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| The Frog |
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The frog was admiring the colors in the sky, floating slowly in the pond. The evening sun, large and orange, was setting in a pink background. The water in the pond was slowly lapping against the body he was perched on.
This poor fisherman drifted along in isolation. No one has come looking for him yet. They may never come. This pond is but one of many hidden ponds in these lonely woods. Fishing line was here and there, wrapped around one leg and an arm. A soaked ball cap was lying in the weeds.
Earlier that morning the man came and was standing in his boat, quietly fishing, smoking his cigar, and enjoying the morning breeze.
If only the young man had not been so harsh, when the frog started singing to his mate, and thrown the crumpled up beer can at him. He lost his balance, flailing desperately to keep from tipping the boat, but it was too late. He hit his head on the side of the boat and drowned.
From the Dead Body Series
Written in 2004Labels: Dead Body Series, macabre |
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posted by Brett @ 1:26 PM
 
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| The Mouse |
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The mouse ran along a beam of the old shack and stopped. He looked down. The old man had been dead for three days now. He was slumped over his desk. His head rested on the sheets of paper he had been writing on. There were a few sketches among the writings as well.
The mouse wondered whether anyone would find him or even know where the old man was. The aged writer would come to the old shack every spring to write his books and sketch out new ideas. For nearly 30 years this ritual took place.
If only the old man had given him the piece of cheese he was begging for, he would not have choked on it when he ate it himself.
From the Dead Body Series
Written in 2004
Labels: Dead Body Series, macabre |
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posted by Brett @ 11:50 PM
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