Writing Group 77: Sunday on the Septima

 

They crouched on the start line, tiny noses thrust forward, shear determination on their faces.

The crowd around them shouted, the clink of coins as the bets were placed.

The tension was building as the start grew nearer. Near fortunes would be made, or lost.

A hush fell as they were pushed off, the race had began.

It was a sprint, their tiny feet pitter pattering down the road, chubby bodies seemed to slimline as their speed increased, wind rippling their fur.

And, pop, into the little houses they went one by one.

There were cheers and groans from the crowd.

Money changed hands again and the guinea pigs were pulled out and neatly lined up to start the process again.

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