Running
The vixen has spotted you and advances with a steely expression, glasses balanced on the end of her russet muzzle. You do the only thing that you can do: you run. Dashing out the glass door, bell tinkling at your hooves, you fling yourself into the smoke-scented pollution of the city. Shoving past other furs, you make use of your elbows and hard hooves, kicking out as an equine scream rips from your throat. Fight and flight has taken over and you are nothing more than a prey animal running for her life.
In on the game show as they are, others in the street make progress difficult for you. You squirm past foul-smelling anthros, their fur rank with city dirt, snapping your teeth together when more cluster together to block your path. A canine — you don’t see what breed — slaps your buttocks to raucous laughter and heat rushes into your muzzle, silver mane whipping against your neck. How dare he! You don’t have time to retaliate as the sales vixen pursues with due haste, so you duck your head and bully your way through the crowd, your slimmer form allowing you to wriggle through smaller gaps than you could as a man. A paw with hard fingertips like tiny hooves snakes forward and strokes your breast; you slap it away in disgust, wishing that you could find the culprit and give him a piece of your mind.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 05 May 2013
