Madison Stewman
Stories (1/0)
The Nymphs
The meadow is always deadly quiet early in the mornings. A small stretch of lively grass on the side of a hill, surrounded by the most beautiful pines, stretching toward the clouds above. The only occupant of this small slice of heaven was a thin, silver haired man whose back was stooped with age. The man had chosen the meadow to age in peace and grow the herbs and plants he’d collected throughout his life. The herb man enjoyed the peace it brought him to walk about his property, not a soul around to bother him, just the tittering of the few animals in the woods. He’d just finished building his new home and had finally established the small garden surrounding the house, his pride and joy. Neat rows of only the most exotic herbs and plants with only a slim walkway to break up the greenery, which was finally blooming even in the end of the winter months. The man was clearly very precise and paid great attention to detail. Each type of plant had its own tiny plot, and each plot was lined by a thin silver thread that glittered in the cold morning light. Upon awakening, the herb man always started his day with the same tea and a walk about the trees, listening intently to the animals chatting among themselves. He liked to imagine the conversations they must have and how entertaining it would be to understand them but he was content simply enjoying the company from afar.
By Madison Stewman3 years ago in Fiction