The moss bounced back after the fox grazed it but its claws had pulled and cut a couple of green strands.
“You’re a spry one,” I whispered, following the next breadcrumb. I had to catch the animal.
The hours’ lapse weighed down my mind and my stomach gargled. Soon, the hunt would be impossible; my weakness would clutter my eyes with dancing stars, hiding the faint hints of the fox’s run.
Then, unconsciousness in a meadow. And no one to save me.
Either that or returning to the judge without the white fox.
I crunched back over the forest’s floor.
This story was written based on this prompt.
And FYI, don’t stop writing; getting back into the grove is so deceptively hard…