Autumn Scene

A walk during autumn

 

 

 

 

  It was with a sense of the forlorn that I looked up at the tall tree against a coal grey sky. All its leaves had fallen, heralding the coming winter. Bone-like branches protruded in twisted shapes as if it had suffered in torment from unseen forces that froze it in place. I stood on a large field in which the tree stood as sole guardian. Behind me, at the edge of the field, ran a stream that quietly moved as it went over stones and branches and logs, following its course. Seeing only the tree and sky I could believe I was alone; that it was only I, tree, and field. But around crowded the millions of heartbeats that uncertainly pounded; that like the stream, all went down the same current to cower at the last bend where it ended and emptied into an unknown dimension.

 

   A solitary church bell sounded somewhere beyond, calling the evening mass, carried by the wind that made the branches clack and chilled me through my great coat. There was a path to my left going alongside the stream, hedged by thick and tall brush on both sides. I started down it. My boots sucked on mud and splashed in puddles but the wind did not penetrate. Ten yards ahead a light atop a rustic trunk made a weak yellow circle on the wet ground. There were no others like it in sight, making the path seem even more deserted. I kept on for a while to see where it led. After a short while the gloom revealed a white stone building. From behind it came the static noise of a waterfall emptying into the stream. When I stepped onto the concrete walk that led to an open, rusted metallic door, glass cracked underfoot. The large windows above the door were pockmarked with many different-sized holes, and another stone thrown would shatter them completely. As I stepped through the threshold two pigeons that slept on a piece of machinery took flight to a steel beam that crossed the length of the high-ceilinged room. They cooed and blinked and looked down at me.

 

  Small pieces of aluminum, metal and wood littered the floor. In the center of the room were two large old generators. Their color and inner workings could no longer be made out, but in the dying light I could make out names on their surface. Silhouetted against the darkening windows, they resembled massive tombstones. I leaned against the damp wall, sliding slowly to the floor. Stillness and cold enveloped the place. The years of abandonment that settled here could could be felt, and I could no longer rise. I wanted to light a cigarette but something stayed my hand.  The door closed then, without reason or protest encasing me as it had so many others before and the Autumn wind blew, hard and frigid, through jagged openings. 

    

Reviews

[Laura Lynn]

I love this. I mean I really love this ; it's so quiet with the class breaking underfoot and all. Each moment ...this is the type of book I remember loving to read as a child, like the Secret Garden, except cigarettes seem to put it in a different century, there is illness threatening death in the Secret Garden but no boards that look like tombstones

[Alan B.]

I'm extremely glad you enjoyed it Laura. I'm still trying to find my voice and am humbled that you took the time to read and comment.