The day the Thunder Roared
Morning broke on a nice stately Saturday in a quaint little quiet house in a nice suburban setting. Young little billy goat awoke fresh and happy, ready to embrace the sunlight as it streams across his little cozy room in that little orderly house in that nice suburban setting.
Little billy goat washed his face and trimmed his goatee (for that's what little billy goats have) and brushed his little goat teeth as he prepared to go to little billy goat class, where young little goats learn about the world. I know it's a saturday, but goats operate on a different timetable anyways.
As little billy goat stepped into the classroom, a little tune started to play on his little billy goat mobile, a necessity to the young little billy goats of his generation. He answered the call, and in that moment, the fabric of time stopped, chilled in its very existence. The winds began to change. The wheels of time turned a different direction. And the storm clouds started moving.
Little billy goat passed most of the day in glorious ignorance, going about his classes and his lunch without much ado. Not a single inkling of the very fate that awaits his little billy goat future.
As he descended into his home, the thunder roared.
And somewhere amidst the maelstorm, little billy goat grew horns, ugly ones. His hooves hardened like obsidian blades. His eyes begun to burn, a deep glowing red. His teeth, no longer the little billy goat teeth, bared and angry. The hairs at the nape of his neck, bristled and standing.
He began pawing the ground, totally possesed. Unknowing friend or foe. He started snorting, a low growl escaped from his snarling goat lips. Heavy breathing. His muscles tensed. Ready for the kill.
And then as quickly as the breeze, he was out in the open, fields in front of him. He had run away. Left the maelstorm, left the thunder behind. Now he is galloping among open fields, winds blowing through his fur, taking with it his anger, his rage. His eyes, no longer burning begun to see behind the clouds. His horns, retreated to tiny little stubs, barely visible beneath his fur. His hooves softened. His breathing steadied. His teeth no longer bared.
He now walks along the fields, looking up at the blue sky. And then it rained. Little billy goat stood there, in the rain, letting it wash away the last bit of anger. It felt good.
And there, in the middle of a field, a lone little billy goat stands. The rain falling down on his lone figure. And a smile appeared on his lips.
Morning broke on a nice stately Saturday in a quaint little quiet house in a nice suburban setting. Young little billy goat awoke fresh and happy, ready to embrace the sunlight as it streams across his little cozy room in that little orderly house in that nice suburban setting.
Little billy goat washed his face and trimmed his goatee (for that's what little billy goats have) and brushed his little goat teeth as he prepared to go to little billy goat class, where young little goats learn about the world. I know it's a saturday, but goats operate on a different timetable anyways.
As little billy goat stepped into the classroom, a little tune started to play on his little billy goat mobile, a necessity to the young little billy goats of his generation. He answered the call, and in that moment, the fabric of time stopped, chilled in its very existence. The winds began to change. The wheels of time turned a different direction. And the storm clouds started moving.
Little billy goat passed most of the day in glorious ignorance, going about his classes and his lunch without much ado. Not a single inkling of the very fate that awaits his little billy goat future.
As he descended into his home, the thunder roared.
And somewhere amidst the maelstorm, little billy goat grew horns, ugly ones. His hooves hardened like obsidian blades. His eyes begun to burn, a deep glowing red. His teeth, no longer the little billy goat teeth, bared and angry. The hairs at the nape of his neck, bristled and standing.
He began pawing the ground, totally possesed. Unknowing friend or foe. He started snorting, a low growl escaped from his snarling goat lips. Heavy breathing. His muscles tensed. Ready for the kill.
And then as quickly as the breeze, he was out in the open, fields in front of him. He had run away. Left the maelstorm, left the thunder behind. Now he is galloping among open fields, winds blowing through his fur, taking with it his anger, his rage. His eyes, no longer burning begun to see behind the clouds. His horns, retreated to tiny little stubs, barely visible beneath his fur. His hooves softened. His breathing steadied. His teeth no longer bared.
He now walks along the fields, looking up at the blue sky. And then it rained. Little billy goat stood there, in the rain, letting it wash away the last bit of anger. It felt good.
And there, in the middle of a field, a lone little billy goat stands. The rain falling down on his lone figure. And a smile appeared on his lips.
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