Alana S. Leonard
A long-time lover of reading and writing.
- Top Story - January 2024
The VacationTop Story - January 2024
No one liked him. He was one of those people who grated on everyone’s nerves, who thought he was hilarious, whose presence at a party everyone dreaded because he would get too drunk and demand being the centre of attention.
- Top Story - November 2023
BryolicTop Story - November 2023
The forest is never silent, even at dusk. Leaves rustle, peepers sing in the distance, the creek trickles peacefully. The sounds, though, are dampened by the thick moss that coats the forest. It has spread like a blanket, like a virus, across the trees and the rocks and the earth.
It’s been a long time. I stare at the man before me, trying to think of what to say—what I could say, what I want to say, what I should say. But the only thing that escapes my mouth is a whisper of breath. He seems to be at a loss too, but he raises his hand in a tentative greeting.
The mountain air is cool, and dusk is settling in. The late fall sun has set. The leaves on the ground rustle restlessly as small animals come out for the night, disturbing the dried leaves that still retain some of their red and orange hues. A few leaves still cling determinedly to the trees, but they are in the minority.