Sun Mote Copse [NaWOWriMo] so come sit down, will you talk with me now

threads did little, but insults -- oh -- if ever a rose could be cut down, it was by the hot impart of elfie's furious hand.

like a daisy pushed through a woodchipper, the illusion crumbled. the pretty tiara withered first, turning to sour-smelling dust on the wind. the bush crumbled to the ground, dismayed by rot -- the lily pad went from green to onerous black, shriveling into a plant-like fist -- and every single petal of every single flower withered and fell from their stems, which then curled inward like diseased and aching souls.

weejay was deposited on the ground by the ruin, and she did not look up at her brother-turned-sister, or his pretty tutu (now fully unsnared). the idea of being alone, without her brother, was the round-up to her weed-like dreams; there was a small gasp of pain, and then weejay began to cry -- meanwhile, the den took on a somber atmosphere, being a plant graveyard and all.

after all, elfie had just killed everything in it - including the dashing hopes of his sweet, innocent sister.