Muddle (Prose)

In the air, brown mud scatters across a blue sky. Each piece of brown spec, hangs above their heads, like a hook hanging by a thread. Marching on a worn out path, dust rises from the ground, and a deep haze drops down in front of their eyes. Wet soil flies up in the air, landing on their fleece. Their pelts turn heavy and wet, as the grease of the earth stains their perfect white coats. They can’t hear themselves think, as a loud crowd drowns out any and all thought. Piercing bleats clog their ears. The ground beneath, rumbles low and deep. Silence lays dented and blue- battered and bruised. Their hooves beat against the mud, trampling down flat any object set in their way. Marching on a worn out path, the flock becomes deaf, blind and mindless. They move swiftly in a large flock, but that doesn’t change the fact they troddle as slow target. Each sheep is like a skull, seconds before being shot dead by a gun. Like a white wall splattered in red blood, brown mud scatters across a blue sky.




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