John Connors - Short Story

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John Connors - Short Story It was an calm day, and John Connors found himself resting at the side of a large oak tree, admiring the beauty of the woods that surrounded him. The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over his head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight as this was the season when the leaves had no more strength left to hold themselves onto the branch of a tree. It was the falling season. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves made a patchwork quilt effect on the ground that they lay upon. Layers upon layers of autumn leaves lay upon the ground along with pine needles and other flora creating a thick springy carpet to walk on. In the distance the trail that John Connors had left behind was no longer visible; a thick velvet mist was beginning to creep in encompassing the footsteps and shrouding them from human eyes. Lining the path were tall tress which stood hand in hand with one another, living their lives peacefully in the still of the forest. They seemed to be held down, giving a silent rhapsody of joy and grieving over their lost leaves. The wind was whistling with a hollow undertone, carrying the dampness with it, while playing games with the fallen leaves, swirling them around in the air and then dropping them like a pack of cards, teasing them like the bully in the playground. Along the way fallen timber accompanied thickets of weeds. A lazy mist hazed the vision of any living object, making the horizon seem like ... ... middle of paper ... ...eaves could no longer be heard, the thudding footsteps had also disappeared. John's hand which had once gripped the rucksack as if for life itself, it lay open and the golden CD was no longer in its case. *** The object that had been governed into his life had been passed on to him by his grandmother 15 years ago. Since then he had been running from the nameless people, finally they had found him and taken the object that he had protected with his life but they had used means that were not of this world to recover the vital information. Now safely in enemy hands the object that he had tried protecting with his life, much like his beloved grandmother had done many years ago. The only difference being she succeeded and he had not. The world would now need to look after itself or find another John Connors.

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