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Fall (standard:humor, 387 words)
Author: kendall thomasAdded: Nov 10 2002Views/Reads: 2279/1Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Man rakes leaves.


By Twisted Wabbit 

Autumn is the flower fading, the withering on the stem; the falling
leaves; the last blush of the rose . . . the same every year.  Nothing 
new there.  Seasons come, seasons go . . . . 

So Fred Buford was thinking as he raked brown and gold leaves across his
lawn toward the concrete drive where he was burning a huge pile.  Gray 
smoke swirled up lazily from the fringes, yellow and red flames darted 
and flickered up from the center of a charred blackness. 

When he came to the skeleton of Rover, the family dog, he stopped raking
and, bending over with a grunt, picked it up.  There were still a few 
tufts of fur clinging to the bones.  There was a feeble growl and a yip 
as he tossed the remains into the burning center of the leaf pile.  He 
brushed his hands together, then finished off the rest of his raking. 

At least that was one he wouldn't have to worry about finding room for. 

As he shut the garage door, he saw old man Wilson and his wife totter by
on the sidewalk.  Both were practically skin and bone.  Fred shook his 
head.  They wouldn't make it home.  Not this time.  Old man Wilson 
started to wave, but his arm dropped off before he could do so.  He 
left it lying on the sidewalk.  No doubt it would have been too much 
effort to stoop and pick it up.  And pointless. 

Grandma was still at the breakfast table where he had left her earlier
in the morning.  She could barely move now.  There wasn't much left of 
her.  Kind of like the dog.  She groaned faintly and gave him a 
resigned look as he picked her up and carried her to the hall closet 
where he stuffed her in with the others, who were nothing more than 
skeletons now:  the wife, the kids and Tabby, the cat.  It was a tight 
fit yet he managed somehow.  But there was still grandpa upstairs.  
Where was he going to find the space? 

Over the backyard fence, Fred shared his concern with his neighbor,

“Don't feel like the Lone Ranger,” George consoled and added
philosophically.  “There isn't anyone who doesn't have a few skeletons 
in his or her closet.” 



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