I really don't know what this is. Some short, short story that just kind of popped into my head.
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Larkspur sat solemnly underneath the large, leafed oak tree. The bark was rather smooth apart from a few small natural ruts. The base was littered with rotting leaves that smelled fresh and woody. Over Larkspur's simple cloth shoes climbed a trail of tiny ants, carrying crumb-sized items.
Larkspur waited for the sun to rise, for night to be gone, for freedom from unthinkable horrors. The sky was already lightening, a soft grayish haze resting on the horizon. Larkspur was of impatient temperament, but today she waited quietly, patiently, plucking dandelions from the dewy ground and slicing their stems. A syrupy, sticky liquid seeped from the stem of one little yellow weed and then the next, and the next, and the next. Larkspur let a droplet fall onto her tongue, letting sweetness overwhelm her. She suddenly felt warm, full. Yellow like the sun.
Now taking the dandelion's head, bright like a golden halo, Larkspur pinched it off from the stem. She yanked a few unnecessary buttery petals out, letting more soft pollen push outwards. She rubbed it against her cheek, blond blush adding an angelic glow to her thin face.
The dew was making its way through Larkspur’s clothes now. Her skirt began to feel damp, the hems of her sleeves drooping ever so slightly, her shoes one shade darker than originally. But Larkspur did not rise. She wanted—had—to wait.
Done with the dandelions, the girl flung them off to the side, leaving them lying in the dirt to grow once again another sunny patch of weeds. Larkspur sifted the damp, dark dirt that hid beneath the fallen leaves in her hands. Unceremoniously ripped leaves, leaving behind scraps of green, brown and yellow, stems placed in rows before her.
Larkspur dared to look again to the horizon, the sun only a smidge higher. Not enough, though. Not enough. The girl stared for awhile, perhaps taking in her surroundings or gathering thoughts.
And then she sang. At first, her voice was a little hoarse from disuse, not quite hitting the right notes. But after warming up, it became loud and clear, ringing like a bell for Sunday church. All chatter of woodland creatures ceased so they could listen to this dazzling voice, wonder at who could possess such beautiful chords. So it was then that he appeared. Larkspur brought her singing to a halt.
He was handsome, of the dark kind. Tanned skin illuminated his shady brown eyes that were flecked with gold. Hair, black like freshly burned coal, was swept away from his high forehead. His jaw and cheekbones were lovely, chiselled. He came closer and closer to Larkspur with each step. Then, his lifted his arms, browned hands reaching out to her.
“Wait!” Larkspur’s melodic voice startled the birds nearby which set them flying in a flock high into the sky.
“What?” Even his voice was attractive, deep, a tad caring, and maybe a little sinister.
“Let’s talk, okay?”
“For a little bit only.”
So Larkspur began. “I grew up in a little village. I had a sister, a mother, a father. My parents both dealt in horticulture, and so us, their children, held names according some of their favourite plants. My sister was Dandelion because its healing abilities and provided food in the greatest time of need. She was the better of us, encouraging and pushing me to strive for anything.
“We lived happily, serenely, for a short amount of time. But then the fires came. Destroying everything, my parents and my Dandelion. And then I came here to wait for you. You met my father once long ago, during a very harsh winter. He told me. Dandelion and I were only infants.”
“So you speak the truth.” The handsome man smiled without humour.
“Oh, just have mercy on me, please,” Larkspur begged. She reached sideways, pulling a dandelion untouched by her slicing and yanking of petals. She held it to her heart. “Please. For my Dandelion.”
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125,030 Literary Works • 672,787 Reviews
Evening.
I have no idea what you're trying to accomplish with your first sentence, except maybe establish how much you adore adjectives. Three adjectives for one noun. That's quite a record. Also, perhaps it makes sense, in light of Larkspur's ridiculously strange name, that she (he?) enjoys the smell of rotting leaves, but to be honest, I can't imagine how rotting leaves would smell nice. In fact, I can't fathom how anything decomposing would smell remotely wonderful at all.
In addition to that, Larkspur is the first person I've met who has no qualms with ants walking all over her.
A few paragraphs later, I'm yawning, and nothing else seems to have happened. Oh, she played with a dandelion. My mistake. I'm afraid I must apologize, though, because this doesn't seem consequential to be. Does it even further the plot? It certainly doesn't portray any character development.
A little further in we find that this is a romance. Your prose betrays you. You spend an entire paragraph describing him when you spent barely a few sentences on Larkspur. Bloody hell, you even take time to describe his voice. You obviously prefer him over your main character.
Their conversation was enlightening, by the way. Very obvious infodump. Stiff, in addition to all that. I'm not certain you can salvage this. I can deduce the man isn't human, and that he's out to eat her, but I can't be sure. Why? She doesn't seem to show any apprehension, or emotion. It's shocking, how little emotions are leaked in literature these days. Emotions aren't terrible; if anything, they're wonderful.
The last bit made little to no sense, but it took itself so seriously it made me smile. If this had been a movie, I'd be able to tell the actress playing Larkspur had memorized her lines. They don't come naturally, and have been stuffed into her mouth.
At the end of this, I see why it provided little to no entertainment value: it had no conflict. The lack of conflict is beginning to seem like an epidemic. You can remedy this by asking yourself what your character wants, and what's in her way. Conflict only makes an appearance towards the end of this piece, and even then, it's not strong enough to keep me reading. You need conflict to drip from each and every part of your piece. Might want to start again from the beginning, given how bland this is.
When you revise, remember to add two things: conflict, and emotion. If you do that, your character's personality ought to come naturally, and you needn't force your character to wear her emotions and personality.
Hi!:) I'm Rachael and I just came to review your short story! First off, your title caught my attention; I like it a lot. I also like her name. It's different. :) Grammar seemed spot on, though I wasn't necessarily looking for it. I enjoy your description. It's very elegant and interesting. Not boring whatsoever. I also like how well you use "show" and "tell". Most people freak out over this rule, saying that "showing" needs to be used more than "telling," but I disagree. If you write "telling" well, then it can be really good and can be used instead of "telling", which is exactly what you did. So brilliant job! :) I also enjoyed the story. It was touching, even though the end did confuse me a bit (why is she asking for mercy? What did she do? Is he planning on hurting her, or something?). Maybe you meant it this way, though? But anyways, I really enjoyed this story! :) Keep writing!
Hi there!
I really enjoyed this piece. It's very lovely and innocent and I get a very fairytaleish vibe from it. I have to say, I didn't really have any idea what you were talking about. But who cares! I loved it. Strangely satisfying! A few general mistakes... lol
You made very few, minimal mistakes. A great piece! thanks, AC