It is a little known fact that certain rocks of the intertidal zone can be something of a dandy. The moment the tide begins to withdraw finds them whipping out their combs – often the backbone of some unlucky minnow – and combing flat their wigs of algae.
I’ve heard them brag they got the idea from adolescent mermaids and preening ducks. Others say they have to do it or their wigs are plagued with sand fleas. Since I’ve asked all I see are flea-ridden, preening stones who wish to look like little girls. I’m not sure of the appeal, but then again I am not a lady rock.
He is centuries old, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean he’s grumpy. Sure, he looks cranky enough, but try to be compassionate. They say it takes a thousand years for a pile of rocks to smile; he has just begun to try.
Toad felt a certain kinship with rocks. Of course, the rocks never failed to ignore him, but they never moved away from him either. He took this as a sign to keep trying.
“Don’t worry, little fella. My feet are wet too. I never could resist a mud puddle.”
He looked down, pretending their words hadn’t hurt him. The moss growing upon him for the past century or so knew better. It couldn’t think of anything to say, so it hugged him a little tighter and let him know he wasn’t all alone.