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Wow, haven't written in ages. My rats are doing great, although Pyry…

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Wow, haven't written in ages. My rats are doing great, although Pyry has started to show signs of HLD, and I've had to separate him and Kuura from the teens due to Kuura's aggressiveness. But I've got two new rats from a an unregistered but good breeder. The youngsters are so sweet. They're striped huskies/roans and their names are Eljas and Serkan.

But what was the actual point of my post was that it's October! Which means it'll soon be November! Time for NaNoWriMo again. I will try to write October's prompts everyday. Here's today's:


Gravity. How could the broken poets defy the old laws? The way it had always been? The wingless gryphon raised his eyes to the stars. The twinkling droplets of light amidst the velvety dark of the night sky seemed listless in the autumn gloaming. No clouds drifted across the still heavens. Not even the moon was in sight. Only the stars.
Icaros dropped his eyes. There was nothing for him up there. No whimsical words came to his mind, not a strand of a fleeting sentence… nothing. The night was silent, his voice was silent. The quill in his talon remained still.
Movement caught the desperate poet’s eye. Further in the meadow a creature was dancing. The old laws were broken, gravity defied. A foot gently touched ground, hardly bending even a blade of grass and immediately it was rising upwards again, floating higher and higher. The serpentine body twisted fluidly, heading back to the ground, another twist turned the direction again to the heavens.
Icaros watched silently as Ruubenev danced. A cruel form of mockery… Both of them wingless, yet it was the lunatic who flew, not the poet. Hardly a plan in his dance, the dragon turned again, his serpentine body afloat in the night air. He twisted and turned, floated and landed with form, without function. Perhaps there was a tune in his perhaps? Perhaps there was some reason? Perhaps there wasn’t…
Perhaps there wasn’t sense…. Perhaps there wasn’t reason…
The gryphon left his quill and his parchment. He walked to the only warmth in the autumn night. The light of a comforting fire. The little gazebo at the side of the meadow. His shelter from the autumn’s cold grasp. But not from the coldness within his mind.

291 words, 14 min
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