I extended my hand and caught a falling water drop with morbid curiosity. How could a tree cry when I could not? Looking up I saw the branches teaming with tears. What did a tree have to be sad about?
The sun was fighting a losing battle against the mist, which dampened all light and sound, and gave the park an eerie glow. It didn’t feel real. The soft mush sucked at my feet, begging me to stay. I wanted to.
I waded into the water, the pond scum sticking to my bare legs.
I would stay.
I wouldn’t go home.
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)
Make every word count.