling on the floor- barely dusting the air with green, green, green, like her eyes. They melted into the vast ocean of green, green, green.

She swayed in the green, tail flicking, dusting the earth with her light fur. She was silent, traceless- like a ghost, a ghost.

A ghost.

Who was she?

She closed her green, green eyes.

She padded on, still, from the forest of gleaming emeralds to the plains where wind howls, where prey runs faster than leopards, where grass grew so tall it covered her whole. She was a golden petal, out of place in greenleaf- she drifted, drifted, drifted.


It was leaf-fall.

The strong wind nearly knocked her off her paws; she could see golden and orange and red specks of nothingness shifting uncomfortably close together in the far distance. Somehow, she thought of them as leaves.

Her green, green eyes now reflected the yellowing field- it was golden, the unfamiliar smell of a meadow hitting her wave by wave as she raced across the land where her ancestors once stood. The lions, the leopards- the mighty.

Like a harvest mouse, she dashed- the wind aiding her as she scampered in gold-

Until she realized, the grass no longer parted as she ran- only wind caressed their backs, causing it to lay flat, flat, flat.

Who was she?

A ghost.

She padded on- bothered by the grass, which did not bow down to her like they usually did as she walked past. Her tail- trailing on the soft, soft grass- pointed towards the cold, icy mountains, where snow fell all year long. She was- a breeze, a light trace of gold in the meadows. She drifted, drifted, drifted.


It was-

an eternity of leaf-fall, of drifting.


Snow plummeted down from the gray, gray sky, cold, icy, painful, even, as the cats pelted under the barely existent foliage. Branches were now bare, empty like FrostClan's bellies, shivering violently in the extreme cold.

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