The Calling of a Zebra

“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

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