Kneel
every single night
Twist it this way, he mused to himself, no.
Turn it then, the minutes tick by as he problem solves in silence, denying the wind his grievances, but the inner exchange takes place nonetheless.
No again, he clenches his jaw, grinding enamel against enamel until the sound sets his temper alight. Irritated enough to stop, stubborn enough to seethe anyways.
Misfortune never looked so pretty, and that’s exactly how he would tell the tale, if ever the mishap came up in normal conversation. As it were, the wind picked a fight, and his wet mane answered the challenge, what’s a boy to do?
Kneel was, to put it plain, dealing with a ruffled feather.
That’s when shit really hit the fan. A voice, and not just a voice to stir the already simmering pot that is known, most days, as Kneel, but a voice that offers assistance. The indignity crept along his spine at first, prickling with ever-light fingers until the skin broke formation to shiver in response. Furrowing his brow, the young stallion turned a tick in her direction, as if to say, ‘Did I hear that correctly?’ before the swivel of his head finally caught up to the interruption.
A single thread of lavender hair catching, a notable snag in his movement, and thus, his turn wasn’t as seamless as he had hoped it would be.
He didn’t care that she offered to help him, he didn’t care that he might, in fact, need help. He didn’t care that he was fighting with the elements quite out of his control. He didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care!
”Who are you?” The question feels like a demand, and though it is more complimentary to greet kindness with kindness—Kneel didn’t feel very kind at the moment. Not to her, not to the wind, not to his glorious, luxurious mane. He tugged again, but this time the connection simply tugged back, meeting his yanking with tension that sent his head bouncing back vigorously, or rather dramatically in the same instance.
After a long pause, longer than it should be, Kneel inhales one solitary breath, and speaks again. Inching his head towards her as far as he possibly can, while a brow lifts at the noted color palette and expressive lights dancing in elongated patterns across her skin.
”Can you? Help me, I mean?” The words are bitter as they form, pulled apprehensively from his lungs like the breath he had just taken was nothing more than performative.
Turn it then, the minutes tick by as he problem solves in silence, denying the wind his grievances, but the inner exchange takes place nonetheless.
No again, he clenches his jaw, grinding enamel against enamel until the sound sets his temper alight. Irritated enough to stop, stubborn enough to seethe anyways.
Misfortune never looked so pretty, and that’s exactly how he would tell the tale, if ever the mishap came up in normal conversation. As it were, the wind picked a fight, and his wet mane answered the challenge, what’s a boy to do?
Kneel was, to put it plain, dealing with a ruffled feather.
That’s when shit really hit the fan. A voice, and not just a voice to stir the already simmering pot that is known, most days, as Kneel, but a voice that offers assistance. The indignity crept along his spine at first, prickling with ever-light fingers until the skin broke formation to shiver in response. Furrowing his brow, the young stallion turned a tick in her direction, as if to say, ‘Did I hear that correctly?’ before the swivel of his head finally caught up to the interruption.
A single thread of lavender hair catching, a notable snag in his movement, and thus, his turn wasn’t as seamless as he had hoped it would be.
He didn’t care that she offered to help him, he didn’t care that he might, in fact, need help. He didn’t care that he was fighting with the elements quite out of his control. He didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care!
”Who are you?” The question feels like a demand, and though it is more complimentary to greet kindness with kindness—Kneel didn’t feel very kind at the moment. Not to her, not to the wind, not to his glorious, luxurious mane. He tugged again, but this time the connection simply tugged back, meeting his yanking with tension that sent his head bouncing back vigorously, or rather dramatically in the same instance.
After a long pause, longer than it should be, Kneel inhales one solitary breath, and speaks again. Inching his head towards her as far as he possibly can, while a brow lifts at the noted color palette and expressive lights dancing in elongated patterns across her skin.
”Can you? Help me, I mean?” The words are bitter as they form, pulled apprehensively from his lungs like the breath he had just taken was nothing more than performative.
HTML by Call