Who Am I?: An Alliterative Adventure

Waist-deep in the water wearing waders and Levi’s rolled up to the knees, Walter Winters heaves a worrisome sigh as he wipes the wetness from his wrinkled forehead, and goes back to work, thrusting his shovel into the well-formed silt.

How could he have gotten himself here? Heaving the heavy hilt of his gardening tool into the hollow mud under the Henry Hudson River, he holds his handsome face away from the hot sun that, only an hour before, had been hidden behind the hilltops.

On observing the orange orb, Walter oscillates the old shovel over his hear, ousting it from his hands over onto the open bank. Out of an odorous duffel bag, he lifts the obese body of Orville Oakley, an old oil tycoon with a letter opener in his occipital lobe.

As he arches his back, asserting an aggravated groan, he apprehensively asks himself, “Am I really an assassin? Is alcoholic arrogance an appropriate reason to actively and aggressively authorize an action such as this?” And with this awareness, he adamantly agrees, and allows the body to drop into its apt, aquatic grave.

Morning makes itself more noticeable, melting its way across the mountains. Meanwhile, Walter maintains a measure of motivation, moving the mud over the motionless man, mindlessly and mechanically. “Me, a murderer? Maybe…” he muses.

In the end, it’s important to identify what may seem implicit; injustice breeds involuntary insanity, in both the idiotic and the intelligent. Though it isn’t in us all to inter the ignorant, I think it is inevitable. But then again, Who Am I?