With a slap of the water, ripples shimmer in the moonlight. “Go away, beaver, this is our river,” shouts he. The beaver calmly floats to the shoreline and takes a seat in the grass next to the two fellows sitting dazed by the river. “It’s not your river, nor is it mine,” the beaver says….
Tag: shortstory
The Creek Behind the School
I grew up in Claypool Indiana, a small farm town covered on all sides by cornfields and small patches of woods. It was a typical small town. The kind of place where everybody knew everybody. There was a good amount of kids in town my age and we always had something to do. Most of…
Slug Words 