Unendingly in thought. Incessant need to create. Introvert. Dog Lover.
The Waggish Traveller
Albert brushed the crumbled dirt from the roots of a tree before turning to sit. The day was hot, and the shade was a welcome break from the beating sun. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and removed his derby hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. Dark curls fell to his forehead and clung to it from the moisture.
His mother died on a Wednesday. Many of the town’s people came to pay their respects, but most just offered a regretful nod, or offerings of food while keeping their eyes glued to Edgar’s feet. He was “inhuman” as he’d heard them say many times. His face was twisted and revolting, and most of the time, he spoke a language that was all his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their language. He was quite astute. But they never saw that side to him. Rather they shielded their children’s eyes when he’d pass on the street and whisper horrid things to each other.