Matthew hated Sunday worship more than he hated cleaning his moss and Matthew hated cleaning his moss. It was always the same: Line up, no talking, stop fidgeting. Listen.
It felt weird to him, being preached at by someone half his age but his mother always said that the trees were wise. They saw things from their lofty position and heard many truths from far and wide with their whisperings with the winds and sermons with the sparrows.
But Matthew didn’t care. Talk was for the birds. He knew of his place in this world.
He was born to rock.
Today’s story is brought to you by the picture submitted by Sandra Crook as part of Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle.
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