RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block Toughened Glass

You ran. The snow under your feet don't hurt anymore, as the thick hairs protect them.

You ran. The night doesn't scare you anymore. It's your time, the night.

You don't need to see. The scents tell you all. The passages across the crevices, under the logs of fir trees, away from the hated humans.

The scents tell you of your brothers, hiding away scared by the invasion of their land by the men from abroad carrying the guns.

And the scents tell you of your half brothers, sold out to the men, guiding them to your tracks. Bastard dogs.

You ran. Down the steep slopes, under that new moon that now stand still in the mid of the nocturnal sky.

What is that moon? Who are those men? Why they came for you?

Questions too complex for you. For you NOW. Better save them for later. For the other you, the one scared by night but better at answering at difficult things.

For you, better keep doing what you do best: run. Jump. Kill.

And then the wilderness end, and a road cross your path. Cars, many cars heading away from the ravaged land.

Behind, men and dogs are nearer. You hear their barks, their cry. You hear their heartbeat.

They are too many, and converging over you.

There is no way behind.

Go further. Like always.

There is a big truck. They usually go fast and very far. The notion, buried somewhere in your brain, resurface at the right time.

You jump and land over the top.

Your claws grasp the thin metallic roof, and finally you rest.

************************************************************************

The truck finally stops. Many hours before hard claws had broken open the roof, and a wolf like creature got inside. Now it is Edulcore Cicciotto to awake at the sun beam coming from that same hole.

The head is dizzy, but he is able to jump outside the hole in the roof just before someone open the back door. The man suddenly notice the opening, and alarmed look outside and then inside again, puzzled and worried.

Edulcore Cicciotto is metres away by then. Hiding behind containers, his clothes completely shredded, in what it seems a riverside dock.

A little bird walks on the bank waving the tail. At first Cicciotto doesn't pay attention, but then there is something unfamiliar in it. It's a wagtail, yes, but it's strangely dark on the back. And then the revelation. It's not a white wagtail, the species widespread on the continent. It's a pied wagtail, endemic of the British Isle.

Cicciotto sighs, relieved. There is half a continent between him and his hunters.

From an open window not far, where someone has put on a radio, the voice of a news reader confirms Cicciotto's hypothesis: it' English.

Not all the words are intelligible to Cicciotto, but there is a great deal of excitation in the voice of the journalist, who is talking about a "new moon" appeared in the sky the previous night, and about whom the scientists are unable to give an explanation.

And then, he talks a big earthquake in the French Alps, with thousands of dead and the people of whole town relocated by the authorities to hundreds of kilometres away, in an never before seen move.

"So, they want to keep the two things unrelated..." whispered Cicciotto to himself. But he had other needs, first. New clothes. And then to reach London, to find help in the emigrants community from his valley.