Flightless

It was something of a bad omen, that flattened skull-crushed squirrel lying in a ring of its own erupted innards. Ella smelled the stench of rot the moment she stepped down from the front porch. Must’ve fallen off a shaky branch from the towering heights of the aged tree, splattering against the dry cracked ground. Solemnly, Ella turned the poor collapsed creature over with the toe of her shoe, partaking in the squirming miracle of newborn maggot life.

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