Autumn was a gentle soul. She grew up loving everyone and everything. Her dark skin contrasted to her bright orange eyes and hair. She loved purple and wore it all the time. Her mother said it brought out her freckles. She’d twirl and play like the leaves that were falling in the wind. She was young, and under appreciated, but nevertheless loved on. She accepted from Summer and passed its gifts on to Winter. Her parents were two halves of a whole, and she embedded both their characteristics while introducing her own. Autumn gave her everything to those who loved her. Gifts of sweets and pastimes through decorating pumpkins and houses. Halloween was her favorite holiday, like Christmas was Winter’s. Autumn’s love was warm, despite the chill, and won over anyone who saw her bright smile and comforting embrace. Monica Turntine
Autumn nearly glows in the soft light, her fine cloth of many colors blowing weightlessly behind her. Her profile is striking, unearthly gorgeous in comparison to everyone and everything around her. Her gaze, most curious of all, is lovingly soft as she escorts the falling leaves into patterns on the ground. And no season could amount to her, no matter how hard they tried. Summer, Winter, and Spring were all beautiful in their own unique ways, but Autumn was special to me most of all. Nothing could diminish my love for her; I am too grateful for what she has done. Rachel Swain
Her fingers are stained green with chlorophyll and brown with dirt. No matter how much she washes them, the colors never fade. She’ll paint over her nails with pastel polish or spill acrylic paint across her hands, but she can never hide the fact that her soul is dirt and roots. She finds it plain, almost shameful to be connected to something so basic, something that others overlook so often. Little does she know that with time and care, the colors will grow, swirling up her arms in blues, pinks, purples, yellows, and whites. One day people will notice her and wonder when she became beautiful. They’ll marvel at how colorful she is, only appreciating her once she has blossomed, when they used to shun her when she was green and brown. Mary Ellen Raymo
Gratitude … what a wonderful word. My name is Ember, and ever since I was born, my mother instilled that word into me, that principle. “Be grateful,” she would whisper to me every night. “Even if it seems like nothing is right, and no one is on your side. Be grateful for the little things, and remember that the bad things will make you stronger.” Then one day, she disappeared, and all of a sudden, I felt a stronger connection to the wind, and the rain, and the trees. I felt every trembling leaf on the trees, every speck of dirt on the ground. It was as if I was a part of the elements, and they were a part of me. I felt them flowing through my veins, filling my lungs with every breath I took. It was the most calming sensation I had ever had. My father and sisters soon found me outside every day, taking in the gifts Mother Nature has given us. And even though I no longer had a mother, and lots of my friends were beginning to see me as crazy, I was overwhelmingly grateful for everything I had. For the little things, for the big things, and for the bad things, because they will make me stronger. I just wish there was a way for me to share it with everyone … and maybe I can. I just have to find the right people … or the right person. Caitlin O'Toole
May’s hair was a blonde as the sun’s rays. She ran her fingers through the morning grass as the sunrise loomed above her. The cool spring air required her to have her winter jacket on, though she knew later on in the day she would have no need for it. School was still in session, though it was so late in the school year they were not learning anything new. She dreamt of the relaxing days of summer where work, school, and responsibilities were nowhere in sight. Emma Larkin
The trees whispered among themselves, anticipating the new child. The moon’s beams touched the heaping pile of autumn leaves in the center of the clearing. A single orange leaf fell and landed on the pile. The leaves rusted and a small child emerged from them. Her frantic emerald colored eyes took in the setting. Her fiery orange hair fell from a bun into tightly wound curls. Welcome, Jade, the Moon murmured to the child, we have been waiting for you. Her eyes closed, and when she opened them, she was seated on a small bed in a strange room. A woman entered the room. “Go to sleep Jade,” her mother told her, “It was just a dream.” Her mother pressed a light kiss to the crown of Jade’s head. Rain pattered against the window. “Oh, it’s just an autumn storm, don’t be afraid.” Jade’s mother went to close the curtains. “Don’t!” Jade called out,“I like the autumn rain.” Her mom smiled, “Of course you do child.” Megan Koch
Her name is Winter. She doesn't come around much, and no one seems to like her. She thought this was odd because she was rather beautiful, her face speckled with soft white freckles. She was very innocent and pure too. But there was a reason she was hated… and feared. She had a wrath like none other. Her cold words hit like sharp icicles. Her actions bitter and cold. She was purely terrifying, but of course… that’s only if you anger her. So watch out. Kassidy Kessler
Her hair was the dark color of the bark on the bare trees and was braided loosely over her shoulder. Her freckles covered her cheeks right under her beautiful emerald green eyes. The sweater she wore was two sizes too big, but she didn’t care. In fact she liked it that way. The necklace dangling from her neck was obscure. It was gold with an indescribable design. Her skinny jeans were covered in acrylic paint from her beautiful, golden landscape painting. Maroon fuzzy socks peaked out from under her scarlet converse. She always carried around a book and a sketchbook. You would most likely see her with earbuds in which were blasting either punk rock or classical...there was no in between. Her name fits her very well. Her name is Hazel. Abigail Hammond
A girl exists with a smile as bright as the rising sun. Her voice speaks smooth, words flowing out like soft fall breeze. Her hair falls around her shoulders, the color of warm brown cocoa. Her eyes burn a bright red, reminding everyone of red leaves falling from trees, or of candle flames flickering from a carved pumpkin. Her movements are gentle, her touch soft as the comforting touch of a scarf. The girl is an example of soft beauty. Her name is Autumn. Brianna Griesenauer
She is the kind of person who forces you to do things you never thought you would do. She is the person who drags you from coffee shop, to boutique, to indie concert, to a park in the span of a couple of hours. She goes fast, and if you want to be her friend, you must move fast too. She is the kind of person who calls you at 2 am, asking if you want to go watch the stars. She always seems to make you laugh in the worse situations and she seems to have something new to try. She is the kind of person who rolls the window down and blares music you have never heard before, and gives you nostalgia for a time long past. Her laugh is like a warm breeze on a cold day, her adventurous smile is the feeling you get right before you go over a waterfall, and her hair is as colorful as the falling leaves of autumn. Which is ironic, now that you think of it because her name is Autumn. Olivia Gibbons
A young man wandered through the woods, an icy feeling in his toes. His auburn hair flowed in the light breeze, almost as if the world wished to present him in the most majestic way physically possible. His heavy boots left a deep imprint in the soft, needle soil of the pine forest. He was looking for something, albeit something he would not truly know until he had seen it. As the leaves fell from the trees they seemed to form a flaming halo, for the wind swept them in a circle around his head, a head upon which rested a golden crown. The man was Autumn, and he would later find that the thing he was searching for was a spring, or perhaps just Spring. His frozen feet were the frosts of the early December fields. His heavy boots were the feet of the harvester trodding through his crops. His crown was of grain, his fiery halo, the heat of September. He searched for Spring to prepare her for the coming of the frozen wastes of Winter. Lloyd Gholson
Ryan, the king of winter. He decides when it snows it hails all that Jazz. Let's just say him and Axel (the king of summer) don't get along well when it comes to Missouri. Ryan says in September it should be starting to get cold, but Axel constantly makes it 100° always. Yet to get revenge in, Axel Ryan makes it snow constantly. This bickering makes Missouri’s the pasture what it is. Kira Findley
Anne was a beautiful, mythological girl, whose hair was the color of a pumpkin. She lived in the hollow of a tree, but the tree’s leaves were always the colors red, orange, and yellow, as though they were near death. People would often wonder why her tree is always like this, but they would never see Anne herself so they didn’t understand why. However, Anne’s tree's leaves were always full of life and a magical energy. They had a magical energy that reminded you of comfort and family. They had this energy because comfort and family is what Anne adored most. Anne always wore a cream sweater and jeans that shifted between three colors constantly, red, orange, and yellow, the same colors of the leaves of her tree. Anne is the human form of autumn. Elizabeth Dill
Spring was a lot smaller than her siblings, Winter, Summer, and Fall. She was often overshadowed by her big brother Winter. But she was my favorite. She loved to bake sweets and bread with me while a light breeze brought me scents of our garden. We often went for walks through a dewy garden. She would make tulips poke their heads out of the ground and make birds twitter back and forth. She let me wear sun dresses instead of a heavy jacket. She made me want to fly into her perfect azure sky. She brought warmth and light to a long winter.
Caroline Cunningham