When things got really bad, got to where he couldn’t take it, he’d take off in the woods behind the house. Walking any which way, looping back, circling around trees, until he became disoriented. And then, if he found a suitable spot, he’d gather the fallen pine needles into one large pile. He’d cut branches from fallen trees, drag logs, and then lay down, pulling the boughs over him.

And he’d stay that way, hidden, immobile, looking no more out-of-place than any other twiggy forest mound. And he’d try release the pressure built up inside of him, before he burst.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.

2 thoughts on “Puncture

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