If you travel in the forest in one direction for a long time, eventually you will run into the long, flat black rock. The long, flat black rock is a rock. It is long and flat. It is also very black. It goes on forever it seems. You can look the direction the long, flat black rock is laid out and it keeps going until it becomes the sky.
It has yellow stripes. Sometimes the yellow stripes are long and continuous like the rock, but other times they break apart and are more like yellow dashes. Sometimes there are white stripes on either edge of the long, flat black rock. Sometimes there are not.
This rock is a mystery to me, and it always has been. I visit the rock every once in awhile (and usually by complete accident), and whenever I do, I try to investigate it. I have learned a lot about the rock, though I am sure that there is much more to discover.
It gets hot very easily, particularly during the summer. It gets so hot, in fact, that it becomes nearly impossible to walk on the long, flat black rock without burning your paws.
It does not taste like most rocks.
I know because I licked it.
And I have also tasted many rocks.
Probably the most disconcerting thing about the long, flat black rock is that it is often the site of many dead creatures from the forest. Recently, I came across the long, flat black rock only to find a opossum laying out on top of it. I asked the opossum why it was using the long, flat black rock as a bed, to which it responded with silence. I asked why it was being so silent, to which it responded with more silence. Finally, I approached the opossum (which was strange because most opossums ran from me upon sight), and I got close enough to realize why the opossum was being so antisocial.
It was flat.
As flat as the long, flat black rock.
Its tiny teeth were ground into the rock while its pale tongue was covered in blood and splayed across its own face.
Its belly was open.
The sight frightened me, so I ran as fast as I could away from the long, flat black rock and into the forest.
Then I ran back to the rock because I felt bad for the opossum, and I did not simply want to leave it on a rock that would surely bake in the sun, roasting the opossum with it.
When I arrived, I was startled again. This time by something that was not dead. It was fast and shiny and loud and hit the poor opossum again and screeched past me and screamed at me and I ran.
I ran into the forest, upset I could do nothing for the opossum.
I have not been back to the long, flat black rock since. I do not know if I want to.
I do not want to become a opossum.
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