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 Posted: Sun Jan 31, 2016 10:12 pm
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF TURTLE!
Kin Name: Castaway
Drabble:
 It was night when Castaway found her.
He had returned the the beach and under the light of a full moon, followed her tracks from the sea to the softer sand well beyond the tideline. She’d dragged her body to the perfect position, where her eggs would be safe and was now busy digging.
The turtle paid him no heed as he stood by and watched. He was patient as he studied her leathery shell, watching her dark eyes as they blinked away the sand. She shoveled for ages until the hole was deep enough and then finally, shifting her bulk into position.
It must have been exhausting. The effort that was put into this single brood. All those white, slimy eggs as they dropped into sand that would keep them warm and sheltered until they cracked open and pushed up and out into a brutal world.
Most of them would die. Seagulls, heat, fish or simply the ocean itself.
When the mother turtle finally stopped laying and started scraping sand to cover up her eggs, she wasn’t able to put up much of a fight. He pushed her away despite her struggles. His head pressed against her side as moved her to a distance where she wouldn't be able to disturb him.
He was saving them the trouble of ever having to live at all, he told himself as he gobbled them up. The shells was soft and they popped open in a burst of yolk. It really was a brutal world.
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Posted: Sun Jan 31, 2016 10:32 pm
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF CHICKEN!
Kin Name: Beetleshell
Drabble: She had known something was wrong the moment she'd woken up. For one, it was midday, and Beetleshell strived to keep herself nocturnal. But the sun streaming in through the tangled mess of mangrove roots was bright and gleaming, golden-yellow and warm instead of the cool, silvery starlight she was used to. Different birds were singing and the rustle of small animal life moved about her, all serving to make her not merely confused, but disgruntled and disoriented as well. She stumbled out from within her mangrove nest like a small foal taking its first steps from the sac.
There was another noise, too, one that she'd never heard before outside of a few very specific places -- one not entirely conducive to keeping her carefully-tended nest of insects intact.
Something was in her garden wreaking havoc, and likely making her insects, so carefully tended and cultivated, panic; it was likely making her insects into food, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself. The gaunt doe came blustering out of the mangrove nest, squinting in the bright sunlight, and yelled in terror at the sight of a chicken, happily clucking to itself in the middle of her gardens, sitting on the ground as calm and happy as if it were tending a nest. To either side of it, Tears-Into and Rips-Apart sat waving their feelers nervously, while Bleeder -- the useless thing -- buzzed above it, head looking from side to side.
Beetleshell sighed, looking at the chicken and at her useless familiars as they waited, fretting, and then shrugged. She'd have something to trade Rise and Shine now, perhaps for new plants or even live insects. Maybe this was their chicken, and they'd give her a reward for it.
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Posted: Sun Jan 31, 2016 10:55 pm
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF OCEAN!
Kin Name: Breach
Drabble: It glittered, sprawled fathomless and endless, under the midday sun. Water so bright and vibrant—this was nothing like the murky pond and silt-laden lakes of the swamp—she felt the urge to dig each hoof down into the sand like roots, least it swept her away. It was strange to see it from this view; she’d dreamt of it—it was in her very naming—for so long from below. Just all encompassing water and the flutter of sunlight.
A breeze swept in, brought salt—bitter tang—against her fur and lips and eyes. It stung in this body. Even so, she watched as the wind lifted the water’s surface. Waves rose like a flock of birds taking flight; indeed, the white-capped mountain flew before gravity undid it. The crash was quick and violent, a forceful blow against water and sand. The air kissed her skin hello as jaws snapped around fur and flesh and then prize caught her body slapped against the surface. Even now she felt the blossom of blood…
With a need she could never explain, she coiled tensed and stormed across the hot, fine sand. It was an obstacle all its own, not so difficult as mud yet not nearly as stable as dried earth. She felt herself pitch, to and fro, as she tried to grow accustomed to shifting sand. The muscles in her legs burned and the work, unconsidered, under a high sun parched her throat. But she knew not to drink what lie before her. To drink was to die.
She felt the epitome of a fish out of water. So close, so far. She would not fall prey to land. With a growl, she pressed forward. One step after another, each beating the sand into submission, she drew near. And as the first lap of cool water lapped against her front hoof, she felt uncertainty. She was a kimeti though her naming dream was filled with none. She was not made to swim and frolic and live in the saltwater. And yet, she had to know it. She had to feel that again. Even if, that predator came for her and sunk its teeth, sharp and gruesome, into her flesh to drag her down, she had to—
A shriek cut through the ambiance as a wave crashed down against her knees. It was cold! With grit teeth, regretting for the first time that her naming had not been a meadow warm of sunlight, she plunged forward. Wet sand pulled down on her hooves, as water swelled and crashed into her. She felt powerless, buoyed and pushed, pulled and drowned. It was not long before she was far out of her depth and she was plunged beneath.
Shock flooded into her body, limbs tense, as surprised wrenched her mouth open. Saltwater cascaded into her mouth and nostrils, until her eyes opened. The sting spurred her instincts and legs began to kick, as she sought the sun. It glimmered from above like a beacon and she fought towards it. If she was named for a predator from this very place she would not die like a land-dweller. She rose and sink in turns, pressed close only to fall down. It was with a fire building in her lungs that she burst through the surface, mouth gasping as eyes became blinded. With greedy inhales, reason relaxed her and she let the strong water push her towards shore. For all the fight it had taken her to rise, the sea carried her to the sand in the time it took her eyes to clear.
She sputtered and coughed, as the ocean left her in a water drenched heap. And as her breathing, haggard and wet, began to ease, she could appreciate the humor. It appeared a dream did not imbue one with special skills. And swimming in the swamp’s waters was nothing like doing so in the tempest of the saltwater. Skills, however, were meant to be learned and she would conquer these wretched, beautiful waters. She was, after all, named in them.
Battered but unbroken, she rose and starred out at the sea. She would stay for however it took. The ocean was home.
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Posted: Sun Jan 31, 2016 11:19 pm
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF OCEAN!
Kin Name: Castaway
Drabble:
Castaway hated the ocean.
He’d been born here, been moulded by it. It had nourished him and battered him. It was more of a mother than his mother, not from her lack of trying or interest but simply because he, by default, hated his mother just as much as he hated everyone else. The ocean, in comparison, felt like it had taught him more. He’d inherited the wild moods of the sea and its ability to indiscriminately drown and destroy. But there was none of the tenderness or gentle waves in his heart.
He devoured what the ocean offered and weathered its fury but still he hated.
So he would leave, for weeks and sometimes months, trekking across the land until there was no more salt air to breath in and unsteady sand beneath his hooves.
Always returning eventually.
Then he would ask the ocean why it had yet to swallow his tribe. It would be nice, he told it, if he could watch them all be dragged away by unbeatable currents. They were amusing sometimes, when they failed, when they struggled, when they spoke of strength and honour and family. But he would enjoy watching the ocean they loved destroy them.
Castaway will hate the ocean until it completes that one simply task.
Then he will be alone on the beach and he will let himself feel.
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 12:17 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF CHICKEN!
Kin Name: Smash-and-Mash
Drabble: Sometimes Smash-and-Mash didn't entirely trust chickens.
It wasn't that they were particularly large or initially dangerous, mind you. A crocodile was an obviously dangerous animal. A boar was a blatantly dangerous animal. You could look at those two creatures and know in your heart that yes, either one of them could emphatically and decisively ruin your day. But chickens? They seemed so innocent at first blush. Really, your only warning was the sounds they produced- and the noises they could make! Chickens could make many strange sounds. Many were incredibly pleasant; the sleepy little chook chook noises they made as they roosted was quite nice; the quiet little clucks they made when they were chattering to each other as they pecked at the ground looking for bugs and bits of fodder were equally cute. But she wouldn't be fooled; she knew the chickens' true range of vocal ability. She knew the rage that burned inside the heart of a chicken, for she'd seen it once. She was helping with egg duty- her tribe used them so very frequently, and sometimes you just needed an extra hoof. Unfortunately, she was a stranger to these chickens; it didn't take much force to crack an egg, after all, and she mostly worked in the fields of applied smashing and mashing. And while she was being extremely careful with the eggs... perhaps she hadn't been so careful with the chickens' nests. One nest looked particularly easy- there wasn't a hen sitting on it! She gathered the eggs and moved on. But as this was happening, somewhere in the distance, the pupil of a beady avian eye contracted as the hen knew. With a predator's speed (if not a predator's grace), the hen came charging, shrieking her head off. "BUCK BUCK B'GAAAAWK! BUCK BUCK B'GAAAAAAAAAWK!" At the hen's alarm call, the others were alerted as well that the big green thing in their midst was not a friend. They pecked at her ankles, leaping up at her and trying to hit her back. Fortunately, she was well-armored... but less-fortunately, she was carrying eggs. She was something like a slow-moving feathered tornado as the furious fowl attempted to drive her from their lands- the trauma of the event pretty much kept her far, far away from those birds for a good long while.
Yes indeed, chickens were not to be trusted.
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 12:31 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF MUSHROOM!
Kin Name: Fervent
Drabble: Oh, to want.
She desired; it was easier to do so than it was to breathe. Wisps of wishes would swirl within her mind until they were given form by dreams. Enchanted, these desires touched her heart and sprung roots until she was attached to them the same as she was her own flesh. It was as it had always been; the soil of her heart was too fertile and near everything took to it. Even weeds. Even brambles and thorns.
It was difficult, such a life. She could do nothing half-way; it was all or nothing. Even when dreams, once so passionately desires, were shown to be futile… She had spent many a night, tears cascading down her cheeks, as she attempted to pull the wilted flowers, the flourishing the weeds, the too-sharp thorns free. She hurt, sometimes. The hope, sprung bright like sunlight, was fragile and the slightest misstep was deemed a failure that fractured through her until she was bereft with only dim sardonic memories.
Fervent sighed; reality was harshly bitter after heartbreak. She envied the happy so much so that she was contemplating mushrooms. She had never dared try them before. The wrong one could kill. (She wasn’t that desperate.) She only wanted a reprieve. No matter how short. But she was all or nothing. And the want for something was overwhelming when it struck her. She took a bite.
It was a small thing. A short-stemmed, purple capped shelter for ants. Or at least it had been when she first saw it. As she chewed, then swallowed, it seemed to change. It grew, velvet nubs ridged its cap and then with a snap, wings sprouted forth. She drew back as it transformed into a swan. And as she delighted in its grace, wisps of her past dreams shimmered into existence. Soon, she was surrounded.
The fissures along her heart were bandaged with healing herbs as the loves who she had failed to gain, adored her. The gangly kimeti, who had left with a totoma before she’d ever had the chance to say hello, whispered sonnets into her ear. A divine flower she’d happened upon, only to be eaten by a particularly fat rabbit, was flourishing just high enough for her to dip her nose to catch its intoxicating aroma. Why, even the pale spider, she’d spied weaving a web one morning over a butterfly bush, was spinning a thick cape that would be there to embrace her always. She laughed, delighted; this was how it was meant to be.
It must have been hours that she was the center of attention. She let the heartaches of her life spill from her lips then reveled in the comfort these lovers adorned her with. The kimeti’s words were rich roses that he scattered throughout her hair. The flower sung perfumed love songs that settled along her fur. The spider taught her to speak silk so that she would never be left wanting again. And as bliss filled her until she may well burst, she drifted to sleep.
It was almost more than she could bear to wake to a mushroom. The stitches it had kissed along her heart broke open and she cried.
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 1:09 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF SMASH!
Kin Name: Atone
Drabble: It’s anger. Raw and raging as she is prodded, relentlessly, by the persona she is desperate to shed. In the grand scheme—in the history of her blackness—it was nothing. Just the arduous labor and love of a child shattered. The spray of bone fragments and carpet of flower petals sticks in her mind’s eyes like a shadow blocking the sun. She grits her teeth, slams her hoof into the mossy ground, and tries not to remember the sound of sobs. (Or her ******** worthless, disaster of an apology.)
She’s captivated by the child as it works, relentlessly, to decorate a small rabbit skull. A rather morbid piece of art, to be sure, but it seems thrilled. And she only has to watch it for a short time until it’s mother returns.
She curses, low in her throat, as she almost rams face first into a tree. Goddamn, could she be any more of a lost cause? It evades her in her fuming that she could be; it isn’t as if she killed the little brat. (She tamps down on the urge to correct herself—it was an adorable, snow white lamb.) In a lifetime before, she might have. Not directly, of course, she had some limits, but she knows it likely would have ended up dead because of her. And, as if the world, demands she not forget, she promptly stomps her hoof into a hornet’s nest. (<******** runs. The hornet’s nest splinters and shatters, delicate wood smashed to pieces as hooves hit the ground. The stings are well warranted and serve her right, she thinks, as she eventually plummets in the shallow murk of a moss pond. It reeks but it repels the hornets. Only to sink the failure of her day—more like her entire existence—down over her head. She huffs, storming out of the disgusting water.
”This is for you,” the lamb squeaks, fluttering its eyes at her. The brown streaked skull’s amassed flowers are overpowering. And as she bends down to look closer, she spies daisies. It’s too late as her nose inhales and she feels the sneezes tickling at her throat. As her body is wracked with sneezes, her hoof smashes into the presented gift.
She groans, ducks her head down, as she throws herself down on the ground. The mud doesn’t even concern her. She’s got a black heart; she’s a terrible kin. She may as well look like the dirt she is. It was the little brat’s fault for using daisies, didn’t its mother ever tell it that kin were allergic to such trash, she gripes silently. All she did was have an allergy attack. It was not her fault. But she knows better; it was, it is, her fault.
”I—I didn’t, I,” she sneezes at the devastation. “I’ll replace it! There’s a—a stag or mare or someone who beautifies skulls, isn’t there? I could,” she cuts off as watery eyes begin to irritate her. She barely hears the low growl of the mother. She just runs.
Oh, ******** it. She’s tired and she’d only screw something up if she bothered to move. The mud squelches under her weight as she lies down.
Petulantly, she mutters, “Oh, shut up. I’m not fat.”
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 2:00 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF MAGIC!
Kin Name: Sylph
Drabble: He blew a breath of smoke—steeled himself against the urge to cough—as the kin, who had besieged him, began to drift off to sleep. He wanted to leave, had the need to be alone. As easy as it was to slip into a jovial, theatric (and the fire had allowed an easy means to a few party tricks) he wanted to drop the act. At the least, he spit out the thick leaf that was beginning to catch the ember’s spark, he could stop pretending he could breathe fire. (He was indebted to their stupidity that allowed them to believe he was too cold to do more than smoke!)
The fact they thought he was magic troubled him. He wasn’t magic—if that even existed—but he had been something, was still something, which had been different. He remembered floating, ages of idyll contentment, and then there was nothing. He had been trapped, placed in the body of a kimeti. Or maybe born; he didn’t understand it. Some innate knowledge told him that whatever it was, it must be kept secret. It would not do to allow anyone such power over him. Perhaps that was the magic that bubbled like hot springs in his thoughts. He wouldn’t know as long as he was surrounded; he couldn’t afford to let his mask slip.
As the air around him became muddled with snores, he wondered. Magic—it was not the supernatural, he feared. The unknown, yes; even more, he feared that he would reveal himself to someone. He did not want to be known, not his true face, by anyone. They could not be trusted. He wasn’t sure he could be trusted; with their frivolous secrets, yes, but with his own…
He’d spent nearly half the night flirting with every kin around to besot them until they cared not who he was but only about his sweet words. And then he’d nearly passed out when a fire was lit. (He hadn’t even seen how.) The spark had popped into being out of the corner of his eye and fear had triggered his flight response. Except the light-headedness had made his knees turn weak and he’d felt his eyes roll back. He’d passed it off as a forgetfulness to eat. He was only glad no one had wanted to swim. Water was almost worse.
The sound of giggles—a smile stretched across his mouth as he took in the dreamers—made him wistful. He knew he had to remain alone, or at least apart. He could not be known. It did not stop him from romantic daydreams. He’d have liked to be in love, to be loved, with someone. Or someones, as the case may be. A life with children, undoubtedly, would have been nice. And yet it would be a life of role after role. The longest act, a never-ending act, that would undoubtedly leave him drained. Perhaps that was magic; to love without concern for oneself. He snorted, that was far too sappy.
No, magic was something he was far too inept to understand. He should like to keep it that way. Masks and secrets were hard enough.
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 2:47 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF TURTLE!
Kin Name: Evermore
Drabble:
Its shell is dried out and full of sand, tough remnants of tissue clinging to its insides like cobwebs that even the scouring wind and sand haven’t been able to rid it of, yet. The buck standing before it studies the half buried shape of it with glowing eyes, his expression impassive, yet somehow deeply thoughtful.
He cannot help but wonder how this creature came to meet such a demise. The shell is large, and old barnacles are still stuck to its underside. It must have been quite old. Perhaps it died of age, like anything in this world is wont to do. Then again, perhaps some sort of predator got to it, he thinks, as he studies what appear to be gashes scoring one side of the shell. Even those, however, seem old, and faded, as if they’ve had some time to heal.
The shell still gleams with color beneath the dust of the sand, though, and he imagines that it must have been like a jewel in the ocean - gleaming bright and beautiful beneath the waves. A thing to be proud of, certainly. He swipes some of the sand away with his tails and then leans closer for a better look. It is deep brown and gold, all in a pattern, and even the nicks along its edge, and the old and faded bite-marks, only seem to add to its charm. Every scrape and scratch is a story that he can almost imagine taking shape in his mind’s eye -- if only he had any inkling what the other contenders in such a play might look like!
What such an old creature must have seen, Evermore cannot imagine. Great things, most likely. Sadness, death, birth, life, and wonders beyond his own imagination. Things no creature from this swamp could ever hope to see with their own eyes.
Then, as he moves to haul it up from its place in the sand he startles, surprised, as the sand shifts beneath where the thing had lain. He backs away quickly, uncertain, until, one by one, tiny turtles begin to wriggle their way out from the sand and toward the water. Before long there’s ten, and then twenty and more, and Evermore lets out a sound of delight as he watches them head into the foaming surf. A few go astray, and these he carefully nudges back in the right direction. What a delight. Life born from death. The two equal and opposing forces at work together, right here on this beach.
His chest bursts suddenly with the need to travel, to see, to know anything and everything he possibly can -- to visit his own children, even, and see how they are doing -- and he sways a little against the wind; against the pull that urges him onward.
Not yet.
There’s still more to learn here -- about this old turtle, about this strip of beach and the tiny miracles it may yet contain. He’ll spend some time cleaning out the shell as he explores, and perhaps it will reveal even more secrets to him. Time will tell.
WC : 517
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 2:50 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF OCEAN!
Kin Name: Poppymilk
Drabble:
She does not come to this place very often. It is a desolate and often lonely place, and hard to get to, besides. The salt air stings her delicate nose, and the water is no good to drink. Not that this has ever stopped her from getting what she wants -- not once. Still, it is out of the way and the doe tries to get as much as she can when she makes these trips so that she does not have to return too soon. The skin she has should be large enough to hold what she needs on her way back. At least, she hopes it is.
The ocean before her gleams and glitters in the sunlight before her, all different shades of blue, and Poppymilk sighs as she finally clears the last of the tangled, gnarled, trees along this particular stretch of the beach. A few twigs have snagged in her long red mane, and the doe lets out a breath of weary frustration as she tries to tug herself free. There is a bit of pain involved before the twigs snap off reluctantly and remain sticking out of the curls like strange horns. Now that that she is finally here, however, the struggles and challenges of the journey itself seem at least to be worth it.
Finally.
She smiles, eyes sparkling as she takes in the scenery -- and what a good spot, too. The main reason for coming here, of course, is the patch of poppies that grow wild, here. She’ll collect a great mound of them later, but for now… a refreshing dip in the surf seems like a good idea after all the hard work it took simply getting here.
The water is comfortably cool, and the waves lap at her legs almost playfully as she allows herself to sink down into one of the shallow pools near the surf, away from the larger, more aggressive, waves. An outcropping of rock not too far ahead takes most of the beating -- making this spot perfect for relaxing. The last thing she needs is to find herself swept off to sea, after all.
After awhile she notes that her little pool has a few interesting inhabitants. A small fish of magnificent color darts around frantically for a few moments as Poppy settles, before it, too, begins to relax and swim about at a more sedate pace. On the other end of the pool, where the water is deeper, a star-shaped creature clings to a rock beneath the water. Tiny clams and crabs in funny-shaped shells rest along the bottom where it is too deep for Poppymilk to stand, though the water is clear and calm enough, here ,that she is easily able to make them out. She feels a bit like a filly again, for a moment, as she studies these strange creatures -- full of curiosity and the desire to discover.
Perhaps one day she will convince her sister to join her on an excursion. No doubt Sideshow would find it a wonderful place of inspiration for her plays and stories. Plus, she could help Poppymilk to capture some of these strange creatures. They may have interesting, undiscovered, properties which could prove useful. The crabs, at least, look like they'd make a tasty, and crunchy, little snack.
WC : 554
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 2:52 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF MONSTER!
Kin Name: What Lies Beneath
Drabble:
When stories of monsters are told, they are usually big and scary and full of fangs and leathery wings, dripping blood and eating little foals who wander too far from home. Or they are slithering and hissing in dark shadows with beady, glowing, red eyes that draw an unsuspecting doe or buck in to swallow them whole.
Sometimes, however, monsters aren’t what they’re expected to be.
Sometimes they might be charming. They might tell good stories and make those around them laugh. Sometimes they have very nice smiles and beautiful eyes that draw a kin in while promising sweet things with a voice like warm honey. After all, no one expects a monster to be handsome or good at listening. No one expects them to be gracious or humble, or even kind.
But this is exactly what a monster ought to be. That is what makes a monster good at being what it is. A monster that has been found out is shunned, or as the stories might suggest -- soon to be dead.
What Lies Beneath does not plan on ever being either of those things -- and so he is very good at being a monster.
He smiles, flirts, charms, and teases his way into their circles of trust. Sometimes he even genuinely admires them a little -- and these ones he always leaves alone. Others, however, get under his skin and that just won’t do. The greedy, the liars, the weak and the vicious (well, he can’t have competition now, can he?) -- these are all fair game. Oh, and what a game it is…
There is nothing more fine, in his opinion, than the initial phase. Stalking them like the prey they are as they go about their daily lives and he discovers just what kind of mask he might need to woo them. Buck or doe, it doesn’t matter.
Like this one.
A fine young buck…. lithe and beautiful, and even charming. He has a cute tail and a sleek little pair of horns -- but his mouth is quite foul, indeed. Spewing anger and insults, brash words at every opportunity. So rude. So very rude for one so good-looking. A perfect target.
Lies Beneath waits and watches until the moment is right, approaching with a smile and a limp as if hurt. Yes… the gleam in the buck’s eyes when he realizes how he might show off his prowess by helping is too perfect. Lies Beneath could almost laugh. Of course he doesn’t. He allows the other to walk him “home”. A den in the thick of the swamp that is difficult to get to -- and all the more reason to lean on his savior.
Of course, he soon realizes his folly when Lies Beneath smiles a serene smile and straightens, shoving him down into the dirt, the warm glow of his eyes suddenly quite ominous.
“Now… let me show you just how rude you’ve been, little buck. You’ve been quite the little monster of late, haven’t you?”
And if he screams, well -- there’s no one around to hear him.
WC : 519
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 2:54 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF RUNNING!
Kin Name: Killing Smile
Drabble:
In the dark his pelt shimmers like a ghost, a streak of white on black, his eyes gold and terrible above teeth that gnash and bite and rend and tear and stain him red. He gives them no time to scream when he rips into them. No time to struggle. One might call it mercy -- or, perhaps, simple efficiency.
He knows their patterns because he has hunted them dozens of times, hundreds of times. They run and hope to escape, but they rarely do. Sometimes he lets them go just for the hunt -- for the thrill of the chase, to feel his hooves hitting the ground, the burn of exertion in his lungs, the fire of it in his throat. It feels good to run, to hunt, to feed.
This is what being alive is. This is what he was born to be, made to do. Always running toward something, chasing it until he runs it into the dirt, into his teeth. If he had claws he’d use those, too.
Out here, he has no need for anyone but himself. He can take care of himself. After all, he’s far from helpless or hopeless.
Something shifts in the leaves to his left, and he turns his head, eyes narrowed -- and is off once more, a streak of white -- a flash of gold. Then the night falls quiet once again.
WC :: 229
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 7:58 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF CHICKEN!
Kin Name: Free to Love Again
Drabble:
 Free to Love Again was minding her own business, going about her day as normal. She already done her daily routine of smelling the wild swamp flowers to soothe her nerves and was about to go eat some wild berries for a snack, until she heard a cheep. Confused she spun around until she heard it again, then she creep on silently, not wanting to disturb or frighten what ever is making such soft sound.
As she got closer to a tree, she heard the cheep on the other side and she slowly moved her head to look around the tree and saw....a chicken! She has never seen a chicken before! And the chicken wasn't alone, it had tiny baby chickens with it!
The chicken looked at Free to Love Again and, realizing that she had moved closer and probably too close to the chicken's babies, she lied down on the ground soundlessly. She wanted to show the momma chicken that she meant no harm and that she was just leisurely observing.
Eventually, the momma chicken trusted Free to Love Again and that even the baby chickens wandered over to her and started to play around and over her. She was delighted to be a part of this and as she soon left the chicken and her chicks to go eat lunch now, she was happy to be a part of something so unexpected.
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 8:05 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF TURTLES!
Kin Name: Where the Sun Sleeps
Drabble:
The world was at last beginning to thaw itself from the chilled hold that was Leaf-Bare. Icicles wept for their losses from high up in the trees, their tears forming ripples in the puddles below. The snow was near melted, making a mess of just about everything. The sun was still weak and watery but still he grew, stronger and brighter every day. The world was no longer grey and black, but brown and green. New-Leaf was finally edging its way in, much to the pleasure of a particular pink doe.
Where the Sun Sleeps awoke from her slumber in the well worn nest that had once been her mother's, shook the damp from her fur and smiled at the still-waking sun. Now that the ground was softening, she would replenish her stores of fruits and nuts, berries and grasses. She would tidy up the clearing from fallen sticks and debris from the winter storms she had weathered. She would do her best to mend Persimmon's now empty nest. All in due time, she thought. For now, she would enjoy the sun while it lasted.
Set walked on blue hooves down to the water's edge, where the river lapped at the stony shore before drifting forever southward, towards the sea after which she was named. She settled herself on the large sunning rock where, many years ago, her mother and father had shared their first visit. Alone she gazed off, looking up-stream to where the river bends, running from the mountains her father told her stories of. The sun dried her fur while she sat in silence, remembering when this home of hers was never quiet, never lonely.
Set's train of thought was interrupted by a quiet splash and she turned to see what had made it. A fish, perhaps, she thought and remembered a line from a story her father had told her. "Fish are only there once you see them in the light." She murmured to herself as her blue eyes spotted the sound-maker. "Oh. Hello." She spoke softly to the turtle who had pulled herself from the river. "Come to enjoy the sun? You may join me, if you wish." She smiled a bit sadly when she realized this was the first conversation she has had since Leaf-Bare had settled in. The turtle settled herself a few rocks over, lifting her head to the sun. "Are you traveling alone?" She asked, to which the turtle blinked slowly. Set blinked back and sighed, turning her face back to the sun, "It's alight. I'm alone too. Maybe we could be alone together for a bit? That would be nice." And it would be nice, to have someone to talk to, to have someone make a sound, any sound would do. This place was far too quiet. And quiet again this place would be, once the turtle went on her way. But Where the Sun Sleeps would not think of that. No. Not now. For now, she would enjoy her company while it lasted.
Word Count: 504
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Posted: Mon Feb 01, 2016 9:06 am
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A DRABBLE ON THE THEME OF OCEAN!
Kin Name: Birdsong
Drabble:
Birdsong loved the ocean.
She had born here, on the shore, by the sea, an egg--a small, fragile egg. It was on the sand that she had broke through that egg, splintered the shell so that her pathetic, sightless form from lay, shivering against the salty breeze. Since the beginning, the ocean had been her only friend, if she allowed herself to feel such things. She learned to keep rising, to keep beating against the shore, even though the sea’s efforts to swallow the beach was as futile as her quest to be not-Acha. She modeled herself after the sea’s cold power and its ability to exist unmoved by the will or opinions of others. But her heart failed to learn the ocean’s calming waves or the expressive dance of ocean spray.
She subsumed herself to the ocean and learned its ways. Still she did not feel that she belonged.
So she worked harder, toiling the hours away, watching light, then dark, then light again slip by in a never ending cycle.
Though she patrolled and felt hard rock beneath her hooves, she could never bear to be off the sand for long, and rarely travelled far enough that she could not smell a whisper of salt on the air, or hear the ocean’s steady song.
She was a thrall to this land, not loving it, but stuck here anyways.
So sometimes, when she could work no longer, could no longer stand for the shaking, breaking, weakness of her limbs, she lay on the sand. She collapsed into the water and asked the ocean why it had not swallowed her yet. She struggled, fought, and failed—every other creature would have been rewarded with death for those things, yet here she was. If the ocean were to consume her, she would be free of it all. It would be mercy.
Yet, every time, the oceans waves would carry her back to shore, gently depositing her where it could no longer sweep her away.
Perhaps this was love, but she had forgotten what it meant to feel.
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