“Man serves the interests of no creature except himself.”
― George Orwell, Animal Farm
We were at a bar, with a stage that held a different comedian every ten minutes.
Drinks in hand, my thoughts swirled, and blurred into a floating haze.
I heard a joke, broken giggles shook my torso.
My gazes traveled around and across the room, not really holding an image.
And then I felt a gaze on me, soulful eyes of a Zebra’s head on the wall.
Dead, he stared at me with unsettlingly lively eyes.
I tried to took away, shift in my seat get up and get a glass of water.
But his gaze followed me, stalking every peculiar move.
Gurgling of laughs and chuckles filled the room, but he kept staring, unphased.
He was wearing a serious poker face as if to ask: why are you here?
I didn’t know if it was a taxidermy of an unfortunate beheaded Zebra or just an imitation of it.
I asked, why are you here, piercing me with your glance?
He merely gazed back in answer, watching me scornfully.
In response to the one-word prompt: Calling