09-03-2018, 07:22 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display|Jaldi' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .sochi_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background-color: #D1D1D1; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .sochi_container p { margin: 0; } .sochi_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .sochi_gradient { position: absolute; z-index: 5; bottom: 801px; left: 0px; width: 600px; height: 100px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(209,209,209,1) 0%, rgba(0,0,0,0) 100%); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(209,209,209,1) 0%,rgba(0,0,0,0) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(209,209,209,1) 0%,rgba(0,0,0,0) 100%); filter: progid
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It is quiet when the cancerous soil finds her.
It is quiet and she is alone, standing amongst the darkness of the forest with the shadows stretching out along her equine back, turning the richness of her coat even darker wherever they touch.
It is quiet and she is alone and she doesn’t know it’s happening until it is piercing her skin.
In an instant, she goes from restful (silver eyes half closed, a hum in her throat) to alive with fury. Her head tips back and the howl that escapes her is dark and stained with surprise, the noise animalistic as she whips her head around to find the source of it. She shifts without thinking, her body shedding the form of prey to cling to armor of predator, but even the shift—usually so quick, so graceful—is a stuttered thing.
Her limbs do not conform the way that they should.
Her body does not react as it should.
It takes longer for her to rise as the tiger, and when she does, she collapses to the ground, hacking against air that no longer feels right, her lungs alien in her chest. She gasps, swallowing air like inhaling water, and stumbles forward, some invisible hook sunk into her belly, drawing her toward whatever fate awaits her. She wants to run, but she cannot, and so she crawls. She chokes, she trembles, but she moves.
There is no water—not enough—on the journey, but whatever puddle she can find, she sticks her face into, breathing in the muddy water deep. When she finally reaches the shore, her striped face is muddied and her eyes are bloodshot and her body is exhausted. She wants to collapse, but she doesn’t, her silver eyes instead piercing the grey stallion with as much fight as she can muster, hate burning her gaze.
She coughs again and froth bubbles at the corner of her mouth.
At his demand, she snarls, feline lips lifting to show the muddy teeth beneath, but she nods.
Because how can she refuse the demand of a god when it branches through her very veins?
She snarls even louder when her skin is pierced again, the gravel finding root inside of her, the blood thick and syrupy as it wells to the surface and trickles down amongst the thick fur of her winter coat. It is only then that he releases them, and she does not bother to hide the loathing in her eyes, as she turns from him to face the gloss of the water. She stumbles forward, doing her best to not show the desperation in the movement, to not show the weakness in her, and she splashes into the ocean, the saltwater rising.
The sand gives way, the beach bleeds away beneath her, and at first she sinks like a stone.
Her tiger body is lax, the currents sweeping over her, bubbles forming.
Until—
Until she startles awake, mouth opening against every instinct as the oxygen finally finds its way to her frantic mind. It is enough to buoy her, enough to let strength once again flood through her, and although there is a piece of her that still burns with her hate for the dark god who so callously herded them to the water to do his bidding, there is a piece of her that is stronger: her need to survive.
So, for now, she sheds the hate as deadweight and turns her calculating mind to the task at hand.
Find Pangea.
He had told her to find Pangea.
She is still in her tigress form, and she is grateful for it. Grateful for the body that is not made for the ocean but better adapted for swimming, the heavy paws beginning to churn, pulling her forward as she kicks out and dives down. She is both weightless and impossibly heavy, heavy enough that she continues to sink down, to feel the vague pressure of ocean as it piles on top of her. The weight of it should be enough to crush her but somehow it does not; she should be grateful for these small protections, but all she can think of is that she shouldn’t need to have them and so all thankfulness bleeds out from her.
Find Pangea.
She takes several more strokes, her body already exhausted.
Find Pangea.
Another, the motion not nearly fast enough, the edges of her vision blurring.
Find Pangea.
She doesn’t care about the dark god’s forsaken land. She doesn’t care that he made something that broke. She doesn’t care that his ego drove him to tether the unwilling to his will and then cast him into the ocean depths. She doesn’t care—she just wants to survive. She just wants to live through this.
Find Pangea.
The ocean turns dark and she swims for what seems like forever.
The ocean turns dark and quiet and her muscles scream as she runs a race that is not her own.
The ocean turns dark and quiet and she is alone until she is not.
Her water-logged paw touches the edges of a land that does not belong floating in the ocean.
She had found Pangea.
</p> </div> <div class="sochi_name">sochi</div> <div class="sochi_quotetwo">it comes and goes in waves; it always does, it always does <br>we watch as our young hearts fade into the flood, into the flood</div> <img class="sochi_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/str7xmp3v/shifaaz-shamoon-300079-unsplash.jpg"> </div> </center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#d1d1d1', endColorstr='#00000000',GradientType=0 ); } .sochi_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; padding-top: 10px; margin-bottom: -340px; background-color: #0f191fb5; } .sochi_quote { position: relative; text-align: center; width: 80%; color: #9d9d9d; font: 11px 'Jaldi', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.5em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px; border-bottom: solid 1px; } .sochi_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #d7d7d7; line-height: 1.3em; padding: 10px 25px 20px; } .sochi_name { position: absolute; z-index: 5; text-align: center; width: 100%; font: 60px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 20px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px; color: #0f191fb5; margin-top: 790px; } .sochi_quotetwo { position: absolute; z-index: 5; text-align: center; width: 100%; color: #3a5261; font: 11px 'Jaldi', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-left: 10px; margin-top: 865px; } </style> <center> <div class="sochi_container"> <div class="sochi_gradient"></div> <div class="sochi_text"> <p class="sochi_quote">there is a swelling storm and I'm caught up in the middle of it all <br>and it takes control of the person that I thought I was</p> <p class="sochi_message"> It is quiet when the cancerous soil finds her.
It is quiet and she is alone, standing amongst the darkness of the forest with the shadows stretching out along her equine back, turning the richness of her coat even darker wherever they touch.
It is quiet and she is alone and she doesn’t know it’s happening until it is piercing her skin.
In an instant, she goes from restful (silver eyes half closed, a hum in her throat) to alive with fury. Her head tips back and the howl that escapes her is dark and stained with surprise, the noise animalistic as she whips her head around to find the source of it. She shifts without thinking, her body shedding the form of prey to cling to armor of predator, but even the shift—usually so quick, so graceful—is a stuttered thing.
Her limbs do not conform the way that they should.
Her body does not react as it should.
It takes longer for her to rise as the tiger, and when she does, she collapses to the ground, hacking against air that no longer feels right, her lungs alien in her chest. She gasps, swallowing air like inhaling water, and stumbles forward, some invisible hook sunk into her belly, drawing her toward whatever fate awaits her. She wants to run, but she cannot, and so she crawls. She chokes, she trembles, but she moves.
There is no water—not enough—on the journey, but whatever puddle she can find, she sticks her face into, breathing in the muddy water deep. When she finally reaches the shore, her striped face is muddied and her eyes are bloodshot and her body is exhausted. She wants to collapse, but she doesn’t, her silver eyes instead piercing the grey stallion with as much fight as she can muster, hate burning her gaze.
She coughs again and froth bubbles at the corner of her mouth.
At his demand, she snarls, feline lips lifting to show the muddy teeth beneath, but she nods.
Because how can she refuse the demand of a god when it branches through her very veins?
She snarls even louder when her skin is pierced again, the gravel finding root inside of her, the blood thick and syrupy as it wells to the surface and trickles down amongst the thick fur of her winter coat. It is only then that he releases them, and she does not bother to hide the loathing in her eyes, as she turns from him to face the gloss of the water. She stumbles forward, doing her best to not show the desperation in the movement, to not show the weakness in her, and she splashes into the ocean, the saltwater rising.
The sand gives way, the beach bleeds away beneath her, and at first she sinks like a stone.
Her tiger body is lax, the currents sweeping over her, bubbles forming.
Until—
Until she startles awake, mouth opening against every instinct as the oxygen finally finds its way to her frantic mind. It is enough to buoy her, enough to let strength once again flood through her, and although there is a piece of her that still burns with her hate for the dark god who so callously herded them to the water to do his bidding, there is a piece of her that is stronger: her need to survive.
So, for now, she sheds the hate as deadweight and turns her calculating mind to the task at hand.
Find Pangea.
He had told her to find Pangea.
She is still in her tigress form, and she is grateful for it. Grateful for the body that is not made for the ocean but better adapted for swimming, the heavy paws beginning to churn, pulling her forward as she kicks out and dives down. She is both weightless and impossibly heavy, heavy enough that she continues to sink down, to feel the vague pressure of ocean as it piles on top of her. The weight of it should be enough to crush her but somehow it does not; she should be grateful for these small protections, but all she can think of is that she shouldn’t need to have them and so all thankfulness bleeds out from her.
Find Pangea.
She takes several more strokes, her body already exhausted.
Find Pangea.
Another, the motion not nearly fast enough, the edges of her vision blurring.
Find Pangea.
She doesn’t care about the dark god’s forsaken land. She doesn’t care that he made something that broke. She doesn’t care that his ego drove him to tether the unwilling to his will and then cast him into the ocean depths. She doesn’t care—she just wants to survive. She just wants to live through this.
Find Pangea.
The ocean turns dark and she swims for what seems like forever.
The ocean turns dark and quiet and her muscles scream as she runs a race that is not her own.
The ocean turns dark and quiet and she is alone until she is not.
Her water-logged paw touches the edges of a land that does not belong floating in the ocean.
She had found Pangea.
</p> </div> <div class="sochi_name">sochi</div> <div class="sochi_quotetwo">it comes and goes in waves; it always does, it always does <br>we watch as our young hearts fade into the flood, into the flood</div> <img class="sochi_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/str7xmp3v/shifaaz-shamoon-300079-unsplash.jpg"> </div> </center>
![[Image: sochi.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/rs3xFJR0/sochi.png)
I was less than graceful, I was not kind
be out watching other lovers lose their spine