Any mud puddle was a golden find when I was a boy. Pictures prove it.

I ended my best high school football game, covered in mud, gleefully holding the winning ball.

I ran miles in Army basic training. Good memories flowed while cleaning mud off my boots.

My Army duties took away time for mud and then my legs.

I rebelled against the prosthetics, preferring a wheelchair.

Waterproof metal legs got my attention. I had to admit they would increase my mobility.

When Jester and I purposely run through sloppy mud puddles, my inner child comes alive with laughter.

Written in response to Charli Mills October 14, 2021, prompt at Carrot Ranch Literary: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that embraces the mud. What is the mud, real or metaphor? How does it transform a character or place? What happens? Go where the prompt leads!