* This was a warm up for my Creative Writing class. We had to get movement in our writing.
She tore at the roots of the weeds, tossing them violently over her shoulder to lay in a crumpled trodden heap around the outside layer of herbs and flowers. A trail of wilting thistles crept after, plotting revenge in their wilted plant minds.
Her thin body seemed somehow strong as she traveled across the yard, ripping the intruders in her garden from their life source. Her expression was set, a determined glint making her bright green eyes shine. This was something she loved to do, no matter the dirt.
Fearlessly, she pulled up worms, relocating them to different plants, and stepped around the piles of fuming ants that skittered left and right, jaws thirsting for a victim to sink into.
Busily, she dug a row in the earthy bed, and dropped in tiny seeds, pushing the dirt over them and patting them down like a loving mother. Her little fingers left hand prints across the soil.