(takes place about a day after this thread)
Wake up. Wake up. Run. Stop. Sleep. Wake up. Run.
Holo lost track of the days long ago. Winter was supposed to have ended, but the clouds overhead were bleak and grey and snowing again. Had he skipped an entire year and found himself back at the beginning of it? What sparse grasses sprouted on the bank of the river were thin and frail, dry and yellow, but it was cold, and it was desert, and he thought it was most definitely fall. How many times had he come back to this creek, unable to surpass the obstacle of its split?
He stood on the edge, huddled into himself, eying the fork wearily. His eyelids fluttered with the temptation of sleep. But he was so hungry. Maybe. Food. At the end of one of these paths. But he didn’t know which one; why couldn’t his master have just told him? Frustration, or desperation. Motivated his paws. He lifted again and angled his body away from the creek.
It was some forsaken pattern. Come to the creek. Follow it until it fragmented. Circle himself until uncertainties drove him away. And then wander the wasteland for another day before thirst brought him back here. Repeat. Repeat. He was lost. Where was the desert yearling? She knew the way.
The boy turned again. Look one way down the river, then the other. Which. Way. Can’t. I don’t know. Nobody told me. What to do.
Sorrow welled in his throat and he trembled.
Sep 20, 2018 01:30 PM
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