He was definitely unhappy.
He lay on the ground, helpless. He lacked the strength to walk. He could not even crawl, his legs would not obey him. He propped himself up on his arms, but he was unable to drag himself. He collapsed to the floor.
He could see it—but it was so far away. Just out of reach, it might as well have been a world away. He reached with all his might, what little he had, but he simply could not reach it. It was taunting him, eluding him. He had to have it. He cried out in frustration, but no help came.
But he could roll, after a fashion. With his arms, he could turn himself slowly. And then he could roll himself closer. Aha!
At last it was his. He had it. He was happy. For happiness is a fuzzy elephant.
Posted by fictionman at December 4, 2003 06:56 AM