Douglas Scott Cost Jr.- Writing Exercise 4

I had to find new ground, and this was when I first ran into her. I had nested out a sweet spot with just enough straight stalks, so that my head rested on one red trunk, my powerful legs comfortably wrapped around one, and another was close enough to grasp onto with my claw. I was a tripod of security. I did not want to share. I enjoyed the stretch-out space of the few extra millimeters in this spot, not too dense, not too sparse. It was the clearing in the jungle that was much sought after, before the suds and flood first penetrated. Only occasionally did this interruption in normal life occur. Outside of that, it was avoiding the plucking of the peachy-pink, ridged beasts uprooting stalks or decapitating a curl. The rest of the time it was dry, so dry it was easy to pierce skin for dinner. For the life of me, it escapes me how in the hell she held on. Most of the population had been decimated, until new inhabitants repopulated. When they showed up, I had already claimed the safe heaven, dry and particularly unmolested by the sporadic gigantic grabbers. I used the strength in my super-leaping legs to intertwine all four of my legs, and clamp both my claws around the thickest red, blonde, orange, brown, black, or white stalk; whenever the attacks occurred. The white were the strongest and the thickest, but also the most slippery. I found a dirt-brown one in the vicinity that seemed infallible, but the peach pinchy grabbers recently pulled it out. So I am now on a quest to find the next strongest redwood in this forest rooted in pink soil. I hated the running into her. She was always there or always making it back and I was tired of sharing my primo jowl section with her; I hoped the next catastrophic foray took her down with it.