03-18-2017, 09:35 PM
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!