To Be Continued
All he could think of was death as the last colored leaf fell from the expanse of oak trees that lined the street. The death of autumn could only be caused by the pernicious cold of winter returning in its arrogantly triumphant manner, he thought to himself as he strolled down the street, arms wrapped around his body with his rough hands gripping the side of each opposing arm, his customary posture when he was subjugated by his own uncertainties. To the casual passerby, his appearance, which was marked by his camel colored corduroy blazer with the chocolate patches at each elbow, beige turtleneck, chocolate trousers, and the finest square toed brown leather shoes, made him look as harmless as any other member of the Southern genteel.
Habitually, he crossed the street and walked over the old, creaking wooden foot bridge too involved in his thoughts to take any notice of the rushing water directly underneath him. Where the path ended, he continued, trailing across an open area just past the oaks, and civilization, in an area where he had worn a small path through the knee high weeds that made the scenery resemble a field of golden wheat in lands that once belonged to his father’s family before the United States deserted its isolationist inclinations.