October's Ache

It isn't necessarily a full short story, but it's something I started that could be a story.

It was the start of October,

in the anguished transition into gloomy

days and favorable whispers of those Fall

leaves as they swayed into the pain-driven stroke

of the winds.

He sat there, unnervingly staring into the

cracks of the faded grey concrete and allowed his conscious

to expand.

Expand into the wonders of his actions and the people who witnessed

the outcome of those actions.

"God d****t!" He shout.

A cry to the ends of the world and quite frank,

he was hoping to reach the moon with his anger that

manifested through every fibril being.

His cigarette now dangling from the corner of his slim,

muscular lips

was now apart of the dark, gloomy concrete.

His left hand grasped a chunk of his hair and his right continuously

socked the bench which contained him.

"What's wrong with me?"

A whisper heard a thousand miles away but gnawed at his own mind.

A simple question when placed into perspective doesn't fit the criteria of being simple, gradually then

becomes difficult.

Hours aged and the sounds of the wind tortured and taunted him. An answer

he must find yet refused to search for it. It must appear!

Waiting.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Observing.

What else could he do? What exactly could he do...

for this is something he couldn't know.

Author's Note

Feel free to critique and comment.