The playground

The little boy was tried of swinging back and forth in his own personal swingset. He looked over to his lonely sandbox and decided that it would probably be more fun. He would be able to build a castle, dig a hole and hide all his treasures in it, and play with the ants and then destroy their colony in the lonely sandbox.
He ran over to the square shaped box, jumping over a branch on his way there. And there it was. This little smurf. It must of been the size of any regular thumb. So little that if he jumped in the sandbox, the little smurf would no longer be a smurf. Instead he would of been this little spect of blue. Bright blue.
The boy was looking at the smurf and the smurf was looking at the boy. The boy without thinking his actions over, picked up the little smurf. Grabbing on to his little head.
Outrage. The little smurf was fighting the little boys strong grip. He was shouting at this little boy, however his voice was so high pitched, the ears of the child could not hear it. The smurf fought, bit his fingers, punched his thumb, wiggled he way out. It was unsuccessful. The poor smurf. There was nothing that he could do.
The boy examined the smurf. His pupils contricted trying to look at the object he picked up. The smurf was so blue. It was strange and it only had a shirt on. Where is his pants the little boy thought. Do smurfs where pants? and then the boy put a smile on his face. Smiling from cheek to cheek, showing the lack of his two front teeth. He wanted to keep him. He wanted to be friends.
Carefully he put the smurf in his back pocket and decided instead of the sandbox to go into the house.
From the pocket, the smurf looked at the sandbox fading in the background.