11-21-2017, 10:34 PM
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#007db9e8', endColorstr='#497b7f',GradientType=0 );}#zosmamessage{position:relative; z-index:10;margin-top:-26px; text-align:justify; padding:0 20px 10px 20px; font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height:1.25; color:#d7d5db;}#zosmaname{font:42px 'Kanit',sans-serif;text-shadow:2px 2px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.3);color:#f28959;letter-spacing:6px;text-align:center;opacity:0.5;}</style><center><div id="zosmabackground"><div id="zosmacontainer"><img src="https://s8.postimg.org/hqb9rcrth/zosma.jpg"><div id="zosmagradient"></div><p id="zosmamessage"><i>Caiman’s icicle-blue, piercing eyes seem to track her escape.
She feels the stare of them boring into her back as she leaves the group, as she follows the scent of tangy, tropical fruits. Zosma’s adrenaline had been like a flame with a quick fuse. It had started with the hoof by her face and had fueled her through the other mare’s attack. It had allowed her to flee faster than she’s ever run before as she puts space between her old friends and herself. But now, exhaustion is beginning to set in. Only the ragged breathes of the hunters that become softer in the distance behind her keep her moving. She imagines what the islanders would do to her if they caught up. She shudders when she thinks about how hideous they would look while they were doing it, how satisfied. The trail her nostrils track is easy enough to follow. Bright punches of flavor and richness hit her in waves, drawing her forward into safety. The Citrus Grove catches her like a net: stumbling feet, tired lungs, battered soul and all.</i>
The blanched mare wants to lean against a lemon tree and rest. She is weary to her very bones. But she is also like a burr stuck fast in fate’s side; she’s never fallen when the odds threaten to topple her over. She can give up no more than she can live without breathing. Z thinks of her second home, those wild prairies that raised an innocent child into a knowing woman far too quickly, far too harshly. That black-hole night where she had looked up at the stars and wanted to die. Just once, but isn’t that enough? She remembers what she’d had to do to keep herself alive. All the learning and love that came afterwards had been worth it. All she’ll do now will be worth it, too. Because besides the lady that smelled impossibly of lavender (the kind, gentle heart that couldn’t know how wonderful she truly was), there was her own life to remember. She loved to be alive, and she would do everything she could to keep breathing.
Pausing is not an option.
The very real threat of her former family stalking behind her spurs her deeper into the grove. The Spanish horse walks with renewed strength and an appreciative eye. <i>Beautiful</i> wasn’t justice enough for this place of sanctuary. The trees here, like the ones deeper in the forest, are also large with life. Though this time it is the fruit they bear that makes them wide and heavy. All manner and type of fruit decorates the place of plenty. She sees grapefruits fattened by the dark, rich earth. She spots lemons and limes dotting the trees like bright stars. An orange <i>plops</i> to the ground next to her. Zosma jumps until she sees the culprit. Then she smiles a little and bends down to grasp it between her front teeth. The juices explode in her mouth and slide down her throat, tangy and strange and delicious. She eats it all.
Her movements through the grove are not frantic, but she continues further ahead just in case the islanders are still following her. Here and there, she samples the various tropical fruits, always walking as she eats bits and pieces of them. It is the birds that catch her attention, however. They flit above her from tree to tree. Like her, they are not choosy with their food. They bite into everything with their curving beaks. They sing in the moments that they are not eating, each melody unique to the species. She doesn’t know the names of these birds, they are so different than the ones of the prairie, of Espana. Some have brilliant multi-colored feathers of reds, blues, and yellows. Some are tiny and their motions are more erratic. One bird is mostly black with a long, reaching beak. <i>Caiman, if she was a bird</i>. It looks wicked, but she notices it eats fruit just like the others. Harmless, unlike the black horse.
Zosma is trying not to think of the others (though her heart stretches back to Koala and even Emu – the children would so love this colorful place) when the smell of rot hits her hard. She considers turning back. Surely there are other hiding spots in the jungle? But she maintains her course, even though it becomes quiet. Eerie. The shushing of bird wings and their songs ceases. She startles for the second time when a young macaw bursts from the depths of a lemon tree next to her. Its’ beady eyes are black and wide. It squawks at her noisily before fluttering back the way she’d came. Z’s heart hammers in her chest. She takes a step back and feels something collapse like a wet paper bag under her foot.
Juices spill again, but this time they are not as pleasant as the orange had been on her tongue. This time she jumps forward, repulsed by the white goo that warmly covers her ankles. She stifles a cry of disgust, still cognizant of her enemies. Unfortunately, the gigantic maggot is not alone. The floor of the forest is covered with them. They crawl and wriggle and squirm about, coating the rotten fruits with their thick bodies. It isn’t only fruit, she notices with abject horror. The maggots feast on the poor parrots and other birds unlucky enough to be caught. She’s seen enough and turns to move back to the beginning of the grove, back to birdsong and life, when they all start on her.
One latches onto her hind leg as she wheels around. The mare kicks out, trying to dislodge it, but the creature only bites down harder. When she turns her head to see the ugly thing on her hock, she sees the rest of them coming at her en masse. They slide over each other without concern, the squelching sound of their bodies like splinters in her ears. <i>Nasty</i>, she thinks, biting her lips hard enough to draw blood. It isn’t the only blood that spills. Because the maggots catch up to her and crawl over their brother still attached to her leg. They move over each other like a grotesque ladder, climbing atop her back and up her neck. She thrashes and rocks from side to side, but there is no escaping them. At once, the foul monsters start biting down. They gnaw off her pale coat in places, find the pink flesh underneath. One tries to burrow into her shoulder it seems, she bleeds freely from the open wound it leaves. Another climbs between her ears and over her face. The weight of it and the slimy trail it leaves makes her shake. It bends its’ little, ugly face to one of her eyes and <i>sucks</i>.
Zosma screams then because she is going to die.
<b><i>CRAAAAWWWWW</i></b>
The call rends the air like a weapon. But as the large shadow precedes the owner of the call, she is just as sure it will seal her doom as it will be a savior. She can’t see out of her left eye. Something warm and gushing streams down her face on that side, and she’s not sure if she even has an eye anymore. But out of her right eye, she sees the maggots scram. They fall off of her just as she’s enclosed in a strange embrace.
And then she’s lifted up and away.
<b>“Aaaaaahhhh!”</b> The surprise of her sudden departure from the ground on which she’s always firmly stood supersedes any pain she’s feeling. It is exhilarating, though, and Zosma settles into the hands of her hero far quicker than perhaps she should. Seeing the fruit trees shrink into the grove, which shrinks into the forest, which shrinks into the island is mesmerizing, even with potentially one eye. How oddly beautiful the world is from up here! All muted greens and blues and browns washed together. How could terrible things happen in spite of such magnificence? The soft underfeathers of the giant macaw tickle her kaleidoscope of wounds and she flinches. The bird pulls in his belly just enough that it won’t happen again. She is immeasurably glad for the bird’s timing and feels safe enough with it. If she hadn’t been in such pain, Z imagines she could be rocked to sleep by the gentle turbulence and wind swishing through the macaw’s jewel-like wings.
<b><i>“Meddling fool.”</i></b>
The pale mare whips her head around to see out of her good eye, trying to find the source of the voice. She can’t at first, and wonders if she hit her head somewhere along the way. <i>Maybe I’ve been imagining everything for a while, maybe the maggots sucked all the brains right out of me</i>. Blood rolls off of her like hot wax on pale parchment, falling down far below. Then the heat comes. It feels real enough as it hits her savior just above her head. Zosma flinches away from it and turns back just in time to see the dragon appear out of nowhere. The onyx beast is like an oncoming storm. The bird spins away from it, trying to outfly what is impossible. Because it is impossible, even she can see that. The dragon is massive and sleek; it will overtake them quickly if it doesn’t fry them first.
The macaw loses altitude and dips back towards the island. She wonders if there is a nest or a secret cavern it will take her to, but it heads for the beach instead. Everything grows larger again. The forest gains detail, then the individual trees do as well. The bird’s grip loosens slightly just past the shore. <b>“Thank you for saving me,”</b> Zosma yells into the brine-soaked air just before she thinks it will drop her. And then it does. She lands, hard but intact, on a sloping dune of sand. Her head pounds from a distinct spot on the left side of her head. She still cannot see out of the eye (if it is even there). The great bird continues on towards the jungle with the dragon pursuing it. She tracks their movements before something catches her gaze along the forest’s edge.
The islanders return to where it all started.
Where the sky was always clear and bright. Where the smell of the citrus grove washed over them, reminding them of everything sweet and good. Where they were beached and bonded. Where they became a family who promised to protect one another.
She doubts the promise holds any water, now.
They slaver at the sight of her alone on the shore. <i>Easy take</i>, their starved eyes seem to say. <i>Easy kill</i>. Even Koala bares his teeth at her as the group starts forward as one - one insane pack of would-be killers. She feels for her reserves, but they are empty. She’s bleeding and sore, and the ragged wound at her shoulder and eye takes her out of the fight. They’ll end her in a moment if she remains stationary. She is a fighter, but more importantly than that she is smart; she knows a loss when she sees it.
<b>“Damn,”</b> she says under her breath. Then she gathers her feet under her and runs past them. Z follows the trail of singed feathers that the massive parrot dropped on his flight. Maybe, just maybe she wasn’t the only one it’s saved. Maybe it carried a sweet chestnut mare in the safety of its leathery toes away from danger before. Maybe by finding the macaw, she will find Kangaroo, too. She owes it her life, besides. If she can help it against the dragon, she will give it her all. There is nothing left for her to lose.
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#007db9e8', endColorstr='#497b7f',GradientType=0 );}#zosmamessage{position:relative; z-index:10;margin-top:-26px; text-align:justify; padding:0 20px 10px 20px; font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height:1.25; color:#d7d5db;}#zosmaname{font:42px 'Kanit',sans-serif;text-shadow:2px 2px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.3);color:#f28959;letter-spacing:6px;text-align:center;opacity:0.5;}</style><center><div id="zosmabackground"><div id="zosmacontainer"><img src="https://s8.postimg.org/hqb9rcrth/zosma.jpg"><div id="zosmagradient"></div><p id="zosmamessage"><i>Caiman’s icicle-blue, piercing eyes seem to track her escape.She feels the stare of them boring into her back as she leaves the group, as she follows the scent of tangy, tropical fruits. Zosma’s adrenaline had been like a flame with a quick fuse. It had started with the hoof by her face and had fueled her through the other mare’s attack. It had allowed her to flee faster than she’s ever run before as she puts space between her old friends and herself. But now, exhaustion is beginning to set in. Only the ragged breathes of the hunters that become softer in the distance behind her keep her moving. She imagines what the islanders would do to her if they caught up. She shudders when she thinks about how hideous they would look while they were doing it, how satisfied. The trail her nostrils track is easy enough to follow. Bright punches of flavor and richness hit her in waves, drawing her forward into safety. The Citrus Grove catches her like a net: stumbling feet, tired lungs, battered soul and all.</i>
The blanched mare wants to lean against a lemon tree and rest. She is weary to her very bones. But she is also like a burr stuck fast in fate’s side; she’s never fallen when the odds threaten to topple her over. She can give up no more than she can live without breathing. Z thinks of her second home, those wild prairies that raised an innocent child into a knowing woman far too quickly, far too harshly. That black-hole night where she had looked up at the stars and wanted to die. Just once, but isn’t that enough? She remembers what she’d had to do to keep herself alive. All the learning and love that came afterwards had been worth it. All she’ll do now will be worth it, too. Because besides the lady that smelled impossibly of lavender (the kind, gentle heart that couldn’t know how wonderful she truly was), there was her own life to remember. She loved to be alive, and she would do everything she could to keep breathing.
Pausing is not an option.
The very real threat of her former family stalking behind her spurs her deeper into the grove. The Spanish horse walks with renewed strength and an appreciative eye. <i>Beautiful</i> wasn’t justice enough for this place of sanctuary. The trees here, like the ones deeper in the forest, are also large with life. Though this time it is the fruit they bear that makes them wide and heavy. All manner and type of fruit decorates the place of plenty. She sees grapefruits fattened by the dark, rich earth. She spots lemons and limes dotting the trees like bright stars. An orange <i>plops</i> to the ground next to her. Zosma jumps until she sees the culprit. Then she smiles a little and bends down to grasp it between her front teeth. The juices explode in her mouth and slide down her throat, tangy and strange and delicious. She eats it all.
Her movements through the grove are not frantic, but she continues further ahead just in case the islanders are still following her. Here and there, she samples the various tropical fruits, always walking as she eats bits and pieces of them. It is the birds that catch her attention, however. They flit above her from tree to tree. Like her, they are not choosy with their food. They bite into everything with their curving beaks. They sing in the moments that they are not eating, each melody unique to the species. She doesn’t know the names of these birds, they are so different than the ones of the prairie, of Espana. Some have brilliant multi-colored feathers of reds, blues, and yellows. Some are tiny and their motions are more erratic. One bird is mostly black with a long, reaching beak. <i>Caiman, if she was a bird</i>. It looks wicked, but she notices it eats fruit just like the others. Harmless, unlike the black horse.
Zosma is trying not to think of the others (though her heart stretches back to Koala and even Emu – the children would so love this colorful place) when the smell of rot hits her hard. She considers turning back. Surely there are other hiding spots in the jungle? But she maintains her course, even though it becomes quiet. Eerie. The shushing of bird wings and their songs ceases. She startles for the second time when a young macaw bursts from the depths of a lemon tree next to her. Its’ beady eyes are black and wide. It squawks at her noisily before fluttering back the way she’d came. Z’s heart hammers in her chest. She takes a step back and feels something collapse like a wet paper bag under her foot.
Juices spill again, but this time they are not as pleasant as the orange had been on her tongue. This time she jumps forward, repulsed by the white goo that warmly covers her ankles. She stifles a cry of disgust, still cognizant of her enemies. Unfortunately, the gigantic maggot is not alone. The floor of the forest is covered with them. They crawl and wriggle and squirm about, coating the rotten fruits with their thick bodies. It isn’t only fruit, she notices with abject horror. The maggots feast on the poor parrots and other birds unlucky enough to be caught. She’s seen enough and turns to move back to the beginning of the grove, back to birdsong and life, when they all start on her.
One latches onto her hind leg as she wheels around. The mare kicks out, trying to dislodge it, but the creature only bites down harder. When she turns her head to see the ugly thing on her hock, she sees the rest of them coming at her en masse. They slide over each other without concern, the squelching sound of their bodies like splinters in her ears. <i>Nasty</i>, she thinks, biting her lips hard enough to draw blood. It isn’t the only blood that spills. Because the maggots catch up to her and crawl over their brother still attached to her leg. They move over each other like a grotesque ladder, climbing atop her back and up her neck. She thrashes and rocks from side to side, but there is no escaping them. At once, the foul monsters start biting down. They gnaw off her pale coat in places, find the pink flesh underneath. One tries to burrow into her shoulder it seems, she bleeds freely from the open wound it leaves. Another climbs between her ears and over her face. The weight of it and the slimy trail it leaves makes her shake. It bends its’ little, ugly face to one of her eyes and <i>sucks</i>.
Zosma screams then because she is going to die.
<b><i>CRAAAAWWWWW</i></b>
The call rends the air like a weapon. But as the large shadow precedes the owner of the call, she is just as sure it will seal her doom as it will be a savior. She can’t see out of her left eye. Something warm and gushing streams down her face on that side, and she’s not sure if she even has an eye anymore. But out of her right eye, she sees the maggots scram. They fall off of her just as she’s enclosed in a strange embrace.
And then she’s lifted up and away.
<b>“Aaaaaahhhh!”</b> The surprise of her sudden departure from the ground on which she’s always firmly stood supersedes any pain she’s feeling. It is exhilarating, though, and Zosma settles into the hands of her hero far quicker than perhaps she should. Seeing the fruit trees shrink into the grove, which shrinks into the forest, which shrinks into the island is mesmerizing, even with potentially one eye. How oddly beautiful the world is from up here! All muted greens and blues and browns washed together. How could terrible things happen in spite of such magnificence? The soft underfeathers of the giant macaw tickle her kaleidoscope of wounds and she flinches. The bird pulls in his belly just enough that it won’t happen again. She is immeasurably glad for the bird’s timing and feels safe enough with it. If she hadn’t been in such pain, Z imagines she could be rocked to sleep by the gentle turbulence and wind swishing through the macaw’s jewel-like wings.
<b><i>“Meddling fool.”</i></b>
The pale mare whips her head around to see out of her good eye, trying to find the source of the voice. She can’t at first, and wonders if she hit her head somewhere along the way. <i>Maybe I’ve been imagining everything for a while, maybe the maggots sucked all the brains right out of me</i>. Blood rolls off of her like hot wax on pale parchment, falling down far below. Then the heat comes. It feels real enough as it hits her savior just above her head. Zosma flinches away from it and turns back just in time to see the dragon appear out of nowhere. The onyx beast is like an oncoming storm. The bird spins away from it, trying to outfly what is impossible. Because it is impossible, even she can see that. The dragon is massive and sleek; it will overtake them quickly if it doesn’t fry them first.
The macaw loses altitude and dips back towards the island. She wonders if there is a nest or a secret cavern it will take her to, but it heads for the beach instead. Everything grows larger again. The forest gains detail, then the individual trees do as well. The bird’s grip loosens slightly just past the shore. <b>“Thank you for saving me,”</b> Zosma yells into the brine-soaked air just before she thinks it will drop her. And then it does. She lands, hard but intact, on a sloping dune of sand. Her head pounds from a distinct spot on the left side of her head. She still cannot see out of the eye (if it is even there). The great bird continues on towards the jungle with the dragon pursuing it. She tracks their movements before something catches her gaze along the forest’s edge.
The islanders return to where it all started.
Where the sky was always clear and bright. Where the smell of the citrus grove washed over them, reminding them of everything sweet and good. Where they were beached and bonded. Where they became a family who promised to protect one another.
She doubts the promise holds any water, now.
They slaver at the sight of her alone on the shore. <i>Easy take</i>, their starved eyes seem to say. <i>Easy kill</i>. Even Koala bares his teeth at her as the group starts forward as one - one insane pack of would-be killers. She feels for her reserves, but they are empty. She’s bleeding and sore, and the ragged wound at her shoulder and eye takes her out of the fight. They’ll end her in a moment if she remains stationary. She is a fighter, but more importantly than that she is smart; she knows a loss when she sees it.
<b>“Damn,”</b> she says under her breath. Then she gathers her feet under her and runs past them. Z follows the trail of singed feathers that the massive parrot dropped on his flight. Maybe, just maybe she wasn’t the only one it’s saved. Maybe it carried a sweet chestnut mare in the safety of its leathery toes away from danger before. Maybe by finding the macaw, she will find Kangaroo, too. She owes it her life, besides. If she can help it against the dragon, she will give it her all. There is nothing left for her to lose.
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