The wind was restless, and the chafing branches and trunks sounded like rusty hinges groaning and straining to open old doors on ancient sheds. The few remaining brown leaves on the ends of their twigs clapped like skeletal hands, filling the air with a dry, hollow eruption of applause. Mugs Gillette didn't seem to notice.
He was too busy hauling loads of junk onto an ever-growing pile of refuse in the field behind his house. He stopped occasionally, rubbing a roughened hand across his forehead, letting the wind escape from his pursed lips.
The corners of his wrinkled lips sagged in disapproval. He shook his head but said nothing.
Nothing to say.
Not really.
He bent over and pulled a heavy box toward the attic door. Another load for the burn pile.
One more carton in a lifetime's accumulation of stuff.
And for what.
Fire and brimstone.
Oh well, he mused. It happened to everyone if you lived long enough.
YOU ARE READING
Looking for Answers
General FictionA young boy helps his elderly neighbor clean out the old man's house only to find out later that the aged man has vanished into thin air.
