03-24-2017, 01:03 PM
WICKED
SOMETIMES ITS MY LIFE I CAN TASTE
Wicked had barely finished his meal—baby rabbit always slides better with viscera and blood—when he is being preened and pushed underneath the side of massive wings. It has grown so dark suddenly, and his eyes look around for some sense of something, but as the red stained his mouth, and he licks his lips to pry the meat from between his teeth, he says nothing as he allows himself to be ushered forward in the opposite direction of where they have come from. He does not know where they are going—he does not care. He is without Mother for the time being, and perhaps new scenery will allow him the chance to see new lands and discover for himself where his real mother may be. Through the course of his meal, his little horn nubs had grown—almost overnight—into full springbok horns that matched his sisters, and he proudly tossed his head underneath the umbrella of Mister Kirin’s wings in order to understand the weight and feel of his new attachments.
He smiles like loon when he realizes that he is finally not a dull normal horse anymore.
He is special.
Perhaps he is not Wicked after all.
pic by kyle thompson html by call