The hoary pollywog's story began here, so please read it first.
The hoary pollywog moved toward the surface. He knew it was night, not by the absence of light, for the pond was often dark at the depths he lurked, but by the absence of noise. His disproportional legs kicked, unsuccessfully attempting to aide his flight, For flight it was, a long and tiresome flight, the outcome of which lay in the future, undetermined, and though a matter of concern for the hoary pollywog, uncared about.
For the hoary polllywog, having since come to the conclusion that justice was a word not in the dictionary when it came to him and his plight, had decided that he must himself venture to the surface and see. See the paradise that awaited him when he grew, as all frogs must, to maturity.
Deep in his heart, the hoary pollywog knew that he would never mature, he would die the way he lived, small and shrunken and deformed, with a slithery body and legs that stuck out at the sides, silly ornaments useless at everything but making a fool out of him. He knew that his gills would fail him in his moment of truth, that he would die, unless, and he told himself this unless, though he didn't admit anything else, the world above could include him, he could be made for it.
The hoary pollywog sensed weeds sliding across his black back, and shuddered internally. The sensation reminded him of his horrid deformities and too small body. He could see, and feel, the surface above him, though he had not reached it yet.
He looked up, seeing the orb that was the moon, a blurry feature whose beauty would soon be revealed to his wondering eyes. Steeling his determination, for he was determined he would not be timid and slip back into the water, breathe through wretched fills again and wallow in depression, he kicked his legs.
He found a slight grip on a pebble in the water, and thrust himself from it. He flew into the air, above the water, marvelling at the airiness, the darkness, the stars.
He landed with a slight *plop* on soft grass. The blades of grass seemed as though a comforting throne, fit for a king, someone who belonged. He took and deep breath.
He gasped. He couldn't breath. He shook his head, his eyes going blurry.
He would not die without having seen the moon. No. He flipped to his side. He craned his head. He flopped around the grass. The blades of grass, caressing moments before, seemed as though swords. They sliced into his back. He felt light-headed.
He wished to see the moon. To be in the water. Any fate but this. Dying, alone, shrouded in night. He wished that he could take just one more breath, see the moon, be deformed. Anything but this.
However, mused the sky, would such a wish be ill-granted? The hoary pollywog would perhaps just go back to sulking and complaining.
The sky sighed. The wish would be granted.
A breeze stole through the trees toward the hoary pollywog. It whispered among leaves and rustled branches.
The hoary pollywog looked up. He felt the breeze. No longer a breeze, the wind gushed toward him.
He prepared to die. He looked upwards. Clouds greeted him.
The moon had been hidden all along.
The clouds moved across the sky, flung backwards as though opposite poles.
He saw it. The moon, gleaming above him.
He sighed. What bliss, to die as the moon shone upon him, bathed in silver light. He closed his eyes.
The wind puffed one last time, and with a slight whoosh, the hoary pollywog was blown into the water.
He took a breath. He lived.
But most of all, he remembered. The moon.