If a lion could speak, we could not understand him.
His finger skim the surface of the paper, over those letters. He had a book he carried, blank for the pages he was to fill of his own adventure. Today was the first thing he wrote, copying that sentence over on the first page. These days his penmanship was not as childish as it use to appear. His letters are simple, there is nothing of an ornate nature branching from them. If the stroke could be excluded and not sacrifice clarity, it was.
He rolled over onto his back in the house that he did not sell. That wasn't suppose to be bought. He had turned in his notice to Dr. Figmund Sroid that he would no longer be helping at the hospital. Then a letter slips under his door like a whisper. He climbs out of bed and moved, lifting the paper up and reading it without turning any of the lights on. It was a challenge.
The paper rolled out of his hands, down the air and rested on the floor. He walked over it when he stepped out and stopped at his porch. His eyebrows were knit, lips pressed in a fine line. A stranger wouldn't have found him approachable, that concerned statue. This passive way would have to be discarded, perhaps. There should have been a greater concern and worry. He should have been nervous about a confrontation because of the years between him and his last battle. Or the years that were in his leg, a handicapped leg by bear trap. Of all the thoughts that should have been, there was only one.
Would Madi have done it?
These days he could write her a letter and when she receives it, it says only—
Do you love or slay the lion'
His finger skim the surface of the paper, over those letters. He had a book he carried, blank for the pages he was to fill of his own adventure. Today was the first thing he wrote, copying that sentence over on the first page. These days his penmanship was not as childish as it use to appear. His letters are simple, there is nothing of an ornate nature branching from them. If the stroke could be excluded and not sacrifice clarity, it was.
He rolled over onto his back in the house that he did not sell. That wasn't suppose to be bought. He had turned in his notice to Dr. Figmund Sroid that he would no longer be helping at the hospital. Then a letter slips under his door like a whisper. He climbs out of bed and moved, lifting the paper up and reading it without turning any of the lights on. It was a challenge.
The paper rolled out of his hands, down the air and rested on the floor. He walked over it when he stepped out and stopped at his porch. His eyebrows were knit, lips pressed in a fine line. A stranger wouldn't have found him approachable, that concerned statue. This passive way would have to be discarded, perhaps. There should have been a greater concern and worry. He should have been nervous about a confrontation because of the years between him and his last battle. Or the years that were in his leg, a handicapped leg by bear trap. Of all the thoughts that should have been, there was only one.
Would Madi have done it?
These days he could write her a letter and when she receives it, it says only—
Do you love or slay the lion'