Sis scoops black bodies onto the platform. I wash them back into water. “Help!” I yell. Cuz runs. “They’re killing ‘em!” I brush tadpoles into the river. “Quick! They’ll die!”
Sis and Bub decided tadpoles are toad young, pollywogs frog young. Frogs, good; toads, bad. Hence the slaughter. We struggle, me-Cuz versus Sis-Bub. We are gods.
In the stream, I push Sis, she pushes me, we shove and shout, sopping wet. “I’m telling!” we yell.
Dozens of tiny corpses lie squashed on the concrete slab—entrails extrude, charcoal strings, sacrifices to the idea, if not fact, of tadpole-toad malignancy.

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