Goodbye, Pile of Broken Wood! (Brer Rabbit/OPEN)
Aug 14, 2009 0:17:19 GMT -5
Post by foxiliscious on Aug 14, 2009 0:17:19 GMT -5
The fox stood motionless in front of his den, utterly speechless at absolutely everything he drank in with those large, charcoal black pupils. Before the hurricane had arrived, he had been off at Brer Bear's cave. He eventually collapsed from exhaustion after the partying with the other outcasts and, to use a more precise definition, predators like themselves in the rural glen. He had been passed out, nestled against the hairy lug for warmth, not paying an ounce of concern towards the tremendous storm outside. There had been quite a few of them before in the Deep South and surely there were many that had yet to follow so what could possibly make this one any different?
The hill was a horrifying mess. Trees had fallen down--particularly a vast one that had landed on the roof of his little shack, the once lush, green bushes were totally naked and drenched, and a shallow pool of water was streaming out from the dented front door like blood trickling out of a wound from a sword fight. The mongrel tentatively strode forward, daring himself to peer into one of the broken windows and examine the inside.
From what he could make out, the brown trunk had broken in through the roof and just barely grazed the floor. Everything had been tossed about and soaked like a ratty old towel and the fox carefully climbed in to gather whatever belongings that weren't effected. A few minutes later, he angled his way back out with a sack full of clothes, weapons, and a small, unscathed picture of a pretty, voluptuous Hawaiian girl. He was hasty to bury that under one of his shirts and he began to tie the bag, his head overflowing with vehement more than his den was with water.
As he finished sealing the bag, the fox set it onto the sopping grass and gazed at the devastating results once more. It was not like him at all to feel anything but greed, hunger, hatred, or lust a majority of the time but at this moment, his countenance held nothing but gloom, heartbreak even.
The fox removed his hat slowly and then averted his eyes to the ground in a mournful stupor, a small tear trilling down his muzzle.
The hill was a horrifying mess. Trees had fallen down--particularly a vast one that had landed on the roof of his little shack, the once lush, green bushes were totally naked and drenched, and a shallow pool of water was streaming out from the dented front door like blood trickling out of a wound from a sword fight. The mongrel tentatively strode forward, daring himself to peer into one of the broken windows and examine the inside.
From what he could make out, the brown trunk had broken in through the roof and just barely grazed the floor. Everything had been tossed about and soaked like a ratty old towel and the fox carefully climbed in to gather whatever belongings that weren't effected. A few minutes later, he angled his way back out with a sack full of clothes, weapons, and a small, unscathed picture of a pretty, voluptuous Hawaiian girl. He was hasty to bury that under one of his shirts and he began to tie the bag, his head overflowing with vehement more than his den was with water.
As he finished sealing the bag, the fox set it onto the sopping grass and gazed at the devastating results once more. It was not like him at all to feel anything but greed, hunger, hatred, or lust a majority of the time but at this moment, his countenance held nothing but gloom, heartbreak even.
The fox removed his hat slowly and then averted his eyes to the ground in a mournful stupor, a small tear trilling down his muzzle.