Death of the Dragonflies, Story Snippet
Fallon crouched low, her muscles coiled like springs, ready to bolt. Nestled in the tangled arms of the lilac bush, where bright, downy leaves fluttered in a dance, she eyed the makeshift starting line she had carved into the grass. The breeze whispered secrets, warm and thick, carrying hints of crushed grass and sunbaked earth. Clouds waltzed across the sky’s endless blue, as if drawn by an unseen hand. On her signal, the race of their lives would start.
A group of children gathered around Fallon. Their breaths held tight, and bodies coiled with a shared anticipation that hummed in the roots beneath them. Adults on the sidewalk murmured to themselves. Their disapproving tones clear indicators of their loss of joy and mischief.
The hill sloped before them, green and wild, sweeping down toward the group home’s backyard—a slope both untamed and inviting, daring them to test its heights and race its steep descent. For Fallon, the hill was a path woven with possibility, alive with the thrill of the chase that lay waiting just beyond the brush.
“Do you see Hank?” Fallon asked over her shoulder.
Half-hidden by the bush, Henry leaned forward, his tall, wiry frame catching the slant of afternoon light. He stood still, but there was a quiet readiness in the line of his shoulders, the kind of focus that made him appear a part of the landscape—he was alert, waiting for something just beyond the edge of sight.
His thumbs were tucked into his pockets, hands steady, relaxed—a contrast to the hungry look in his face, where sharp cheekbones cut the soft breeze. A tousled mop of dark hair fell over his brow, hiding the blue eyes that tracked every shift on the hill, sharp as flint.
Henry’s lips curved, a faint, crooked smile that flickered like a shadow in sunlight.
“I don’t see him,” he said, words rolling out low and quiet, no more than a breath. The smile lingered in his eyes for a heartbeat, then vanished like the flick of a barn mouse’s tail disappearing into the hay.
Fallon turned to the sea of bright eyes and restless limbs; a dozen little sparks held in place by thin string. “Alright, you know the rules,” Fallon said. “Fast and quick. Don’t let Hank catch you. First one down the hill, dry as a bone, wins.”
A thrill rippled through the group, spreading like lightning in a summer storm. Tiny hands gripped fists of grass, feet shuffled, and muffled giggles escaped like bubbles rising from a hidden spring.
The hillside hummed in answer, buzzing with their anticipation, each child a live wire, breath held, ready to release the energy coiled in their small, eager frames.
“On your mark,” Fallon whispered, knees hovering just above the earth. Her weight shifted to the edge of her toes, coiled and ready. Her fingers splayed, pressing deep into the cool dampness of soil, nails scraping the dirt, seeking a grip on something steady.
Henry crouched low, muscles taut, tension coiled like a spring about to release. He pulled his hands from his pockets, expanding his fingers on the concrete sidewalk. His eyes locked forward, unwavering, tracing the path down the hill with a focus sharpened by silence.
A spark flared deep in her chest, fanning into a fierce thrill—a drive not just to win, but to give the kids a race that would burst open the quiet spaces of their small-town lives. She wanted them to feel it, that reckless, wild freedom that pulsed in her veins.
In a town like Stone Brook, excitement didn’t come served up but had to be dug out of dusty corners and hidden places. This was the sort of race they’d talk about later, voices breathless, eyes wide, reliving each heartbeat as if it were happening all over again.
The distant green door, chipped and faded, filled her sight—every scratch and flake of paint pulled her closer, the world narrowing until only the door remained—a singular, unwavering goal. Fallon’s muscles tightened, every part of her aligned toward that weathered frame at the end of the hill.
In the space between safety and recklessness, nothing else existed—not the laughter behind, nor the hum of leaves, just the door, steady and inviting, waiting for the burst of movement that would bridge the space between them.
