Why did God make the turtle so small?

Did He always plan on letting him crawl?

Or was he supposed to be much bigger than this,

And to be this small was just his wish?

Why did He make the leaves turn brown?

Did He not like green, did it make Him frown?

Or was he just tired of the green

And wanted winter to have a different scene?

Why do flowers grow close to the ground?

Was it to give the trees a carpet or the grass a crown?

Or was it because the stem of a flower,

Fableweaver
 
Chapter 1: The Stranger
 
            Through the golden mist of morning, the gently sloping emerald hills were dotted with snowy sheep. Old ewes lay quietly beneath the cool shade of an ancient branching oak, while lambs frisked in the warm sunshine. The birds’ trilling melodies soared in a symphony of natural beauty, their song broken only by the distant ring of town bells.

 Okay, for those few that were reading these stories, I'm sorry.  I'm discontinuing them.  Sea Eyes had no direction at all and Bridget's Adventures was having issues that I couldn't fix unless I started the whole thing over again, which I eventually might with a different name and different characters.  If someone wants to take over either of these, please comment here and ask me.

**An excerpt from a may-soon-to-be-novel that lives in my mind, and has for some time.**

I was stuck on this for the longest time. Until one night, when I was supposed to be sleeping, the prologue came to me, and it worked out many of the glitches (many, not all, I discovered another one last night).

**Before I start I want to ask that you please, please don't make your comments into a debate. Just keep it friendly and respectful. Etc.**

In regular school, this feeling I'm having right now was very familiar. Sweating palms, pounding heartbeat, a kind of rush in the ears that after a few minutes I realize is the sound of my own heavy breathing. This happens whenever I am a combination of scared and impassioned, when I find that I must raise my hand and say, No, this is wrong! And then, class would end and I would turn to writing as my outlet.

    “So?” Margaret asked, as she sat down in his car.
    He looked at her a long time. He couldn’t speak.
    She nodded, and felt her eyes get moist at the beauty of that day. He actually appreciated life. She knew. “You know now why it is an experience,” she said, laying her head on the headrest on the seat.
     He nodded now. “Yes,” he answered quietly. There was a long pause; neither thought it important to speak.
     Margaret looked thoughtful. “And what do you think you got from this? How did it help you?”