09-13-2017, 08:45 PM
Loam has made a home in the forest beside her green scummy pond.
Animals do not come to drink from this water and if they do, they die but Loam likes to look at their skeletons beneath the green scum she stirs up with her nose. She is careful to wipe her mouth off on her knee, smearing the scum across the sable skin because she doesn’t care about appearances - who does she have to look pretty for? No one. Not a buckskin stallion or a bay mare that made a tree grow out of the ground, their names relegated to the annals of a mind that is old but sharper than it should be.
She opts to leave her pond in some forgotten niche of the forest and when she comes out into the meadow, it is to the wind howling in her ear, blowing her sable hair around her face amidst the snowflakes that pelt her skin in tiny cold kisses. Loam snorts; not much has changed. It never does no matter how much kingdoms rise then crumble and fall, or how much the shape of the land changes. It is still all the same. Horses come and go, and some are not entirely horse at all but hybridizations of that and something else. She sniffs indelicately at the wind that berates her ears, bats them around crazily until she pins them back against her head. No, none of her bloodline has been here in however long since time escapes her.
Time shouldn’t; she is not immortal and she should be peppered in gray and have more sway to her back but Loam looks like Loam always has - thin, slim, sable in color with those deep dark emerald green eyes that look out from her sharp, angular face. Loam looks like an ethereal little haunt that has just emerged from the underground but that is being too kind to her in description when in fact, she is stunted and small from a childhood of malnourishment and a continued forgetfulness of the most common things that a horse must do like eating and drinking. It is a wonder that Loam is even still alive!
Alas, she is to perhaps the disappointment of none because she never succeeded in making a name for herself. She made smart matches in her matings with stallions but even her foals have failed her, scattered to the four corners of the earth like a handful of dust. Loam almost snorts but sucks in a sharp frigid breath instead and feels it chill her lungs. Yes, still alive though none would care. Except two. But she has banished them to the back of her mind. It seems impossible to think that him or her should still be sharing breath too, but then, anything is possible here. But to think of them is to accept the failings of her own heart and how mortal and sick it is to love either of them when Loam was never meant for something as beautiful as that.
Loam was always meant for dirt and death.
Both of those things are so much more real than three little words said to one another.