The Little Vixen´s Tale

22. march 2017 at 17:44 | Gréti |  The short ones
She tried to run.
She tried to escape.
She tried to get away.
All her life she spent trying.
Tiny little vixen splashed the forest red, a forever wet line of paint shivering amongst the brown bark and silver coins of shattered hourglass. The wind raced in her fur, whirled it curly and bubbly, until her leather bitten by brisk breeze benumbed, until icicles hung from her upper jaw clinging-clanging as her legs hurried her forward.

Her colour faded, her braveness sunk in pigment. The colour of blood dripped onto the green grass, onto the white snow. And she still kept whisking with the wind in her pelt of flesh.
Tiny little vixen cried out loudly, a silent scream no one expected collapsed in its infancy. Early sun rise flooded the empty forest ahead uncovering the duvet off of the sharp edges. Her yowl shot into the ground like a missile missing the target, but not loud enough to attract gravitation it bounced back cutting a final grin on her throat.
She tried.
The rigid red fluid she carried in her veins gushed out like a rose in full bloom from beneath the cold ground, saturating the air with the sweet smell of iron.

Now the dead little foxy lay cold on time, spread limbs, tummy slain opened, crows dining on her insides.

24th of January 2017


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