Spots flutter like feathers off the beast as white as snow.
Each spot its own story.
But the beast wanted to be free of the stories...of the past.
Dark as ash from a flaming fire.
Soft like petals on a thorny rose.
The spots became beautiful butterflies.
Floating and flying.
A gentle breeze tickled the beast as white as snow,
carrying the spots.
Whipping and whirling.
The spots gained speed.
Like a blizzard in the frosty February sky.
Like amber leaves in chilly October winds.
Spots spun...slithered.
and swirled.
The beast was clean.
Clean of the charcoal spots that once littered his body.
Like fresh foam brought by a roaring tide.
His white fur smiled.
A silent sigh escaped the beast's mouth.
He was free.
Free of the spots.
Free of the stories...of the past.
