Poor Froggy, by Fliss Zakaszewska

I glanced out, then did a double-take. A frog on the flat-roof? I wandered out then back to my bedroom, staring out of the window. It was still there and hadn’t moved.

“It’s fine,” I muttered going down to make a cup of tea and work on a story.

A day later, I could stand it no more. “Dan, there’s a frog on next-door’s roof. It hasn’t moved. Please shin up and see it it’s OK … ?”


“Mother! It’s a stone.” My son sighed and held out his hand. I blushed but he was right. It was just a stone.


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