He wanted to die. Centuries old with silver fur, his jaws ached with their heavy load.
The hens cowered whenever the elves prowled past their cages. Panting and straining, they wept as their freshly-warm treasures were snatched away and drowned in paint.
But at least they could sleep.
Every year he was whipped, pleading and sobbing, into the Neverending Journey. In every garden in the world he hid one of their magical baskets. He envied Tantalus, Ixion and Prometheus. His torment was worse.
He set down his burden among the bushes.
Just another 714,968,205 households to go.
© Tom Burton, 2020