08-26-2020, 10:50 PM
lazy table
She leaks all the time - mainly memories, tumbling in through her eyes and her ears and dropping out from the bottom of her skull like the discarded mango pits scattered in the sand nearby. If she cannot taste them, cannot catch them up in her tongue, she so rarely remembers. Is it a relic of her genes, imperfect and repetitive as they are - or the hoof-strike that nearly killed her in her first hours? It was, perhaps, the days, the weeks of lying still in the early spring snow, left for dead? It might be impossible to separate the effects of one from the other but together combined they leave her rather empty on the beach like the seashells littered across it, cracked skeletons and broken homes vacant of their tenants.
The young mare does not seem to hear him, though his hooves crunch in the white beach sand so deliciously. It's a lie, sand has no flavor of it's own, but it has a horrifying texture, one particular inclined to wedge in every crack and crevice between your teeth and stick unpleasantly to your tongue, so though she hears his footsteps, they drift away from her like ghosts. She refuses to remember them. His soft call washes over her like a gentle wave, and because she knows so few gentle things, like a fisherman, it reels her rambling attention off the hypnotizing sea, all the way back to the shore where two horses stand, a lovely stallion and a strange skinny girl--
Ah, no, that's just her again.
Sometimes, she forgets, thinks she's someone else, yet it rarely turns out that way.
Actually, never, that she can remember.
Yellow eyes seem to focus slowly when they turn to trace the star-speckled stallion and she eats up the space between them. He wears those stars so beautifully, not like the connect-the-dots that curl across her own body, a thin mockery of his night-sky skin.
Are you okay?
If her father had given her more of himself, perhaps she might have a better talent for mimicry. Alas, the pink, fleshy tongue curling against the ridged roof of her mouth is entirely equine - clumsy, at best, tripping over syllables made by creatures wearing a second jaw.
"Nah," she has never been okay, she has only been not dying, but her thoughts don't stop at his polite concern. The fisherman reels her in beyond their conversation and she wonders what the night sky tastes of, what are the flavors of the stars, "Nah. Taste?" It sounds like a question but she doesn't wait for permission, or for him to puzzle out her meaning, instead she stretches forward to run her tongue over the slick stars that dust his ribs.
Salt, she will remember, Stars taste of salt.
@[Aedan]
She leaks all the time - mainly memories, tumbling in through her eyes and her ears and dropping out from the bottom of her skull like the discarded mango pits scattered in the sand nearby. If she cannot taste them, cannot catch them up in her tongue, she so rarely remembers. Is it a relic of her genes, imperfect and repetitive as they are - or the hoof-strike that nearly killed her in her first hours? It was, perhaps, the days, the weeks of lying still in the early spring snow, left for dead? It might be impossible to separate the effects of one from the other but together combined they leave her rather empty on the beach like the seashells littered across it, cracked skeletons and broken homes vacant of their tenants.
The young mare does not seem to hear him, though his hooves crunch in the white beach sand so deliciously. It's a lie, sand has no flavor of it's own, but it has a horrifying texture, one particular inclined to wedge in every crack and crevice between your teeth and stick unpleasantly to your tongue, so though she hears his footsteps, they drift away from her like ghosts. She refuses to remember them. His soft call washes over her like a gentle wave, and because she knows so few gentle things, like a fisherman, it reels her rambling attention off the hypnotizing sea, all the way back to the shore where two horses stand, a lovely stallion and a strange skinny girl--
Ah, no, that's just her again.
Sometimes, she forgets, thinks she's someone else, yet it rarely turns out that way.
Actually, never, that she can remember.
Yellow eyes seem to focus slowly when they turn to trace the star-speckled stallion and she eats up the space between them. He wears those stars so beautifully, not like the connect-the-dots that curl across her own body, a thin mockery of his night-sky skin.
Are you okay?
If her father had given her more of himself, perhaps she might have a better talent for mimicry. Alas, the pink, fleshy tongue curling against the ridged roof of her mouth is entirely equine - clumsy, at best, tripping over syllables made by creatures wearing a second jaw.
"Nah," she has never been okay, she has only been not dying, but her thoughts don't stop at his polite concern. The fisherman reels her in beyond their conversation and she wonders what the night sky tastes of, what are the flavors of the stars, "Nah. Taste?" It sounds like a question but she doesn't wait for permission, or for him to puzzle out her meaning, instead she stretches forward to run her tongue over the slick stars that dust his ribs.
Salt, she will remember, Stars taste of salt.
Crackjaw
tastes like water spiked with strange
@[Aedan]