Tired of poetry from this site? Sure, we all are. So for today we return to my writing of choice: Prose. Prose! Glorious prose!
What’s as lovely
As a rose?
Is it prose?
Sure it’s prose!
Gak! How’d that get in there?
Sounded like fun. So I did it. Perhaps tomorrow, in lieu of pseudo-poetry, I’ll do today’s suggestion.
Or not, as the case may be.
That said, here is Play.
The lake laps at him as he floats. Such peace is good for the soul. Why’d they warn him from here?
Cold grips his leg. Tugs.
Down he goes.
He kicks once, twice.
The grip fails. He’s free.
Up. His lungs burn. Can he? He must, he must.
Claws scrape his feet but don’t stop him. In the air. The sweet, sweet air.
He heads for shore. All the way he fears being grabbed. Even far, far from the lake, he fears.
* * *
The nix sees him go. Why does he run? She just wants to play…