10-10-2021, 09:09 PM
For a few rapturous minutes, Sawbone and the other party-goers all remain as horses sucked into ill-fitting costumes. For those minutes, the colt hardly moves, only stamping his front hooves anxiously into the leaf-strewn earth. He swears he can feel the faintest smattering of pumpkin-scented liquid (he opens his mouth to get a taste), before the too-tight clothes suddenly feel much looser. Saw breathes a sigh of relief while taking a step forward, smiling softly down at his platform—
Wait, where are his hooves? Then he blinks and he’s swinging fingers—fingers—up to his face.
“I am a hostage to my own humanity,” he whispers, then blinks again, because those were definitely not the vulgar words he was trying to say. “I am a hostage to my own humanity,” he says again, but the simple what the fuck won’t come out.
“There’s a story at the bottom of this bottle?” he says next, then sucks in a decidedly freaked out breath.
It’s in the moments he takes to understand why his thoughts are repeating the words welcome to the black parade that the cackling of the witches registers in his ears. Sawbone looks up from his shaking, pale hands just in time to see a fully nude, broom-riding woman hurtling at his face.
“The angel from my nightmare!” Saw screeches, then lurches into the mud and leaves and dirt. He flies into a rapid crawl, only hurling himself into a sprint when he’s certain the witch has passed. They close around him, though, he realizes. The echoing laughter isn’t the magic of one woman, but a plethora of them. They zip by as they cackle and call, leaving Saw to heave out breaths as he screams in fear, “You’re already the voice inside my head!”
The teenager is not faster than enchanted brooms, unfortunately; and the earth scratches his hands and legs as he falls over an arching root. Those frightened orange eyes peer up through strands of pink and black hair, watching as he counts at least eight magic women. “It’s not a war—no, it’s not a rapture,” Saw squeaks out on labored breaths.
“Hope dangles on a string,” he aches out, rolling to his side and curling into a ball.
They close in, growing more excited as they realize their plaything has given up. Their cackles and rhymes begin to drive Saw mad. He thinks he is to die tonight, cold and stuck in some foreign, emotion-struck body.
But those whispers and promises, the hissing and giggling of the gaggle of women—the effects are madness, crackling just beneath Saw’s skin. When the first drags of cruel fingers pass over the teenager’s arms, Saw launches upward, staring at the startled women with wide eyes.
After two heaving, desperate breaths, he screams:
“I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of
Closing the goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of poise and rationality
I chime in, "Haven't you people ever heard of
Closing the goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of
Poise and rationality
Again.”
The women all look at each other, then look back at him as if they might start laughing. Then they all fall to the ground one by one, a chorus of snores following. Saw drinks in the breath of a war-hero, then turns around. At the treeline is the Mountain, and directly in front of him is a cave. He stares at it as he approaches it, triumphant.
Wait, where are his hooves? Then he blinks and he’s swinging fingers—fingers—up to his face.
“I am a hostage to my own humanity,” he whispers, then blinks again, because those were definitely not the vulgar words he was trying to say. “I am a hostage to my own humanity,” he says again, but the simple what the fuck won’t come out.
“There’s a story at the bottom of this bottle?” he says next, then sucks in a decidedly freaked out breath.
It’s in the moments he takes to understand why his thoughts are repeating the words welcome to the black parade that the cackling of the witches registers in his ears. Sawbone looks up from his shaking, pale hands just in time to see a fully nude, broom-riding woman hurtling at his face.
“The angel from my nightmare!” Saw screeches, then lurches into the mud and leaves and dirt. He flies into a rapid crawl, only hurling himself into a sprint when he’s certain the witch has passed. They close around him, though, he realizes. The echoing laughter isn’t the magic of one woman, but a plethora of them. They zip by as they cackle and call, leaving Saw to heave out breaths as he screams in fear, “You’re already the voice inside my head!”
The teenager is not faster than enchanted brooms, unfortunately; and the earth scratches his hands and legs as he falls over an arching root. Those frightened orange eyes peer up through strands of pink and black hair, watching as he counts at least eight magic women. “It’s not a war—no, it’s not a rapture,” Saw squeaks out on labored breaths.
“Hope dangles on a string,” he aches out, rolling to his side and curling into a ball.
They close in, growing more excited as they realize their plaything has given up. Their cackles and rhymes begin to drive Saw mad. He thinks he is to die tonight, cold and stuck in some foreign, emotion-struck body.
But those whispers and promises, the hissing and giggling of the gaggle of women—the effects are madness, crackling just beneath Saw’s skin. When the first drags of cruel fingers pass over the teenager’s arms, Saw launches upward, staring at the startled women with wide eyes.
After two heaving, desperate breaths, he screams:
“I chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of
Closing the goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of poise and rationality
I chime in, "Haven't you people ever heard of
Closing the goddamn door?!"
No, it's much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of
Poise and rationality
Again.”
The women all look at each other, then look back at him as if they might start laughing. Then they all fall to the ground one by one, a chorus of snores following. Saw drinks in the breath of a war-hero, then turns around. At the treeline is the Mountain, and directly in front of him is a cave. He stares at it as he approaches it, triumphant.