“I guess it’s time,” said Franklin. He raised his head and gazed outside of his apartment window. Outside he saw the spectacular fall foliage. Salamander orange leaves slowly falling off of the trees, creating a large crunchy hill of the deceased. The candlelight sun was shining upon the glass window allowing an amazing shade of orange light to seep into the room. Squirrels were scurrying along tree branches, harvesting nuts for the winter. A tear slowly rolled down Franklin’s cheek, leaving behind a trail of sorrow.

“I guess it’s time,” repeated Franklin. He walked away from his window and headed toward his apartment door. Next to his door, he removed his coat off of the coat hanger and wore it. He opened his maple wood door, closed it behind him as he walked through, and locked it with a trembling hand. He stood in front of his door for a while, staring at the “Apartment 4” etched into his door. He then began to creep down the building stairs until he reached ground floor.

“I guess it’s time,” said Franklin while holding back a flood of tears. He walked out of the apartment building and stood gazing at the parking lot. The parking lot was covered in a diverse array of colorful fall leaves. Three children, no older than 10 years of age, were kicking a beaten up soccer ball to each other. Their parents were watching them from their apartment balcony, sipping their morning coffee with their hands over the metal railing.

“It’s time,” said Franklin as he began to walk toward the street near traffic and civilization. The scent of pumpkin and cinnamon filled the air and Franklin’s lungs when he took a deep breath of the autumn breeze. The street pavement was an ashy gray. Shops were just beginning to open up, the owners sweeping the leaves in front, and people setting up their stands.

“Top of the morning, Franklin!” said an old barber while sweeping up front shop.
Franklin did not reply.

“You okay, Franklin?” said the old barber, this time more inquiringly.

Franklin walked past the old man, patted him on the back as he walked by, and walked into the middle of the street.

“Hey are you some sort of moron?” yelled a driver, stopping his car, avoiding a collision with Franklin.

Franklin stood there with a blank stare on his face, not even taking the time to look at the man in the car. He remained standing there in the middle of the street while two other cars were honking at him. The birds wings could be heard flapping from above, crickets chirping, children playing, brooms sweeping, families having breakfast in the diner across the street. All could be heard from that spot in the street, in the middle of the town.

Franklin put his hand inside his coat and removed a Winchester shotgun. He loaded the double barrel shotgun and cocked it. Franklin inserted the barrel of the shotgun into his own mouth.

“Franklin?” said the barber with a look of shock on his face.

Franklin turned his head towards the old man, and the old man saw a tear escape from each of his eyes. He pulled the trigger. His blood painted the street, splattering across the windshield of the car, the apron of the old man, the windows of shops.

Now all was silent. A crimson red shined throughout the street with Franklin’s dead body lying in the middle. What a spectacle it was. The old man and driver didn’t move from their spots, staring at Franklin’s body with a horrific look of astonishment.

There was no sound, the air seemed to have lost its fall essence, and it was almost as if the world had stopped for the people of the small town.