10-03-2016, 11:15 PM
RORSCHACH
RORSCHACH'S JOURNAL: Something was happening, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Change was coming, even a new comer like myself was able to see it. The air grew thicker each night, leading up to something terrible. Like a cliche horror movie; Que the suspenseful music. Then one night a thick fog rolled in, it choked the terrain, like the hands of a blood thirsty monster. Everyone fled. Like sheep herded towards a slaughter house they trudged, fearful yet unsure of what it was they actually feared. Instinct told them to flee what they did not know. And flee they did. All of them herded together by the fog that spread out over the land like a puddle of blood that seeps over cold hard concrete. They found themselves atop a mountain, looking out over what was once undoubtably their precious homeland. Pathetic.
Now it's weeks later. I hear whispers from those I pass by. In hushed tones laced with fear they speak of fairies and the magic within this place being stripped away. Magic. The thought causes a gruff one syllable laugh to claw its way from my throat. Before this, special abilities had all been make believe. Stories told to simple minded children to keep them busy and out of the adults hair. Looking back I allow my blue eyes to fall on the pair of jet black wings that grew from my shoulders. I hadn't been born with them. They had started to sprout the day I stepped foot over the boarder. It started out as a dull ache, like being punched hard in a large muscle. Quickly that uncomfortable soreness escalated to a full out shooting pain. Like being stabbed with a hot piece of metal. That night two small bloody nubs erupted from my shoulders. Imagine my surprise. I hid myself for days, stalking along the very outskirts of Beqanna like a serial killer plotting their next move. The once tiny nubs grew, alarmingly so, until I quickly realized what they were. Wings. Another thing I had previously believed to be made up. Winged horses did not exist.
Yet here I stood atop a small drumlin in the meadow. A tall oak tree grew beside me, it's thick canopy shielded me from a hard summer rain. The sudden down pour had caught me off guard. Clearly irritated, my black rimmed harks were buried within a sea of messy black dreads. Thankfully the make shift umbrella keeps my spotted carcass mostly dry, though the dampness in the air clung heavily to my skin. While prowling along the outskirts of this place, it didn't take me long to realize that things such as wings and peculiar colors weren't very peculiar at all. Thought causes my mind to once again drift to my new onyx wings. Absentmindedly I gently ruffle the feathers, fluffing them up against the rain. My deep blue eyes score the wet, grassy meadow that sprawled out before me. It was dotted sparsely with the bodies of other horses. Most had fled the openness in seek of shelter. Those who didn't stood brainlessly in the torrential down pour. Thunder rumbled in the distance. An omen to a harsher storm, perhaps? One could only hope.
Now it's weeks later. I hear whispers from those I pass by. In hushed tones laced with fear they speak of fairies and the magic within this place being stripped away. Magic. The thought causes a gruff one syllable laugh to claw its way from my throat. Before this, special abilities had all been make believe. Stories told to simple minded children to keep them busy and out of the adults hair. Looking back I allow my blue eyes to fall on the pair of jet black wings that grew from my shoulders. I hadn't been born with them. They had started to sprout the day I stepped foot over the boarder. It started out as a dull ache, like being punched hard in a large muscle. Quickly that uncomfortable soreness escalated to a full out shooting pain. Like being stabbed with a hot piece of metal. That night two small bloody nubs erupted from my shoulders. Imagine my surprise. I hid myself for days, stalking along the very outskirts of Beqanna like a serial killer plotting their next move. The once tiny nubs grew, alarmingly so, until I quickly realized what they were. Wings. Another thing I had previously believed to be made up. Winged horses did not exist.
Yet here I stood atop a small drumlin in the meadow. A tall oak tree grew beside me, it's thick canopy shielded me from a hard summer rain. The sudden down pour had caught me off guard. Clearly irritated, my black rimmed harks were buried within a sea of messy black dreads. Thankfully the make shift umbrella keeps my spotted carcass mostly dry, though the dampness in the air clung heavily to my skin. While prowling along the outskirts of this place, it didn't take me long to realize that things such as wings and peculiar colors weren't very peculiar at all. Thought causes my mind to once again drift to my new onyx wings. Absentmindedly I gently ruffle the feathers, fluffing them up against the rain. My deep blue eyes score the wet, grassy meadow that sprawled out before me. It was dotted sparsely with the bodies of other horses. Most had fled the openness in seek of shelter. Those who didn't stood brainlessly in the torrential down pour. Thunder rumbled in the distance. An omen to a harsher storm, perhaps? One could only hope.
and the world will look up and shout save us
and i will whisper, no
and i will whisper, no