... of H. G. Worthington

There was a vole. A nice vole. Actually no, a cunt vole. He stole other voles' vole food and swiped at them angrily with his little vole claws. The vole lived in a hole, a small hole, or a big hole, with a sparrow named Noel. Fuck knows why Noel lived in a hole, maybe he never learned to fly, or he just hated the other sparrows and stayed away from them. Noel was probably an arsehole too. The vole and Noel rested in their hole, one never saying a word to the other, only venturing out late at night to start fights on the other woodland creatures. Or to stuff leaves down the exhaust vents of tractors, causing the tractors to explode and the farmers to die a violent death when they came to plough the fields in the early morn. One day Noel killed the vole, smothered him with his sparrow wings until he stopped twitching. He dragged the vole from the hole and into a child's bed. The child was traumatised and grew to be proper fucked up in the head like. Cheap speed and tears at bed time. He killed peoples pets with an air rifle. Later in life, ignition on, garage closed, casket open, ceremony empty.

Lost in the bushes I fought with the saplings, black and smooth, pincer grip ineffective. The seeds grew and blocked out the sunlight, tore into the foundations slower than the eye can see. Sucked from the planet. Hooves and matted fur no substitute for the intent. 10 millions years later and everything was fine and dead.

He is a manatee, five times the size of this planet, invisible but for His eye, round and round swimming. The water rushes to be with Him.