You can’t win them all

The young boy huffed and puffed, brows drawing down in annoyance as he skidded to a halt. The imposing thorns on the brambles stood out starkly in the early morning light and even here, the coppery tang of blood filled the air. He sniffed the air, trying to find a path through, and the small scars on his nose burned with the memory of the not bushes bite. He wasn’t exactly keen on adding more scars to his collection.

His wilderness prophet lunch snack was now out of reach, for even though he was small, he was still larger than one of those, and growing like a weed to boot. His stomach gave a disappointed grumble, he would have to find something else to eat.