Foamkit sits where the freckled border of the tree meets the sun. Although there have been crisper days, the light that bears down is still flat, too soft and uncomfortable. The star is firmly overhead and it makes the places where it breaks the leaf-cover glow. In the shade, his pale eyes stare at the ground, dirt where grass couldn't grow, a sharp kitten claw guided by a tiny wrist circling through the dust.
It is hard to focus on much, but he can do this just fine. His tail thumps behind him rhythmically, not hiccuping. The usually bubbly lift of his head is rounded, shoulders blocking whatever he was doing.
A frown deepens his face as he leans back. The artwork is crude, sloppy circles and lines. It isn't even comprehensible enough to be a child's drawing. It doesn't have to be.
His eyes press against his eyelids as he closes them, concentrating enough to make his head ache. But Foamkit is trying to go too far back. He is trying to recall something that happened and someone who was gone before his sight was not gluey and tacked shut.
It is hard to focus on much, but he can do this just fine. His tail thumps behind him rhythmically, not hiccuping. The usually bubbly lift of his head is rounded, shoulders blocking whatever he was doing.
A frown deepens his face as he leans back. The artwork is crude, sloppy circles and lines. It isn't even comprehensible enough to be a child's drawing. It doesn't have to be.
His eyes press against his eyelids as he closes them, concentrating enough to make his head ache. But Foamkit is trying to go too far back. He is trying to recall something that happened and someone who was gone before his sight was not gluey and tacked shut.