Air Talk

                                                  Air Talk
                                                      By
                                                  Mike Hill


                                                        I
Summertime, that warm smell of fresh grass in the hot, humid day.  I loved summer, for writting purposes.  You could always hear the birds chirp in the morning and the steady breeze that rustled the trees, it all seemed very relaxing as I would type my daily ten pages on my type writer.
  chick, chick, CHING
    It seemed as if the winter had stealthy slipped underneath me, because it always had been a ritual to spend the quiet winter down at Sunset Lake in my lake house.  Well, a ritual ever since Kelly died a few years back, the fall of '87 I believe it was.  Kelly had been out at the store and decided to stop at the local drug store to develop the pictures from her disposible camera at the one hour photo section.  They were dropped off, and never picked up. 
  Dinner was usually early-- 5:00 on most occasions-- and it seemed I had gotten too involved in my novel to notice the time-- 7:12 read on the clock that was mounted on the wall.  Eagerly, I pulled myself away from my desk and headed into the kitchen.  Thoughts overwhelmed