- 6
- 1
Days blur into each other without definition or sense of purpose. Vague, uninspired passages through time and space, tethered only by the leash of routine: sleeping, eating, going out, griping about how bad it's all gotten, returning to eat and sleep, and do it all again.
Maybe Straw has what his colony-mates refer to as an attitude problem, but he is fine in his corner of the clearing. Surface-level observation would suggest that nothing ails him, that all is well in his little world. Flaxen fur tossed by the wind this way and that way, and dancing over his cheeks and shoulders like the billowing gold of a wheat field, he reclines in a sprawling fit. Limbs crookedly splayed about, tongue lapping at a paw that brushes occasionally over the knots in his tangled coat. Everything about him is aglow.
His posture does not betray the impatience that grips him.
This was never what he wanted, the colonial life. Sure, he gave it a shot, he gave his loyalty to Fray, and in turn, the colony had given him what he needed. Companionship is nice. Food is good. But look where they are now. Beneath the cloud of his fur has his frame grown lean and hardened. Sinew and ligaments visibly clench beneath the fluff, slim yet strong, howbeit too thinly weaved over a nervous system that can't bear to watch another go hungry.
He rolls over onto his stomach. All three paws planted on the ground, his eyes trail into the distance. Ahead of him, there is talk of leaders and what they mean and represent. He rolls again, flattening his body close to the earth. Grass blades poke and itch against the feathered wisps of his back. Again and again, he swivels in this manner, rolling across the clearing at a snail's leisure. Feigning indifference, nonchalance, whatever one wanted to call it, despite every inch of his being buckling beneath the mounting weight of this dour reality.
(penned by willie)
