Its early and the sun pinkens the sky. My bare feet slap the cold mud and the morning dew tickles my toes. The grass is tall and wet from the rain, but I am determined to do what I want. Arms extended I run, an airplane I am, soaring through the tangling plants. My mission is to the great oak out in the field, the rope and its swing. Faster I run, and with a leap I land with a foot inside the round, cold rubber. The wind hits my face as I swing, and I turn with a smile lighting my face to watch the sun roll over the mountain in all its beautiful hues.
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Short Stories For The Wayward Soul
Short StoryA wayward soul you must be, to come forth across a story such as this.
