microfiction- the sycamore forest

I was going through the great woods where the sycamore trees grow. There, I met a toad. I knelt down aside him, he saw me and croaked a thundering, drawn out, roar. He was sad. The golden rays of the evening sun illuminated his skin. With that, the wretched creature peered around the forest, past the dark trees. I hated him, so I killed him. It wasn’t anything personal, I just never took a liking for small creatures. When I was little, I had a bunny.

So I sat there, next to the newly deceased corpse. I was still, listening to the gentle crackle of the leaves, in the woods. If only I hadn’t killed the frog. Oh well, what’s done can not be reversed. For now, I’ll just indulge in my tranquil surroundings, where the pinewood grows fresh.

My gown fanned out beneath me, the lace now muddled with leaves and dirt. The white satin was stained brown from the soil of my mother’s garden. I was back in my house, my frog in the terrarium beside me, and the trees, gently rustling outside.