It wasn't a bother, really.

Written at least a few years ago; but [i]this[/i], it never came to light.

POSTED: Sun Jan 07, 2018 10:07 pm

Persimmon woke face to face with a rat staring him down. After a scream that was most definitely not shrill and hysterical, the coyote jumped up and backed away to the opposite corner of the debris filled room, trailing a threadbare blanket in his wake. The rat continued to stare at him as he nervously fumbled for the leather satchel containing all of the male’s worldly possessions, and actually growled at him as his hand managed to hook the satchel strap. Never taking his eyes off the rodent, for fear of it rushing forward to sink those plague-riddled yellow teeth into his flesh, the tawny male shuffled out of the shack he’d been sleeping in for two days. If the structure had been even a tad weaker, the force with which he slammed the door shut would have caved in the shack. Now, bleary-eyed and bedraggled from a rough night, he considered burning the place to the ground. With concern over vermin borne diseases that had arisen of late, he was fairly confident that he wouldn’t be disciplined for igniting a structure on pack territory. And stomping on the ashes. Repeatedly.

Since his introduction into Sapient, the coyote had yet to acquire a proper home. At the moment, he was sitting on a wall overlooking a fallow field, eating a breakfast of vole. With one hand, he was dabbing notes in blood onto the wall in lieu of ink, while the other was trying to rub the sleep out of his bloodshot eyes. It was a good thing his little corner of Sapient’s lands were mostly abandoned, as the coyote was a mess. His hair was doing an truly inspired impression of a bird’s nest, while his coat wasn’t in much better condition. His prized paisley vest was absent entirely, and his rumpled dress shirt hadn’t even been buttoned up. Persimmon blamed the rat, or as he decided to call it, The si-gogglin’ varmit for his lapse in fashion. It wouldn’t have scared him nearly as much had the threat of sickness not been lingering like a miasma over his head.

Looking down, the coyote looked down at the list of poisons he had scrawled on the top of the low brick wall. Most of them were too risky to use where children lived, and the ones that weren’t would be too weak to be effective. Persimmon began to wring his pilfered blanket in frustration, emitting a low growl as he did so. He was this close to a breakthrough. If he solved the rat problem, he would immediately shoot up in prestige, and be heralded as a hero. Well, he thought to himself, Let’s not get carried away here. The coyote glanced back down at the gory scribbles beside him, furrowing his brow in frustration.

With a dejected sigh, he hopped of the wall, landing with a little flourish for the sake of itself. Perhaps a walk would stimulate his mind? Regardless of the end result, he grabbed his ragged sheet and set off with it draped over his shoulder. It wasn’t long before he saw another figure across the field, and after a brief struggle between vanity and practicality, Persimmon gave a shout and wave.

Hopefully they had a brush.


*I haven't posted anything to this board in a long time, and the idea of coming back never once flitted through my head. Yet, when I went through my old writing, those inelegant scrawls barely constituting words; I found this and paused. Something never felt quite right about simply leaving a character to fade away in ambiguity like this, it was almost cruel. So I feel that the last instant of this fictitious journey should be laid to rest, its bones neatly wrapped in a silk shroud, and sent home for interment.

I've long since lost the passwords to my accounts, they may still be mouldering in some cellar, but I do make a last request before I leave. The characters of Persimmon Fell, and Xōchitl Cāhualli
aren't mine anymore, but they shouldn't be tucked into obscurity either. So I ask that they may be put up for adoption, so someone else can use these cogs to propel their own stories. To write what I never had the vision or motivation to accomplish.

Something beautiful.

Thank you, and it was an honour.

Non-Canon

cron