Feeding Time at the Zoo
I'm just this guy, you know?
To expand on that, I am also the following...
- A former ficly member who is 36 years old and is schizoaffective (depressive type)
- Into creating languages and fantasy worlds from scratch
- A listener of audiobooks & good tunes
- Always too hard on myself
I was supposed to feed the wallabies.
Oh, I remembered about an hour later.
It was a slight the wallabies would not forget nor forgive.
I'm convinced they keep a list in their head of each person or creature that slights them in the smallest of degrees and uses it as fodder for the oncoming revolution.
Scott stared at me with dead eyes.
Scott the wallaby, that is.
Cold dead eyes. Eyes that plotted my impending demise.
He twitched his nose.
I knew what it meant.
I put the bowl of food down in front of his little lean-to.
His ear twitched with the ire of a thousand suns.
His gaze froze me. It felt like if I ran, he would attack. Him and his cohorts.
I imagined that they called themselves "Hell's Hoppers" like the bad asses I knew they were.
I flinched. Scott tilted his head to lure me into a false sense of security. I wasn't having it.
I backed out slowly. Step by step by step.
Then it happened. In a flash I was surrounded.
The revolution was upon us.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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