He remembered the clock had struck thirteen when he had scuttled in on all sixes.
He had explored the cavernous space, his wiggling antennae providing him knowledge of the volume and shape of the room, position of doors, location of artefacts. His antennae had told him that the walls were coming closer, before they fell off, together with his two middle legs.
He sighed and picked up the paint brush with his trunk. another tulip. and another. He painted on the walls and the doors, now too small for him to fit through.
Three flowers later, he stopped for a snack. Carrots tasted like a musty woollen jumper, peas like a sweet and comforting bed.
He hummed to the bumnuts he was sitting on, a sweet tune in the key of life. Shifting carefully so his mass didn’t disturb his eggs, he eased himself to standing. Putting his face in the corner he stretched first one leg, then the other, barely opening his creaking joints before his red toenails grazed the wall behind him.
As he scratched the back of his neck on the ceiling, a flurry of popcorn fell over him. He observed the empty corridor through the keyhole for a while, before a floorboard squeaked behind him. He jumped, and busted a precious bumnut. His beautiful egg! His wondrous precious hope, crushed.
He started to weep, shaking his huge head, his ears flapping over his face. His grief trumpeted as fat tears rolled down his trunk.
Melting, the clock struck four.
Sarah Bonnar 