Marietta

The air was pale and thick and filled just past full with the heavy droning of aircraft. It was late October and the world seemed to finally be recovering from that initial shock over the sudden drop in temperature. I sat in my bedroom on the second floor and listened to the slow-flying planes as they grazed the roof of the house, roaring like panicked lions. I was alone, awaiting a phone call, and reading old short stories, and I felt that the planes were telling me to go home.