sixwordstories | (no subject)

*watches with interest and caution*

Job sprints after the birds with arms outstretched, trying desperately to catch one. As he runs, he gives the odd whoop or shout, hollering "Ooooooo!" at the birds to try and get their attention.

He dives after one, landing hard in the dirt with a startled cry, momentarily stunned by the sudden pain of the fall.

Typist: Wrong icon, oops.

*wince*

Are you okay?

Job pushes himself into a sitting position, wiping his bleeding palms against his torn pants with a frown.

"Don't want to pway," he says, sounding deeply disappointed by this. Don't they understand that Job needs them for his art?

Crows tend to have their own ideas, yeah.

*watches him*

Why do you wanna play with crows?

Beaming proudly, Job sprints off to the clearing he's made nearby to start his latest picture. In the clearing are half a dozen dead crows, staked on arrows that have been pushed into the ground to keep them upright.

Slowly and with great care, he straightens out one of the arrows that had begun to fall over.

*Granted, the djinn has seen a lot of weird stuff in the past 3,000 years. This is still a new one.*

Erm...wow...you've uh, worked hard on that, haven't you?