[SOLO] Wild [ Sleepless ]
Posted: Sun Aug 30, 2020 3:50 pm
A jackalope was soft. Curled up in her burrow, she was soft, and she was warm. Curled up, she slept, a ball of gentle fluff, softly, and warmly. Until the vibrations of distant hoofsteps filtered through the earth, coming closer, and then she sat up.
There were voices starting up, outside the warren; the vibrations of hoofsteps. She tensed, hunched, thumped a strong beat into the ground. That would warn whoever needed it - she didn't need it, not yet. She was a jackalope, not a rabbit, and had more mettle than that.
But, still, a jackalope was careful. A jackalope was still like a rabbit, skittish, and when the voices rose, and the large hooves went clop-clop, she skittered back towards the darkness, eyes bright, and wary. She would fight if she had to, she was a jackalope, she would scream - she would fly if she had to; she would fly first, she was a jackalope. But not now, not here, not if she could help it. She waited, in the darkness, tensed and ready to fly.
It was only when they did not get louder, and the hooves had stilled, that she ventured forth, inquisitive nose-first, because she was a jackalope, into the open night.
The big ones were quiet.
They were gentle, bearing berries, and softly cooed till she came, one cautious hop at a time, closer, close enough to touch. She let them, because they bore berries, and let her nip each one from the stem. They were sweet, and juicy enough to satiate her. She nipped each one, and let them nuzzle gentle muzzles into the top of her head as she flicked her ears.
Because, like a rabbit, a jackalope got lonely; a jackalope was needy, even if she didn't show it, not much. When it was more than she was willing to bear – more than she wanted to bear – she nipped at the gentle muzzles, grazed the pointed tips of her thorny horns across a snuffling nose in warning; tensed to fly. She flicked her ears, and turned her head away when they pressed against her for a cuddle, but a jackalope was needy, and she leaned into the soft touch.
A jackalope, like a rabbit, craved.
But like a jackalope, a rabbit's heart was wild, and the heart of a jackalope was wilder yet. She nipped each berry, and leaned into their gentle muzzles with her head turned, but when she had had it – when she had had enough, she beat away from them with her thumping paws, and ran.
And a jackalope could run.
Through the night, she ran, like the wind, if the wind drummed paw-beats in its wake – thump-thump, into the dark. The chirping cicadas could see her, as she passed, but if a drowsing animal, awakened by her thrum through the earth, looked out of their nook to watch her, she would be gone before they could open their eyes. Because she was a jackalope, and a jackalope could run, and a jackalope was wild.
And when she had run her fill, through the night, and emerged from the bush into the coming dawn, the first rays of sun glinted fiercely off her dew-brushed antlers, a wild, proud thing of the Swamp.
END
There were voices starting up, outside the warren; the vibrations of hoofsteps. She tensed, hunched, thumped a strong beat into the ground. That would warn whoever needed it - she didn't need it, not yet. She was a jackalope, not a rabbit, and had more mettle than that.
But, still, a jackalope was careful. A jackalope was still like a rabbit, skittish, and when the voices rose, and the large hooves went clop-clop, she skittered back towards the darkness, eyes bright, and wary. She would fight if she had to, she was a jackalope, she would scream - she would fly if she had to; she would fly first, she was a jackalope. But not now, not here, not if she could help it. She waited, in the darkness, tensed and ready to fly.
It was only when they did not get louder, and the hooves had stilled, that she ventured forth, inquisitive nose-first, because she was a jackalope, into the open night.
The big ones were quiet.
They were gentle, bearing berries, and softly cooed till she came, one cautious hop at a time, closer, close enough to touch. She let them, because they bore berries, and let her nip each one from the stem. They were sweet, and juicy enough to satiate her. She nipped each one, and let them nuzzle gentle muzzles into the top of her head as she flicked her ears.
Because, like a rabbit, a jackalope got lonely; a jackalope was needy, even if she didn't show it, not much. When it was more than she was willing to bear – more than she wanted to bear – she nipped at the gentle muzzles, grazed the pointed tips of her thorny horns across a snuffling nose in warning; tensed to fly. She flicked her ears, and turned her head away when they pressed against her for a cuddle, but a jackalope was needy, and she leaned into the soft touch.
A jackalope, like a rabbit, craved.
But like a jackalope, a rabbit's heart was wild, and the heart of a jackalope was wilder yet. She nipped each berry, and leaned into their gentle muzzles with her head turned, but when she had had it – when she had had enough, she beat away from them with her thumping paws, and ran.
And a jackalope could run.
Through the night, she ran, like the wind, if the wind drummed paw-beats in its wake – thump-thump, into the dark. The chirping cicadas could see her, as she passed, but if a drowsing animal, awakened by her thrum through the earth, looked out of their nook to watch her, she would be gone before they could open their eyes. Because she was a jackalope, and a jackalope could run, and a jackalope was wild.
And when she had run her fill, through the night, and emerged from the bush into the coming dawn, the first rays of sun glinted fiercely off her dew-brushed antlers, a wild, proud thing of the Swamp.
END