A lot of my old writings from high school got deleted. I was devastated but I was able to get past it. I was a very pretentious writer that was never given the opportunity to get my word critiqued. I like what I wrote here though it's hard to follow and I go too far with the personification. If I rewrote it, I'm sure I could pull off a charming, but horror-esque tone.
'Skip and fall, as the wind goes, and fall again into the madness that drives the autumn leaves. As the breeze caresses and carries the lovely child, the leaves look on with envy. They cry out, jealous of the wind's ability to hold the child softly and without course, to revive the young from the fatigue it felt from its day, to never hurt it slightly.
The wind sees the frustration and takes it upon itself to aid in the request of the leaves, or in what it believes is the leaves' request. The wind, with open palms and outstretched arms, take a dutiful amount of leaves and throws them to the skies, who would rather a rainstorm than a bundle of scantily handled leaves. The leaves fall, verily upset and incensed. They wind again carries the leaves and throws them, and again they reach the unforgiving sky, and again they fall, angry. The wind, who felt it fulfilled its end of the bargain that never was, returned to the lovely child who sounded loud and playful noises that tickled the ears of the leaves.
Those leaves, those ugly brown and rotting leaves, fallen from the grace that they call their mother tree, lay envious, repeatedly, of the cool and careful manner of the faceless wind. What could they do to thwart that careful wind. Nothing. And nothing is all they needed to do, for the wind would find downfall in its being.
That feverish and clumsy autumn left desperation in the hearts of the lovely child's family. They were desperate to keep the man they admired living, to prevent his end and demise. They could not prevent what was to be and so the man, the father, died. He lay unmoved in a bed, in a building far away from anymore danger, on machines that supposedly prolong a life that was already at completion. The reason: the old, mother tree with an aching arm allowed the wind to knock it off and land heavily on that man. His blood poured between the crevasses of the no longer jealous leaves.'