Trevor the toad slipped along the knobbled byway in the dark and wet of the hunting night. Clock towers bristled up from the country villages like frost columns that suspend the tops of mole hills. Lightning swam in the briny atmosphere, and torrents whispered through culvert, dam, and drain.

A pale hand reaching out from the bars clasped the toad, and dragged it into the whirl of darkness and cold where drops sat and draughts conspired like kings; it was the pale hand of Trevor’s young master, who was very much relieved to find him.

2023/01/29 #DailyWrittenOOM