A boy stood in the middle of the woodland. Picking ticks from his legs, arms, and even his neck. He wished he had brought a lint roller, or alcohol to light his body with. The ticks mounted a heavy advance. He’d counted over fifty. And that was only the ticks he could see. The boy started to walk, then run, toward a pond. He sprinted downhill, the sun, blazing through the canopy of tree tops, started to dizzy him; his shadow caused too much chaos. Landing hard on the ground and letting go a grunt, which spurted spittle, the boy asked the nearby pond, ‘Is this happening?’ The pond was soundly sitting and awaiting the boys arrival. And finally the pond did respond, ‘Why are you here?’
mtaggartwriter 