The Head: Short Story

In the moments before dusk while the autumn sun was slowly setting and the winds still played their sprinkling notes over red and golden leaves, a boy lead his father down a dirt path through a small park. “There it is dad.” The boy, who could be no older than eleven said. He extended his index finger and pointed. His father looked at where his son pointed, paused for a moment, and cringed. “Son of a… you weren’t fibbin’,” the father said, a little astonished. A head hung from the wild mass of oak tree in front of the man and his son.