Mug laid a red plaid blanket, I laid hurriedly upon it, leaving him to chuckle and sit crossed-legged on the bare ground. "The grass is more comfortable anyway," he claimed, pressing his palms on the untrimmed grass.
I ignored him and decidingly imersed in the the meadow seemed to sing: the harmony of the wind that swayed the trees and pushed the streams, of the rustling of flowers and of the buzzing of the bees.
Eyes returning to rest on Mug; they found him twiddling a wild flower in between his fingers.
I rolled over to him, leaving the lush of the blanket, to where he was on the ground, "You're right, the grass is more comfortable."
"The grass isn't greener on this side than it is on that side,
"It just has to be where you'd rather be." His voice a cheery tune of a lively violin, than the off tune piano I had met him.
YOU ARE READING
Cup's
Short StoryFor Curtis Paisley, days pass like bland, monotonous paragraphs of plain thought and narration; till a strong gush of storm and gray eyes flipped through the pages almost aimlessly, before finally settling to the paragraph of his appearance... and w...
