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Zosma · 11-28-2017, 12:17 PM

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">The last trace of soft sand becomes firmer dirt under her feet as she leaves the beach behind for the second time. She doesn’t think of that first time (tries not to, but the thoughts slither into her mind anyway like venomous snakes). How worry and determination and hope had filled her, filled all of them, as they set off to find Kangaroo. How she had propped up Koala’s chin with her own muzzle before they left, looked into his chocolate eyes with her cornflower-blue ones, and told him they would find his mother. How she had trusted the lot of them, as well as you can trust the strangers you will be spending the rest of your life with after being storm-wrecked on unknown shores. What choice did she have but to trust them? She tries not to think of how it felt to fail in both losing her friend and not finding her again most of all. Because she’d been in this same position before, and it all felt too familiar.

The jungle swallows her like a ravenous beast, body and mind.

Now, Zosma has distractions aplenty. It is quiet behind her (for now) as the crashing ocean fades. She doubts it will stay that way, and trains one ear on the path behind her in case the islanders intend to follow her escape route. A small part of her hopes they do. Let her make her final stand, end this madness once and for all – win or lose. But the bigger part of herself wants to live, to survive. And she still believes there is a way to save them all. There has to be. So she moves onward and deeper towards the heart of the forest.

Golden feathers litter the ground for her to follow. She sees them fall like stars from above the canopy ahead of her. They seem to dance as they spiral down and down, glinting even in the weak light that filters through. Occasionally, she sees the moment they are plucked or torn from their source. The dragon and macaw’s deadly dance in the sky above is both terrible and great. Harsh squawks and rumbles of pain seem to shake the forest as they exchange airborne blows. She wonders what advantages the poor macaw has against the lithe dragon. How can the behemoth bird survive such a fearsome predator? Then she remembers the parrots in the citrus grove. They’d had curving, sharp beaks that tore into even the most tough-skinned fruits with ease. She remembers, too, the claws that had plucked her from the ground with such gentle precision. Surely, they weren’t as careful with their aim or grip now. <i>A war of titans</i>, Z thinks, glad she is on firm soil instead of wrapped snugly between the macaw’s toes.

The only thing that chases her now is dusk.

It comes on like a wave, fast and strong. The darkness gathers behind her like a looming storm cloud as she heads east. The pale mare never looks back. It is only when night begins to catch up to her that she notices the changes overtaking the jungle. The horrible, incongruous curse that seems to befall the flora quite suddenly around her. Zosma sniffs as the ripe smell of death fills her nostrils. She stops and looks around, immediately keen to the feeling that she is no longer alone. She is sure her former friends will be glaring at her from between the trees. But instead, she sees that it is the <i>trees themselves</i> that she should worry about.

They have become big, ugly things from hell reaching for the heavens above. Like masts hoisting grim flags, the fleshy trunks support limbs of meat. The meat dangles unappetizingly around her, swaying in the air, dripping blood in a red rain that hits and splatters the ground below. The sound of it – like falling rain – is almost peaceful as it drowns out the rest of the jungle noise. From her stationary position still staring into the gloom past the morphed trees, Zosma can no longer hear the battle raging above her. Only the red rain falling and the erratic sound of her own fast heartbeat echoes in her ears. She waits long enough until it is solely the drip-drop of blood on the detritus below before picking one foot up to start moving again –

and then a million more noises start at once.

Animals appear everywhere: in the trees, between the trees, on the path behind and in front of her. Their feet crunch on the leaf litter. Their grunts and growls penetrate the unearthly peace. Dark, horned monsters swarm over the trees like monkeys. Her eyes track their frantic movements across the trunks. They tear into the once-trees with their nimble fingers and pull away sticky chunks that drip and coat their hands like gloves. They raise the chunks of meat above their heads like trophies. She is horrified when they bring their hands back and launch them at her. Many of the chunks hit her before she moves forward and she shudders each time they connect. The fleshy pieces hit her neck, her back, her hindquarters, before sliding off and leaving a crimson trail in their wake.

The white woman splashed red flees the tree-bound demons. All around her, though, are more hellish creatures to contend with. Maggots carpet the ground. Somehow, they are less ugly in the dark of night. They almost seem to glow with borrowed light from the moon as they move away from her. But the pulsating motion of so many bodies and the squelching, sliding sound of them will haunt her nightmares forever. <i>Still nasty</i>, Z thinks, seeing the telltale golden glow of a dropped feather in the near distance. She heads for it and her heroic bird, but is tripped and falls hard. Something sickly green has wrapped around her ankles. Zosma’s neck bends around to get a better look at what she thinks is a harmless vine, but then it <i>squeezes</i> her legs.

The horned face of a python lurches at her, and she barely avoids its flying teeth aimed at her throat. Its’ eyes are too large, abnormally so, hideously so. They burn red like embers even as it misses its target. The snake releases her a little in its surprise at not latching onto her. While she is still struggling to free herself, a tapir comes crashing through the forest, charging her on its three wobbly legs. Twin horns gleam on its dark head. Just like her once friend, this tapir is painted black and white. At the moment, this one too, seems to want to kill her. Up close, she sees the dagger-like feet and whip-like tail it swings around. The creature lowers its head and crookedly plows into the downed mare. One horn connects with her already wounded shoulder, gouging the skin open even further. Zosma cries out at the stab of pain. The tapir scuttles back and prepares to launch itself again, but the horse kicks away the last loop of python and rights herself. She stomps at the loamy earth, hopefully landing a fatal blow to the snake, before running towards the feather.

She is passing the glowing beacon when the jungle is suddenly illuminated. The dragon releases a jet of fire overhead, so hot that she can feel its after-warmth down below. The brightness only lasts a few seconds, but it is enough to reveal the creature that has been waiting for her ahead. Its striped coat shines in alternating orange and black stretched thin over a gaunt frame. Bones poke out of its sides and hips. It looks hungry, ravenous. In a heartbeat, she realizes she will be sustenance against starvation. It pounces at her with its razor sharp claws outstretched.

<b>“Tiger,”</b> she says like he is here before her. Because of course it would be him, the last hurdle to a clear path ahead. All the animals with the names of her friends working against her, just as her friends are. She ducks to the side desperately. The tiger with two horns twisting on his head like the others rakes her as he jumps by. His giant paw leaves red claw marks over her right ribs. Heaving, Zosma runs on. She hears his angry yowls behind her, but he doesn’t seem to have the strength to follow her for another attack.

With the macaw’s fallen feathers as her guide, the mare moves deeper into the jungle than she’s ever been.

It is as dark as death. But between the feathers and the occasional firelight overhead, she finds her way through. At some point, the battle reaches a crescendo in the sky. The woman pauses, because the noise is so great, she thinks her hero has surely perished. But with her gaze trained through the horrific canopy of dripping meat, Z sees the massive bird. Still flying, but on fire. It shrieks and the dragon closes in for the kill. Zosma edges forward with her eyes still to the heavens above. If the bird is to die, it won’t be alone. It had saved her when she was most vulnerable (she can still feel the maggots now, worming and drilling her body) and she will be there for it.
She trips over something on the ground. Looking down to make sure it isn’t another monstrous beast and finding only a vine, the cremello mare misses the exact moment when it happens. When she looks back up, the macaw is alone. And it is <i>falling</i>. Fast.
<b><i>BOOM!</i></b>

The ground shakes and she is thrown back on her heels. When the initial smoke and dust clears, Zosma hurries closer towards the hole scooped out of the earth by the bird’s fall. She doesn’t go all the way, sure her savior is dead. Instead, as the feathers drift down around her (a golden rain rather than the blood-red rain before) she looks up at the stars. They have always been her hope and light in the dark. Before, they had given her a name when her own had been too soiled to wear anymore (<i>remember, Cecilia, how I made you a woman?</i>). They had spun in the eyes of her lovers at night on the prairie, brightened their, at first, shy and innocent (and then not so shy or innocent) explorations of each other. They had guided her to Beqanna and then to the sea. They rose again in a new world – the island – and she found them shining in Kangaroo’s soft gaze. They are with her now, as she mourns the bird who helped her.

Until a voice startles her from her reverie.

<i>“Please. Come closer, please. I won’t hurt you.”</i> And oh, how she’s heard that before! But she finds she isn’t scared, is quite willing, in fact, to walk forward as the voice asks. She looks into the still-smoking crater and isn’t surprised to see the source of the voice is the macaw. She is surprised to see it is alive, though it appears to be a precarious description. Its’ wings are tattered and scorched, shadows of their former beauty and grace. Puffs of smoke trail upwards from various parts of the bird. It looks pitiful and whips about its earthy tomb. It only quiets when it sees her. <b>“Shhhh,”</b> she starts anyway, wanting to be a comfort however she can. One eye peers upwards at her and the macaw smiles at her (or at least seems to); the smile twists her guts instead of soothes them. <i>“It will be here very soon.”</i>

And then it is.

<i>She</i> is.

Kangaroo. The chestnut mare steps forward out of the gloom. She’s glowing, a fiery red that betrays all of her soft features. This version of her friend looks fierce, unyielding – but still so beautiful. Zosma takes a step towards her but stops when she sees the others piling in behind. Sloth joins her, but he appears to have left his eyes behind somewhere in the jungle. Caiman flanks Kangaroo, and Z is glad to see she’s missing the vast majority of her bottom jaw. <i>See how far she can fling spit now?</i> The others are there, too, missing various parts of themselves. Some even sport extras; hard rock-like structures Zosma has no name for poke and prod ears and heads alike. Hellish unicorns. A headless horse walks easily beside them, stops when they do. Worst of all is Koala. The colt has deep, gaping holes across his entire little body. She sees a slice of stark white rib bone and can’t look at him anymore.

The bird urges her to shelter with him as Kangaroo and the others come along. She looks at the tattered wings that had once been glorious and full. Wings that had carried her away from certain doom only to be met with more war, more bloodshed (she can still feel the bloody flesh sliding off her sides, can smell the pungent earth she’d hit when the python ensnared her). Had it been benevolent? Kangaroo’s rebuttal is strong and wholly unlike the mare she’d come to care for so deeply. The red-glowing woman promises that she will take her home, but Zosma shakes her head, unsure.

Where is home? There have been so many: Espana, the wild prairies, Beqanna, the island beach. This last, she’d settled into, believing there was no way she could go back, believing the family they had made would be her forever. She and Kangaroo and little Koala would make their own unit within the larger picture. They would build their love and be happy, not because they had no other choice, but because it is what they wanted.

What she still wants, more than anything.

The woman she sees now is almost a stranger, though. She sneers at the suffering bird, calling him a liar. Her face gentles when she turns back to Zosma, and the pale mare’s heart catches in her throat at the familiarity of the look. The words don’t seem to matter as much after that. They way Kangaroo says she will deal with the macaw later doesn’t strike as hard a chord with her best friend as perhaps it should. Her loyalty wavers between her savior and the glowing woman. Because helplessness has always called to her very soul, and the felled bird touches something deep within her. But she has known the chestnut horse far longer. She has spilled her secrets, shared her desires and fears equally. If she goes with her, she can tell her how the bird helped her, how he saved her life. Surely, whatever transgressions he’s committed will be forgiven. They can restore their family, save Koala, and be together.

Zosma turns away from the crater with a sad smile and walks, exhausted, to face Kangaroo. Her red glow bathes her in its light, and she thinks only of redemption. <b>“I’m yours.”</b> And she is. Gods help her.

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