gone fishing
Oct 9, 2017 13:24:53 GMT -5
Post by Pumpkin on Oct 9, 2017 13:24:53 GMT -5
The brittle branches of a tall white snag creaked as it stood against a partly cloudy sky.
A clay pot, its surface pockmarked with dents and small holes, sat overturned on the ground among its broken roots, buried deep in the soil.
Fungi, lichen, and moss grew in careful whorls around it, before the dirt patch eventually gave way to wild grasses.
A small pile of leaves had been stacked up between pot and tree, covering up the plump round form of an apple that had been slathered in mud.
A plump, short orange mouse sat atop the pot, gnawing on seeds taken from one of the nearby grass stems, listening to a soft breeze as it whispered through the leaves of unseen bushes.
A trickle of water weaved around the small area, a shallow outlet from the nearby creek, whose burbles could be heard just over a short hill, over which the mouse could see from his high perch.
He watched the light play off the gentle current, the shadows of tadpoles and tiny fish flickering just beneath its surface.
Recalling the "mousequerade" from just the other night, he was reminded yet more of his old roaming home.
He could hear the ringleader narrating excitedly to the audience, or a drummer beat a dangerous tone as the clowns fooled around under the big top.
Hm...the mouse sat up straight, whiskers stiff, as he swallowed the last seed in hand.
The party from last night had various stalls set up--there was even a stage set, the instruments without musicians to play them.
That gave him an idea.
Popping up and off the pot, the mouse hurried down to the banks of the creek, where he began to nose along the reeds and root about in the mud.
For the most part, he knew what he wanted, what he NEEDED, what he should be looking for--
Wood, mostly; a large piece of strong, sturdy bark would be great, that could be shaped by teeth that knew what they were doing.
Tough, dry grass perhaps, the fiber from a long-dead stick, or even the fins or muscles of a fish.
And a beetle's carapace.
And, at the end of it all, a craftsman--a carpenter.
His eyes drew to the creek.
Catching one of those fish would be a great break.
Besides all the things that could be made from its various parts, he could have himself a nice meal to boot!
Pulling himself over, the mouse sat down on the creek's edge, dipping his toes gingerly into the water.
Yikes!
It was a bit cold.
But nothing he couldn't handle...so long as he didn't get TOO soaked.
At least the air was warm.
Uncorking the lid off his wooden bottle of pumpkin cider, the mouse picked up his own tail and sprinkled some of it across the tip.
Hopefully this would increase his chances of getting a bite.
Snatching himself a small swig of the tasty cider, the mouse replaced the lid, then tossed his tail over into the water, watching as the current drifted it away, the long hairs wafting about like loose grass.1d20+1·1d20+1fIrD_hjH
A clay pot, its surface pockmarked with dents and small holes, sat overturned on the ground among its broken roots, buried deep in the soil.
Fungi, lichen, and moss grew in careful whorls around it, before the dirt patch eventually gave way to wild grasses.
A small pile of leaves had been stacked up between pot and tree, covering up the plump round form of an apple that had been slathered in mud.
A plump, short orange mouse sat atop the pot, gnawing on seeds taken from one of the nearby grass stems, listening to a soft breeze as it whispered through the leaves of unseen bushes.
A trickle of water weaved around the small area, a shallow outlet from the nearby creek, whose burbles could be heard just over a short hill, over which the mouse could see from his high perch.
He watched the light play off the gentle current, the shadows of tadpoles and tiny fish flickering just beneath its surface.
Recalling the "mousequerade" from just the other night, he was reminded yet more of his old roaming home.
He could hear the ringleader narrating excitedly to the audience, or a drummer beat a dangerous tone as the clowns fooled around under the big top.
Hm...the mouse sat up straight, whiskers stiff, as he swallowed the last seed in hand.
The party from last night had various stalls set up--there was even a stage set, the instruments without musicians to play them.
That gave him an idea.
Popping up and off the pot, the mouse hurried down to the banks of the creek, where he began to nose along the reeds and root about in the mud.
For the most part, he knew what he wanted, what he NEEDED, what he should be looking for--
Wood, mostly; a large piece of strong, sturdy bark would be great, that could be shaped by teeth that knew what they were doing.
Tough, dry grass perhaps, the fiber from a long-dead stick, or even the fins or muscles of a fish.
And a beetle's carapace.
And, at the end of it all, a craftsman--a carpenter.
His eyes drew to the creek.
Catching one of those fish would be a great break.
Besides all the things that could be made from its various parts, he could have himself a nice meal to boot!
Pulling himself over, the mouse sat down on the creek's edge, dipping his toes gingerly into the water.
Yikes!
It was a bit cold.
But nothing he couldn't handle...so long as he didn't get TOO soaked.
At least the air was warm.
Uncorking the lid off his wooden bottle of pumpkin cider, the mouse picked up his own tail and sprinkled some of it across the tip.
Hopefully this would increase his chances of getting a bite.
Snatching himself a small swig of the tasty cider, the mouse replaced the lid, then tossed his tail over into the water, watching as the current drifted it away, the long hairs wafting about like loose grass.1d20+1·1d20+1fIrD_hjH