Free to Write

One night each week, while the frogs croaked out their problems to the stars, she would walk. Out of her bedroom and down the stairs, into the garden in bare feet, she walked and thought about nothing and everything and crickets. Crickets were not her favorite insects, of course, because their song grated at the back of her mouth, and besides, they ate the garden down to the ground if they were let to.

She never really let them. She kept cats to catch the crickets and chase them into the basement, where they got caught in her web. Every week, she would let them out and then use magnified moonlight to burn everything away. Either that, or she was just dreaming.

Dreaming was her favorite.