39 Horses My Mom Loved ONLINE
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Bluff and Rodger

Rodger had woke up that day, awkwarly adjusting to his new surroundings. Though less cumbersome than usual, a slight embarrassment, injected into his confidence by past results of such affairs, had lingered in the singular shadow between his eyes and nose. Briskly he rubbed the gunk deposited by sleep in his eye's corners, and rolled into a hop off his bed. Landing in a bounce, he could tell that this day was different. And so it proved to be so.

"Be a Beast. I'm a beast, best Tree Beast. I'm a beast," the wind rushing, with the blood thumping rhythmically in his ears, had said. Rodger had deeply acknowledged.

"Blustering Ragamuffin! Your pointless age is shown in the cracks. I've yet a permit to join and change your bumpy hide," his shoes translated between his feet to the pavement as Rodger galloped- lumbering over a hill and disappearing from Bluff's sight.

Bluff turned then, face smiling, upturned toward the sun.

"There's weather," her eyebrows gestured toward the source of the epiphany. Bluff began to dance, hands outstretched, penguin-like, bouncing with her heart bumps, in the air. Stars began falling with feather sensitivity- pleasant cotton leaves whose glow didn't fail when they rested by her shoes. They piled and slid around her in a stream of cool kisses, until they brushed silk through her hair with nary a beastly yank.

Inaudible flutes meandered the teeth of Bluff's smile and distant thunder became silent in appreciation of the sound. Two excitably frustrated squirrels halted their frantic chattering and perked gracefully, no longer flustered for the dance. Bluff's cheeks sang a lively red and pink hello to the phone ringing inside a nearby house.

A machine answered the ring with a human voice and static. The rustic blur vaguely ended in a musicish series of beeps, after which a voice could be heard by a centipede in the basement:

"...and so I continued walking, my breath sneaking outward, my face feeling for reflections of its dry-shit smell. I crossed a thin syrup of mud, worm-gauze sticking to the wounds of my shoes. Not wanting nor thinking to patch them in that terribly open silence, I continued on and in the end, after I returned, the sight of bounding white phantoms echoed into faint laughter at what I must've looked like- tense and traveling in spastic quiv..."

No insect sensed the space in the air when the speaker ceased. They were outside then, contentedly cooling in the leaves of a singular tree.