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Solomely he sat on a snowmobile in the middle of his yard. He was July and the temperature

of the day had reached just over 100 degrees. Cryptic nightmare is sat drinking vintage whiskey

through a crazy straws he looked out over the vacant fields in which he typically kept

his fox. A soft breeze flooded through the leaves with a giant looming oak tree overhead.

His hat sat torn and tattered on his head, cocks lately at an angle. And one eyepiece of

his sunglasses had fallen out and was lost long ago. However, as his field was barren,

he did not care.

Looking up his gaze landed on a pair of mallards flying in the distance, then his calm

mind suddenly shifted to the curiosity of why he felt such an affinity for the small

waterfall. Still, an answer to his question never came. He kept ducks on his property,

or rather provided a place for them to spend their time. Upon sat in his backyard, stocked

with aquatic plants, snails, and shrimp. He was surrounded by grass and other wild grains

for the duck to eat. Cryptic had essentially created a sanctuary for his beloved mallards.

Each of the twelve that frequently called his yard home was given a name and love. One

in particular had remained on the property the longest, and had since become cryptic's

favorite. Vincent was the bird's name. As cryptic sipped at the crazy straw, he watched

...