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+---- Thread: someone broke his arms -- weir, thana (/showthread.php?tid=13938)
someone broke his arms -- weir, thana - whittaker - 03-18-2017
He remembers being small.
The soft cosmic sound of his mother’s voice.
Her face the bark of a tree, the velveteen between her nostrils the hare’s long ears. Everywhere he looks she is there, like a permanent scar cut through the world – he winces only when he thinks too hard. She is ice, after all, and to think on her too long is painful. Regardless, she is the very spirit of the dirt beneath his feet and the blossoms of spring. Whittaker could not tell anyone her name or what she was like because she is more entity than a physical being. She slips like a ghost in-between his teeth and she rattles his ribs like bare branches in later autumn when they’ve shed the summer twilight.
The meadow is a quiet place – it harbors nothing except vague memories. Impressions on his mind like a leaf pressed between the pages of an old book. He might have been here once but the roan assumes there are a lot of places like this one.
How long now has it been since he last saw his father? Perhaps a lifetime or three, time never feels quite right in this place. It does no move linear but from all directions. He has learned that to ignore the inconsistencies is best, makes for a happier life but also for a slightly ignorant one – he does not like the idea of being ignorant. Whittaker has always been proud of his intelligence, he has spent his life being the ever-obnoxious observer. Plants were his focus, he has no idea why they fascinate him but they have been an obsession of his since he was a young colt. Even now in this early spring he makes his way through the meadow a student, learning all he can about the newly emerging flora.
When he comes upon an oddly colored specimen, he stops abruptly and takes notice. Lowers his head down to take a closer look. His golden ears flick back and forth, his dark eyes narrow.
“Strongylodon macrobotrys,” he says to no one in particular, “commonly known as turquoise jade vine or emerald vine.”
Whittaker sniffs at the woody vine and delights in the small, bright flowers. He hardly cares if anyone else is around and partly hopes no one hears him talking to himself about this flower.
The soft cosmic sound of his mother’s voice.
Her face the bark of a tree, the velveteen between her nostrils the hare’s long ears. Everywhere he looks she is there, like a permanent scar cut through the world – he winces only when he thinks too hard. She is ice, after all, and to think on her too long is painful. Regardless, she is the very spirit of the dirt beneath his feet and the blossoms of spring. Whittaker could not tell anyone her name or what she was like because she is more entity than a physical being. She slips like a ghost in-between his teeth and she rattles his ribs like bare branches in later autumn when they’ve shed the summer twilight.
The meadow is a quiet place – it harbors nothing except vague memories. Impressions on his mind like a leaf pressed between the pages of an old book. He might have been here once but the roan assumes there are a lot of places like this one.
How long now has it been since he last saw his father? Perhaps a lifetime or three, time never feels quite right in this place. It does no move linear but from all directions. He has learned that to ignore the inconsistencies is best, makes for a happier life but also for a slightly ignorant one – he does not like the idea of being ignorant. Whittaker has always been proud of his intelligence, he has spent his life being the ever-obnoxious observer. Plants were his focus, he has no idea why they fascinate him but they have been an obsession of his since he was a young colt. Even now in this early spring he makes his way through the meadow a student, learning all he can about the newly emerging flora.
When he comes upon an oddly colored specimen, he stops abruptly and takes notice. Lowers his head down to take a closer look. His golden ears flick back and forth, his dark eyes narrow.
“Strongylodon macrobotrys,” he says to no one in particular, “commonly known as turquoise jade vine or emerald vine.”
Whittaker sniffs at the woody vine and delights in the small, bright flowers. He hardly cares if anyone else is around and partly hopes no one hears him talking to himself about this flower.
Whittaker
photo by joel bedford HTML by Call
@[Call] & @[Krys] ponies!
RE: someone broke his arms -- weir, thana - Weir - 03-18-2017
Another year has gone by, blown right past him and spring is here once more. The sky is blue over his rusty colored head a the clouds draw puffy shapes against its endless sea. A few starlings swoop by, twirling about themselves and tracing the wind with patterns made purely for wings. Lovely birds these two were if Weir was asked. He especially liked their bright bellies against the gleaming jewel tones of deep eggplant and blues of their backs.
He missed the snow, holding its cold kiss in his grasp and directing it with his will but spring was nothing to be sad about. Weir could simply be happy in the fact that there were more animals scurrying around with the warmer weather, more things to study and observe. That included plants.
It is an utter delight that Whittaker is out in the meadow today. Little boys grow up, as they will do, and once they are men it is not necessarily natural that they would stick around the family unit. Weir held no qualms with his son’s freedoms. He was a man now in every right and Weir was proud at the one he had grown into. Raising him had been a task, a learning experience but not one he would easily part with.
That thought led to another, and for a moment Weir thought on Jerusalem. Whittaker’s mother had been a nice enough mare but a brief and fleeting romance. The roan stallion was elated when Whit had chosen to come stay with him in the Dale and they had not much seen the white woman after that. All for the best, things have a way of working themselves out. Under different circumstances he may have never met Eira and that would truly be heartache and sorrow.
“Whit!” the rusty red stallion called, bellowing quite loudly and cheerfully across the meadow. The friendly stallion always carried on as if no time had past, picking up right where they had left off the last time they saw each other. “Halloo and fine day it is. Oh and look, what a wonderful specimen you have found.” Weir bent his own head down to inspect the vine, his russet forelock draping over his amber colored eyes.
He missed the snow, holding its cold kiss in his grasp and directing it with his will but spring was nothing to be sad about. Weir could simply be happy in the fact that there were more animals scurrying around with the warmer weather, more things to study and observe. That included plants.
It is an utter delight that Whittaker is out in the meadow today. Little boys grow up, as they will do, and once they are men it is not necessarily natural that they would stick around the family unit. Weir held no qualms with his son’s freedoms. He was a man now in every right and Weir was proud at the one he had grown into. Raising him had been a task, a learning experience but not one he would easily part with.
That thought led to another, and for a moment Weir thought on Jerusalem. Whittaker’s mother had been a nice enough mare but a brief and fleeting romance. The roan stallion was elated when Whit had chosen to come stay with him in the Dale and they had not much seen the white woman after that. All for the best, things have a way of working themselves out. Under different circumstances he may have never met Eira and that would truly be heartache and sorrow.
“Whit!” the rusty red stallion called, bellowing quite loudly and cheerfully across the meadow. The friendly stallion always carried on as if no time had past, picking up right where they had left off the last time they saw each other. “Halloo and fine day it is. Oh and look, what a wonderful specimen you have found.” Weir bent his own head down to inspect the vine, his russet forelock draping over his amber colored eyes.
WEIR
higitus figitus migitus mum
prestidigitonium