Entry #39

Under a Puzzled Sky
by R. W. Randall


He really thought she would be the one, this time.

It was a mackerel sky, his late father would have called it. The clouds smeared and shifted moonlight into confusing shadows. He stared up from a stand of yellow pines, turning his thoughts over and over again without the distractions of the daylight world. There was a scent of approaching autumn on the wind, overlaid with the warm, decaying smell of forest duff. It was times like this when his mind asked the most questions.

He never could figure out what marked him as strange. As a child he had made no friends. It was no different now. Everyone in town knew him, but no one invited him anywhere. He worked alone, walked alone, fished alone, lived painfully alone. Women chanced upon him from time to infrequent time, but it always ended the same. It’s not you, they would say, It’s me. Which meant it really was him. Weird peculiar oddball him.

Why did everything always feel so wrong? Was there nothing but frustration and struggle? Did the world not understand him, or did he not understand the world? The world didn’t answer. There was only the melancholy thrum of frogs, the lamentations of crickets to a dying summer.

He really thought she would be the one, this time.

This time, at least, he had found a partial solution. Turning back to his work, he dumped her body in the pit and covered his questions with dirt.