Beaver

ozzie

Drip…Drop…Drip…Drop…

Oswald hates the water. He hates how it drips endlessly into a puddle, growing ever larger. It drips when it rains and it drips a little less when it’s dry. He put a bowl underneath, but it overflowed. So he put in another bowl, a bigger one, but that overflowed too. He got tired of replacing the bowls, so he decided that the entire room was just one large bowl and to let it overflow the room. And so he let it overflow.

The entire floor is covered in a layer of wet. He mumbles his annoyances as he sloshes around. The water drips slowly up to his knees. ‘It’s nice to finally stop worrying about this problem’ he thinks.

When the water is up to his waist, he starts swimming around his house and thinks about buying a canoe. ‘I could have my own mini Venice’ he muses.

The water rises to his chest and he spends his days floating amicably. ‘Perhaps’, he ponders, ‘if I make the hole in the roof bigger, I may be able to see the stars as I float at night.’ And so he reaches up, tearing the hole apart with his hands, staring admiringly at his work and at the stars.

But soon enough, it starts raining and the water flows up, faster still to the roof. He braces himself against the roof, trying to find some space so that he can breathe. He tears at the roof so he can get some fresh air, enlarging the hole and allowing even more water to flow in. The water pounds on the door and opens it and he flows out, down the hill and flooding the little town. He lies there, gasping in the fresh air.

When the sun comes out, the townspeople come out and gape at this shrivelled creature lying in their town with webbed fingers and webbed toes. ‘What has he done to Oswald?’ they wonder. They hike up to his house but find nothing but water damaged furniture.

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