The sun slices through the air, glancing off the thick green armor of the bushes, crashing between the fence railings, sending shadows sprawling across the hard, rough surface of the back porch. The porch has no armor; it needs none. Its skin is thick and impenetrable, its form immoveable.
The trees rattle their lances, ready to sling their seeds upon the unwary. They hold their breath, waiting for the signal. Their general, their master-mind, rides the stony back of the porch. He too is still, listening as his counselor whispers in his ear. His green armor has dulled to a deathly brown, the spikes drooping and sifting away on the wind. Everything is at stake for him; life is in the balance. He must lead them to victory, or die. He would not stay to see the enemy devouring his people.
So many of their families had given in already. Leaves had dropped to the ground, grass had browned, the air was chill and the dew had turned to frost. They would take this stand, this last stand, before the cold and bitter end.
Winter was coming. The general drew his breath. They would wait until he could see the whites of the monster's eyes.
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