Blonk let his body emit a low, rumbling howl, and then a tight, sharp screech that echoed through the dusty air like a bullet coming apart in water. The scream scattered like a handful of beans, leaving a residue of blooming silence. Blonk was not one to scream and shout, usually, but sometimes you must allow yourself a gift, he thought. He clambered through the dust, pressing his little hands into the sand as he stepped gingerly across a dune, on all fours like a little dog. That's how he always started to walk when he felt stress forming on the back of his neck, wicking to a droplet of perfect sweat.
This made Blonk realise he was thirsty. His mouth was gummy. The desert was not unpleasant, but the exertion of his ordeal made Blonk think about cool cans of root beer. He imagined different cream-based flavours, each one more delicious than the last. He closed his eyes, imagining the sweet taste cascading down on him and enveloping him. How he longed for comfort.
What should Blonk do?
WRIGGLE | CONJURE | CRY