The kid knew everything. It was beaming(bearing) it at me, as a little story, a whispered secret(schedule) when noone else was looking or paying attention.
I thought I was telling her the story. The story about the King Frog, alone in his castle, becoming(bearing) tyrannical, little by little, then sent on an adventure.
I was so proud of my improvised story-telling. The beam stopped. They’d given her a coloring book and some bright pens(peas) I chastised them for their lack of faculty of imagination.
But I finished the story. The king meets another frog at his window, follows him, is taught he’s only the king of the land and not of all things. Is taught how to do nothing, then does follow(fellow) a girl frog to her secret chambers(cubicles) behind the waterfall, is asked whether he wants to leave or die, accepts death, writhes(writes) in obliteration, is surprised he’s alive somehow later, wants to get back to the feeling of alienation, is told he can’t stay, rides back into his castle in time to reassert his power and prevent civil war, lives to his old age happy, wise, better(be her), and always bettering(be thing) himself.
The ending was quit moving. Now the tower has come up with the flames(fullness) of destruction and the castle’s on fire and people are jumping away to uncertain fates and I feel like I must finish a project I started a while back, and I’m sickened and destroyed at the immensity of that moment(movement) now that I’ve returned to what isn’t my home so I must keep moving to go back there(then).