“This will do me fine for the winter,” said the woodchopper, satisfied with the trunk's length. The woodchopper gripped the rope over his shoulder and started dragging the lengthy load back to his cosy cottage. On the trail back, the woodchopper heard a faint squeal. After a cautious scouting of the environment, he noticed a bunny hanged from a branch. Desperately trying to escape the calling of death around its neck. Fur dyed in its own blood. The woodchopper lightly considered helping the innocent and impotent animal, but regrettably muttered “I am too old to be doing this anyway. Just a rabbit. Just a rabbit…” then continued down the now pitch-black trail, only illuminated by the headlamp he wore. The woodchopper arrived back at the insipid cottage made from aged oak. His mahogany red checker shirt polluted with dirt and embedded with the sour stink of sweat. Exhausted from the journey, he let go of his grip of the wood and sluggishly walked inside. The inside was littered with dirt, unwashed clothes and opened beer cans. Smell of alcohol ingrained into everything you could behold. Every step he took was followed by a squeak of the elderly wood. He collapsed onto his navy-blue couch, damaged but still standing. He was ready to rest and his vision slowly faded
“This will do me fine for the winter,” said the woodchopper, satisfied with the trunk's length. The woodchopper gripped the rope over his shoulder and started dragging the lengthy load back to his cosy cottage. On the trail back, the woodchopper heard a faint squeal. After a cautious scouting of the environment, he noticed a bunny hanged from a branch. Desperately trying to escape the calling of death around its neck. Fur dyed in its own blood. The woodchopper lightly considered helping the innocent and impotent animal, but regrettably muttered “I am too old to be doing this anyway. Just a rabbit. Just a rabbit…” then continued down the now pitch-black trail, only illuminated by the headlamp he wore. The woodchopper arrived back at the insipid cottage made from aged oak. His mahogany red checker shirt polluted with dirt and embedded with the sour stink of sweat. Exhausted from the journey, he let go of his grip of the wood and sluggishly walked inside. The inside was littered with dirt, unwashed clothes and opened beer cans. Smell of alcohol ingrained into everything you could behold. Every step he took was followed by a squeak of the elderly wood. He collapsed onto his navy-blue couch, damaged but still standing. He was ready to rest and his vision slowly faded