| Subject: *The familiar silhouette of a golden stallion, crouched among shadow, booms a thick whicker, heavy with emotion...* |
Author:
Radiocity
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Date Posted: 10:18:40 03/29/01 Thu
Author Host/IP: a050-0194.flnt.splitrock.net/63.252.144.194
*The tall form of steed remains in utter silence, dark gaze suddenly cast towards the meadow flooding his vision below. His note deep and banging in his ears, he snorts quietly, glassy gaze finally descending down to where he had hoped never to look. His deep sight watches the dance of life performing below only for a moment, the figurines dancing in his mind over and over, multiplying themselves a thousand times until it seemed an army of white charged its way through him, dancing a ballet of innocence, carefree and desired, more than it was to him. And that is all; stored away into the farthest stashes of conscious, he pulls his mind to other places, thoughts averted to what good the night would bring him - but the meadow below distracts his heavy thoughts once again, and he swishes his matted tail in irritation, swathed in dusky light. All the pretty horses marched away, loving and leaving, living and dying, all in a precise clockwork ticking furiously away to keep the two dimensional on their circular track. But his rugged, tawny form juts upward and away from the rest of the world, startlingly touchable and alive, peeling away from everything in thick slices of some sweet tropical fruit; his air holds tangerine and papaya with ease. Mares met stallions, loved them, had children, left them, stallions found mares, loved them, had children, watched them leave, and so on in this forever boring pattern of life - one he wished not to live. Long tresses of pale mane snarled and curling angrily around his muscular neck, he snorts quietly, resolving never to live in clockwork, resolving never to be flat. He would be no machine. Outline staggeringly bright, he sways against the sky in time to nothing, utterly silent, collected, cool. One last glance down the meadow seals the chapter, and he sharply retracts his head. There were few who could do so, as he did - ones that could push take away what was normal and orthodox. His gaze snaps upward, becoming acutely aware of the moon, sooty eyes storming onwards into the smeared morrow - not trusting anything anymore, but free - utterly, absolutely, deliciously free.*
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