06-11-2016, 05:28 PM
just a lil something from Rowling to get him started off >>>
Rowling
Isn’t that odd? he thinks, feeling the snow drift over him, encasing him into the ground. Of course Rowling does not yet realize this is the ground, just a very hard spot, one which does not give, not like the place before. Even still, when he thinks of the before place it didn’t have much give either, not in the end. There was only so much room for two in the before place and now he isn’t sure there is room for the other at all, actually where is the other? It’s not the cold or the snow that chills him and truly he is not chilled in the physical sense but emotionally he feels just that. He worries when he starts to process that maybe the other is gone, or maybe he is gone or perhaps both. A bleating noise issues from his small mouth, the sound lost to deaf ears that sit swiveling atop his tiny head.
Where is the other he wants to know, where am I? Because for now Rowling does not know if the other is a brother or a sister, he just knows that he is not supposed to be alone, he knows that before there were two.
As he cries he wiggles, shifting beneath the fine powder until he frees a foreleg. Just the one, a single solitary leg poking from beneath the blanket of white. It is then that Rowling knows that this place is not so cramped as he had thought and with a few more wiggles his bluish head bursts forth from the snowdrift, small bleats filling the air around him. Well, well, this is different. Two amber eyes search the scene, an otherwise green meadow, a second lump of snow and a fat mare snoozing in the midst of the flurries. Or wait, not a mare at all, but the distinct smell the man carries is all too familiar. Rowling’s brain says “Momma”, his eyes tell him otherwise as he watches the rust colored stallion snore on that sunny spring day, asleep to the world and the child before him. Not for long he hopes and with that the little blue roan colt plays for Weir the song of his people. The chorus of his cries echoing in the emptiness and not once does it bother the boy- not once does he hear.
Where is the other he wants to know, where am I? Because for now Rowling does not know if the other is a brother or a sister, he just knows that he is not supposed to be alone, he knows that before there were two.
As he cries he wiggles, shifting beneath the fine powder until he frees a foreleg. Just the one, a single solitary leg poking from beneath the blanket of white. It is then that Rowling knows that this place is not so cramped as he had thought and with a few more wiggles his bluish head bursts forth from the snowdrift, small bleats filling the air around him. Well, well, this is different. Two amber eyes search the scene, an otherwise green meadow, a second lump of snow and a fat mare snoozing in the midst of the flurries. Or wait, not a mare at all, but the distinct smell the man carries is all too familiar. Rowling’s brain says “Momma”, his eyes tell him otherwise as he watches the rust colored stallion snore on that sunny spring day, asleep to the world and the child before him. Not for long he hopes and with that the little blue roan colt plays for Weir the song of his people. The chorus of his cries echoing in the emptiness and not once does it bother the boy- not once does he hear.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure