The moss piglet

It was a tiny thing, and it walked like a bear. They had found it in the dark schisms in the depths of oceans and beneath the crease of a mountain’s crisp blanket; immersed in warm blue and in limpid ice-seas; crawling the fragrant gorse of a small rocky island somewhere otherwise insignificant.

They burnt it to a crisp, and crushed it beneath an osmium barrel, and deprived it of water, and oxygen, and atmosphere; it lived. They pelted it with every imagining of toxic things; the scientists took ill, died. It walked like a bear, and went on walking.

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