Writing101 Day #4: The Serial Killer

I am like a tree.

Spring: my moss-stained branches sprouted emerald leaves and fresh, fluttering petals.

Summer: my sweet aroma drifts into the atomosphere and I sway blissfully in the sunlight.

Autumn: my golden-baked foliage will shrivel up and whip away in crispy furls.

Winter: my naked body will wither and tremble as gnarly twigs snap off and leave me to decay.

My childhood has been snagged  in the stealthy switch of a season.

So now I sit Summer, then Autumn, then