Jinn
I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived
and we pretended that we still lived
He should be used to garnering attention by now, but he had had a blissful respite. He had been normal, for once. Unexceptional. Unfortunately the undead draw notice. Eyes follow him like flies, and it is distinctly disconcerting.
It is why he travels by forest, from the shadow of one tree to another. He is not invisible in this dim light, but perhaps he can escape some notice.
Today though, he could not be so lucky. Today, when the thought has just barely entered his mind to venture from his sheltered home, he is struck hard by reality. By the truth. Perhaps, in its long absence, he had grown more sensitive to the way he looks. Or perhaps everyone else had simply forgotten. Of course, he is not particularly inclined to believe the latter.
Still, when the dark stallion dusted in white stumbles upon him only to quickly retreat, he flinches. The sharp jerk of his frail body is hard to hide, but the man’s exclamations cause him to draw into himself almost reflexively. And then the mare comes, appearing from the trees like a ghost, an amused reprimand quick on her lips. In that moment, it becomes too much.
It takes only a thought, almost instinctual in its nature, to draw all the light from their closely nestled alcove, to push it away until he is all but invisible in the darkness. Drawing a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, as though he might block out what he is from his mind as easily as he had sight. They fly abruptly open though, when his father is mentioned by name. Tiphon.
He exhales sharply before allowing the light to trickle back in, to illuminate the painted mare and snowflake stallion while leaving him in shadow. After a moment, he roughly responds in a barely audible voice. “My father.” He hesitate a moment before asking, “How do you know him?”
He tries valiantly to ignore her rather scathing comment on his appearance, it is only among the first of many after all. But he cannot quite contain the uncomfortable shifting of gilded feet. When the other stallion comes to his aid however, he smiles. A faint curving of his lips, more pained than happy, but true nonetheless. “Thank you,” he responds a bit gruffly. Clearing his throat, he continues, “She’s right though.” It hurts to say so, but even he cannot deny the truth.
After a vacillating pause, one in which he debates the merits of excusing himself now or waiting to see what might happen, he answers the painted mare’s question. Albeit slightly hesitantly. “I’m Jinn.”
It is why he travels by forest, from the shadow of one tree to another. He is not invisible in this dim light, but perhaps he can escape some notice.
Today though, he could not be so lucky. Today, when the thought has just barely entered his mind to venture from his sheltered home, he is struck hard by reality. By the truth. Perhaps, in its long absence, he had grown more sensitive to the way he looks. Or perhaps everyone else had simply forgotten. Of course, he is not particularly inclined to believe the latter.
Still, when the dark stallion dusted in white stumbles upon him only to quickly retreat, he flinches. The sharp jerk of his frail body is hard to hide, but the man’s exclamations cause him to draw into himself almost reflexively. And then the mare comes, appearing from the trees like a ghost, an amused reprimand quick on her lips. In that moment, it becomes too much.
It takes only a thought, almost instinctual in its nature, to draw all the light from their closely nestled alcove, to push it away until he is all but invisible in the darkness. Drawing a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, as though he might block out what he is from his mind as easily as he had sight. They fly abruptly open though, when his father is mentioned by name. Tiphon.
He exhales sharply before allowing the light to trickle back in, to illuminate the painted mare and snowflake stallion while leaving him in shadow. After a moment, he roughly responds in a barely audible voice. “My father.” He hesitate a moment before asking, “How do you know him?”
He tries valiantly to ignore her rather scathing comment on his appearance, it is only among the first of many after all. But he cannot quite contain the uncomfortable shifting of gilded feet. When the other stallion comes to his aid however, he smiles. A faint curving of his lips, more pained than happy, but true nonetheless. “Thank you,” he responds a bit gruffly. Clearing his throat, he continues, “She’s right though.” It hurts to say so, but even he cannot deny the truth.
After a vacillating pause, one in which he debates the merits of excusing himself now or waiting to see what might happen, he answers the painted mare’s question. Albeit slightly hesitantly. “I’m Jinn.”
