This will end here, with nothing to mark

This will end here, with nothing to mark its passing.

I decided to create this story. But I have this creepy feeling, as if I'm not the first folder. It's like there's a story ghost haunting my fold. A sense of foreboding envelops me.

The first folder could feel my presence right behind him but I could feel the third folder on my back as well. I just needed to pass a message between the two. Story feels weird.

But nonetheless, I wrote a few words and passed it onto the third folder, who, once he received the fold, looked at me and said "How am I supposed to make a story out of this?"

I laughed with a snort and 7up flew out of me nose. "Wow." I said to him, wiping the soda off my chin and shirt, "I really wasn't expecting you to question my fold like that." He d

“No! I’m deathly allergic to bubbly beverages containing happiness in the flavor of limes and lemons! I’ll take the bitter coffee that’s sad and lukewarm.”

He took another defiant sip and stared out at the scorched garden. Out there, under leaves as brown and crumpled as paper bags, the frogs were weeping, and their tears flowed out

like rivers. He surveyed the scene. What began as a seemingly innocuous plan to redesign his ranch had evolved into madness. The frogs were now looking at him, their eyes the color

of evil. More showed up, and he rightly sensed doom. Tiptoeing around the frogs one night like Rod Taylor at the end of The Birds, he stepped on one. They leapt up, covering him.