Press Your Lips to the Sculptures

Oak · 08-29-2010, 11:40 AM

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Oak turned around on the couch, trying to get more comfortable. These restless mornings annoyed him to no end. He was impatient for the light of day, yet the moments seemed to drag on, the sun taking its sweet time. The chubby young child did not know what woke him so early, unaware that it was the seemingly boundless energy inside, begging to be released. He had come out to the living area thinking that the couch would be a more comfortable place to sleep, but he was having just as much trouble out here as in his family's room.

After making a dent int he cushions with his instinctual circling, Oak flopped down. He huffed a dissatisfied Humph, sighing through his nose with a soft hiss. His bright cobalt eyes closed, and he tried to think of nothing but sleep, the ultimate method of passing the time. Other thoughts invaded, however, memories of the previous day's play with Cypress and Alder, of his mothers soft words. Try as he might to keep anticipation at bay, he began to wonder what today would bring, and if there was adventure in store.

It was useless. His eyes snapped open to the still-dim room. A soft whine escaped him, his agitation making him want to scream at the top of his lungs. He would have done so had he been unaware of the many sleeping wolves, their presence forcing him to keep quiet. Oak lifted himself to his paws and leaped off the couch, toddling towards his mother's room, where he usually slept so well. He scratched the door open with a creamy, red stained paw an peered eagerly inside. Mama? Mama? he whispered, searching for her gray form among the blankets. She would make it better, somehow.

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