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A-Z: Y for Youth

But first he had to take out the .45 bullets, the cold, sharp, dead things. Not his weapon of choice on the flowers he picked up, the boys who fell for the hush, the softness of his voice, never recognized him for who he was until too late. Youth was stupid, that way. No grown man would have entered his car.

Walking by the river: Picture prompt

More Morning writing, and another picture I came across.

He walked out that morning, planning never to come back, wearing his trusty old jacket, boots, holding his walking stick in his arthritic right hand. His old bones weighed too much on his children and he wanted a quiet place to curl up and die, like a tired bear who has slept through countless winters, raided many honeycombs in summer, hunted, feasted and danced under the moon; and now, too tired to carry on, wanted a place to lie under its own fur, lay its head on a smooth stone and never get up again.