"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you…
- Richard Adams, Watership Down
“Stay.”
They look at her with wide, bright eyes. Then at each other. Expressions mirrored.
—heads tilting.
—mouths ajar.
And then back at her.
Mauve shakes her head, once and twice.
Gardenia shrugs.
She can tell they do not understand. “Stay here... okay? I’ll be back in a hop, skip and a jump.” She turns, slowly, taking tentative steps as if dragged down by slow motion – as if pulling away from gravity, testing the make of their comprehension.
They are like clinging, tumbling ghosts, only with soft, bright footsteps. They are the constancy of shadows.
She turns, just as slow, her brow furrowed.
They look at her, smiling and blissful, as if everything previous – their wild, wet and natural birth, their excursions in the snow and across streams; her instruction seconds earlier... – was dreamed-of fancy. “O-kay.” She sniffs, looking left and right. Really, she could use Woodrow right about now, to corral his impish daughters (they get this from him!; from his trickster god).
Mauve gurgles something and her sister chuckles, as they both smile slyly. They keep secrets from her this way, in their garbled twin-talk.
“W-What are you laughing at?” Longear smiles, vaguely, as if in on it.
They stop. Eyes wide. Heads tilting. Mouths ajar. As if she has just said something utterly incomprehensible; as if she has trespassed in some way… as if offended.
“...right,” she is suddenly uncertain of herself, in every possible way, “...Gardenia, Mauve. My dears. I need you to just... Stay right here… okay? You can do that?” They nod, like ducks bobbing in water, together.
No.
No, they understand every word, don’t they... “Good.” She says finally, smiling, her nod a tad dubious. “...good.” She turns again, this time more firmly, quicker, marching away and towards the knot of horses arranging themselves on the starting line.
She needs this, the run. She misses it, but not like this. Like the other, with her, low down and masterfully nimble, powerful back legs propelling her to safety; she gives a mournful glance to the mountain; lonely and hard on the sky, somewhere her other half is stuck in limbo and she closes her eyes, feeling the weight of that guilt slump her shoulders…
They giggle and her eyes snap open, whipping her head around, “are you two serious?” They stop dead, Gardenia’s ears flattening to the sides, eyes like saucers as her head drops low. Mauve looks off to the right, squinting into the trees as if something positively perplexing has caught her eye. She mumbles something about it to herself, humming and hawing…
A strange sound rings out, like a quack squeezed out a duck, and she shoots them a hard glance, and as she lurches forward she bellows the word,
“STAY!”
“My heart has joined the Thousand,
for my friend stopped running today.”
09-11-2016, 06:39 AM (This post was last modified: 09-11-2016, 06:40 AM by woodrow.)
He couldn't hem their impish daughters in because he was too busy answering the call of the wild --
Something trumpeted to the spirit in him, maybe that coyote spirit that is yipping inside him to be let out but it cannot break free of his horse-skin. It begins as an itch that starts in his bones until it rolls up through vein and muscle and compels him to action, spurs him forward in ways that no spurs set to his sides ever has - he runs, runs until he hits the land and there are other orses running around him in their racing fantasies. Only for this, does he skid to a stop and eye them longingly, as if he too, wants to run.
Then he is!
Or thinks he is, but he thinks he is running as a coyote because hey, isn't this a fantasy race anyway?
He's the first coyote to be entered into the Breeders' Cup.
Heresy! They cry, throwing programs down onto the field and ripping up the tickets for their bets. The race has become a joke, a mockery of the thing it was always meant to be - only greyhounds race, and certainly not with thoroughbreds. Why in the hell is there a grinning coyote being lead out onto the track?!
He looks handsome though in his tawny fur that has been all nicely brushed down, except for that damned bushy tail! They placed a tiny saddle on him and the saddlecloth is a brilliant sky-blue, and for his jockey - a two-year-old child because face it, a midget was still too heavy to sit on his back but he figured a toddler would do just as well. Of course they gave the damned child (Kristin's son most likely!) a crop and he keeps smacking Woodrow all over with it, not just on the flanks, but in the face too. He's a toddler, he doesn't know any better!
Everyone has come back to the stands, realizing this is a jest on the racetrack's part.
Some fun before the true festivities get underway.
For sport, he's loaded into a starting gate and then the bell rings and the door pops open!
And lo and behold, great Coyote above, there is a lovely rabbit smell and a rabbit-thing zooming down the track railing! Praise be to Coyote, his dinner is on the run!
Woodrow forgets about the toddler-jockey on his back;
He forgets about all the other horses he's been paraded past.
He forgets everything but the delicious crunch of bones in his mouth as he gets to the marrow and sucks it out. Mmm.... tasty rabbit! He's running after it like a bat straight out of hell, his paws scrabbling at the firm dirt and throwing up clods of it behind him. He's stretched out like a bird in flight - sounds pretty doesn't it? It's not, he's a lean mean coyote racing machine as he sprints down the track in pursuit of that scrumptious bunny butt just zipping along the railing...
Hey wait - there's a rock! It trips up his paw and he goes tumbling end over end over end...
Oh no! He's not a coyote any more but a horse! Silly stallion, somehow he ran the entire race dreaming he was a coyote. He ran it though!
Pollute didn’t know he could love as many fairies as he does. At every twist of his head, they appear (they’re dancing for him, swinging glittering hips and rubbing their noses against his shoulders) and his eyes widen each time. At first it started with the Playground fairy, all motherly and careful and strict. He likes to watch her heal the scabbed knees and kiss the ‘booboos’ (and he’s got a booboo for her, but she’d think it too inappropriate to kiss) and it became his favorite pastime.
And then he found out there were more – so many more. His chest swells for all of them (all of them in their glittering, dazzling, magical beauty) until he feels as though he might burst. Pollute, in his year-old adolescence, clearly has a very illegal desire for fairies. He hopes, one day, they might grant him his one eternal wish in life – to fly. It’s always been his dream; he’s always soared above heads and carved trails into the clouds while he sleeps.
Today isn’t any different. His legs twitch as he imagines running across a thundercloud. The sound resonates in his sleepy head, a thud beneath his hooves that turns into the thunder accompanying the lightning. He laughs, tossing his reckless head back in a trumpet of glee. As he closes his eyes, he is suddenly somewhere else. His feet are on solid ground (insert a groan of dismay here) and there are horses packed around him on all sides. They are crowding, fierce, and many hands taller than him. He hasn’t had a growth spurt yet, give Pollute a break.
There’s emptiness before him, a racetrack crafted of clouds. And at the end (oh God she’s beautiful – his young man parts spurt some pubic hairs just by looking at her) a fairy. A quest fairy. Pollute is awake instantly. Her soft voice (she could sing for him all day and he would sit there, crying in happiness) echoes across the expanse, explaining the rules and beckoning for him to win. He hears it in his head, her magical words, “Win for me, Pollute, and you can fly,” and he nearly moans. Oh yes he’ll win for you, baby.
The sound of a lightning strike sets off the runners and he’s scrambling to catch his footing. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He cannot lose, not for her. Pollute’s legs pump faster, his breathing thunders, his neck lunges to move his body. Gotta win gotta win gotta win. He keeps his eyes on the prize (the fairy turns briefly and he spots that magic gluteus maximus and he nearly trips over his, ah, fifth leg if you know what I mean) as he runs. He doesn’t focus on anyone else. He tunes out the others racing for his sexy girl. He simply runs for her.
When he crosses the finish line, his heart explodes with relief. “Baby, did I win?!” He’s almost shaking with hormones (you know young colts, on the brink of puberty) and he inches closer to the quest fairy. Pollute tries to touch her – if only he could feel her side. He’s always imagined it to be sexy and soft and hot as fuck, but he wants to find out for sure. I mean, he’s run and sweat and panted and fought for her – the least she could do was let him touch her so he can savor it later when he satisfies his premature sexual desires…
There is something very few know about her, something she has never felt the need to share: she loves to run. In the desert, she had flown across the sands on a daily basis until her neck gleamed with sweat and her barrel heaved. It is the closest she will ever come to flying, at least physically. Oh, she has flown with her brother, with other unwary souls, but only by sight, not in truth.
But the sight has been taken from. And so she has nothing else.
So when the opportunity presents itself, she takes it. Especially considering it is something she is so good at, something she enjoys.
The humans do not phase her, she has seen them before. She has been one before. That they wish to clamor on her back though, that is surprisingly irritating. She could run much better unencumbered.
But for this opportunity, she would bear such a disgrace with dignity.
Besides, once her hooves meet the grassy track, she knows nothing else besides the ring of the bell, the pounding of fleet hooves against earth, the rush of wind in her ears, and the glory of her muscles working in perfect harmony to bring her as close to flying as she will ever come.
And when the finish line comes, it is too soon. Despite the gleam of sweat and the shortness of her breath, it is too soon. She would go forever if she could.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
