Pitter-Patter [SWC]

It was a cold dreary morning on Winster farms. The grassy verges were dotted with rabbit shit, giving the countryside estate a pock-marked appearance. The sky was a magnificent red mass that seemed to expand to the end of the Earth itself, touching each of the proverbial corners with faded pink bands of light.

"Red in the morning marks a shepherd's warning," a man huffed to himself as he trudged up the hills of his estate. Dressed in a faded denim jacket and worn jeans that were at least thirty years past their expiry date, this man looked like a right old cowboy. His muddy brown boots trudged through the muddy brown in the grass, kicking up the shit as he walked.

"Fuckin' vermin," he muttered, spitting a golly of green-tinged phlegm onto the grass below. The lightest of breezes carried a trace amount of spittle back into his more-salt-than-pepper muttonchops.

It was just shy of six in the morning and this worn farmer had things he had to take care of, and it didn't take long for him to reach his first designated destination: a penned-off part of his many-acred estate. Inside the beaten wooden fences a group of yellow woolly creatures shuffled about aimlessly. Some bleated at the aging farmer as he mugged over towards them. The man paused at the criss-crossed oak and steel gate and gave a sharp whistle. The sound pierced the air moments before being met by a bark of acknowledgement as a mutt came running over.

The canine earned its name as Growlithe from the sheer noise it made while the wooden gate swung open. Orange darted through the yellow-and-blue sea of sheep Pokemon, barking relentlessly. The Mareep cowered and showed their submissive nature as the Fire type barked and gnashed and nipped at the stragglers, forcing them forward and out through the gate. The balking sheep obeyed as the old farmer knew they would - the way they always did; things never changed this far west, that much he was certain of.

The Mareep shuffled forward through the sloping hills, constantly orbited by the energetic Growlithe as the sun began to make its mark in the sky. The bright morning was a bit misleading though as the early hours proved rather nippy. A fierce gale brushed suddenly through the hills causing the farmer to brace himself against the abrasive weather. At his age the bitter cold liked to slither into his weary bones and rest there.

"It'll be the death of me no doubt," he murmured aloud, kicking at the shit around him. "Those fuckin' rabits too. They won't be lastin' the cold, no."

Alas, some of the rabbits managed to survive as Autumn turned into Winter and the cold seeped into the ground. The farm itself ranged from a slushy ice and mud concoction to a pure white blanket of snow. Little symmetric ice crystals drifted down onto the land, contrasting beautifully with the cosy warm cabin the old man had made his home. A hearty fire gave rise to wispy smoke drifting lazily up from the cabin's chimney.

The snow, the warmth, the beauty were all so picturesque - like that of a Christmas postcard. However, it had been a few decades now since postcards had perched on this particular mantle, but there was once a time when the dusty surfaces gleamed as bells tinkled, children screamed gleefully, as little puffy red socks hung gracefully from the sooty fireplace. As bows and ribbons and bright coloured packages nestled the tree on warm rugs. The pitter-patter of tiny feet were nothing more than a fading echo for quite some time now.

"People grow and forget," the old man muttered, poking at the fire with the ancient metal prongs.

The man must have drifted off at some point. He found himself waking up rather alarmed after hearing some sharp raps on the front door. A little shakily, he propped his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and walked warily towards the door. It was the dead of night, and he never had visitors. It wasn't the mutt Growlithe either as he was sleeping fitfully in his own straw bed on the kitchen floor. The farmer could hear his gentle snores from the hallway. Approaching the arch, he plucked up an umbrella from the stand by the door. He raised the bottom of it so that the sharp point was facing directly towards where the visitor must be. His clammy hand grasped onto the metal latch as he unlocked it, before sliding the bolt out of the way. He swung the door open all at once, but he couldn't see anything. All he saw was dark and a white snow canvas stretching out before him.

Then he heard the rapping again, but from below him.

He looked down to see a scraggly brown creature curled up on the snow. Its foot trembled, kicking at the door as the poor creature shivered. He didn't need to see those goofy elongated ears or those obnoxious bucked-teeth to know that this was a Bunnelby. The Pokemon was frozen half to death, but it was pretty amazing that it had managed to survive the conditions so long. Still, all it took was for this little prick to find another and there'd be hundreds more in his fields again, shitting everywhere. He had always hated their need to shit everywhere like nothing else.

Instead of slamming the door though, he paused a moment. Maybe it was the mulled wine. Maybe it was the cold starting to freeze his nuts off. Maybe it was just sheer loneliness. Whatever it was, he relented and scooped up the little brown and tan Pokemon. He brushed the light coating of frost from the furry body as he cradled it like a child. The ugly, shivering Bunnelby gave the old man a smile so buck-toothed that he had half a mind to toss it back outside. But, he didn't. He brought it in and placed it before the hearth. Without delay, he draped the patched quilt that had been tossed onto the floor post-slumber over the little rabbit, snuggling it up.

The Bunnelby weren't meant to live through those conditions, he knew. Few could if truth be told. Still, the Bunnelby had a warm place to stay, even if it was for just the one night. The little feet poking out from under the quilt brought an ancient smile to this bone-weary face, but it was an earnest smile. And so, toasting by the fire with his new companion, the old farmer couldn't help but wonder if the pitter-patter of little feet would echo through his house once more.


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Target Pokemon Rank: Simple
Character Count: 6,252

 

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My swc story in emojis :072:

WOW FAIL

NOT DELETING THIS POST THO