I come home to my dead body. It’s been rotting for some time now. The smell is too much. My eyes water. My nose is on fire. Shutting the door, I sit on the lonely porch of my home. The white paint is peeling, and the wood underneath is swelling. No one hears me when I go out to town. No one visits and finds the rot inside.
I gaze out past the waving trees into the stormy sky. I have not yet been blown away, but I know the winds will come. If only someone would hear, would come.
Tale Told 