perhaps it was the windy chill ruffling the moor--perhaps it was simply ziggy's avid imagination acting up--which lured him to the shadows. it whispered to him, it seemed, or perhaps it was merely the whistle of trees and songbirds. the eerie starshine cast its frosty glow over the riverbank, illuminating his footsteps. fish splashed merrily in the tidy silver water. ziggy hungered for them, but images of a churning obsidian tide flashed through his mind. the sharp craving ebbed away. he could wait until the rustle of mice and the stir of voles became present; along with the streaming rosy dawn, which he longed for ever so much. perhaps it was his ache for sunlight in this gloomy forest that fed his loathe. he could swear on a moon of juicy mice that the gnarly claws of the trees outstretched for his glossy black pelt. their knobby knuckles groaned with effort, snatching at his hide.
ziggy quickened his pace. the flirtatious river only chuckled in reply, but ziggy knew better; his rebuke was no more than the whisking thrum of pawsteps. silver waves splashed over him, but all he could see was crimson, flowing down the winding trail. the moor stretched out before him. a river, much more ghastly than the ravenous river of black, chewed at the moor. glowing blue trees cackled--with fear or triumph?
ziggy knew that this playful forest beckoned for him. it begged him to play; splash in the river, roll in the grass, run on the moor. maybe even scale a sky-tickling tree! the long grass clawed longingly at his fuzzy white belly. ziggy wished he could feel such sorrow as the grass, but he was rendered incapable by the looming precession of fear. he was self-destructive, only seeing the worst. maybe the flowing sea of scarlet was a sign. he yearned to feel the snug warmth of a twoleg nest on his back, but the crisp air of the forest settled deep within him. something stirred--something long forgotten. this something longed to whisk across wind-torn grass, or fish in the river. heaps of sparkling silver kill built up next to him. a rushing sense of freedom and belonging crashed violently over him. memories--maybe hallucinations--of fresh mice, a swelling river, and a soft-spoken she-cat surfaced. they were unspoken, for they needed no words. ziggy knew his pawsteps fell into those he set countless moons ago.
but perhaps it was only the chill of a cold october night.