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One day, maybe it was Tuesday or Friday...whatever Jimmothy was a moose and didn't really give a shit...the moose named Jimmothy went to market.
She had never seen a place like this, barely any snow, and covered in green, it felt warm on her paws.
She padded across the morning snow, she was really quite tired now. Not wanting to remember the night before, but it kept creeping up on her.
There is a legend in these parts. One thats widely known. A legend of a rat. And the wings that he had grown. His wings were born from struggle. His wings were born from strife.
"Really Midge, it's been seven years since the water accident, I would get in that river if I was you." Midge thought about that terrible day when he had been innocently watching the cool,blue water...
“Remember me?” Those fearless eyes still haunt the minds of those whom witnessed it. Even the killer itself. “Please... No...” Small, frightened voices cooed, tears falling.
Fritz the fox adroitly dodged and weaved his way through the forest away from his pursuers; how distressing, he thought, that fox hunting was still practiced in some parts of the earth in the 21st...
She ran breathless through the wheat fields, cornflour hair billowing violently despite the windless blue sky. The monkey perched on her shoulder, held on tight for dear life.
Skip, skip, skip-ity bee, Up, and up, around the tree, "look, look, look at me.
There was a grey parrot that grew red feathers one morning because he dreamed of strawberries. Or at least that’s what he thought.