A Blade in the Dirt

I descended the final stone step and prowled onto the damp earth of the garden path. Lurking beside a withered dandelion root was a dry wooden popsicle stick, thrust halfway into the dirt like an abandoned marker. Did this pale splinter think it could bar my path? I wrapped my gloved claws around its splintered head, planted my red boots against the packed soil, and wrenched it upward with a low, predatory hiss. The dirt yielded with a muted tear. I raised the notched stick like a conqueror's scepter—my advance cannot be halted.