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The sun rose, pale pink and yellow bled across the sky, like water colors. Time to leave.

“Vince, c’mon. Time to move on.” I kicked him lightly, and ripped the backpack/pillow out from under his head. He mumbled, and slowly pulled himself out of the sleeping bag, and into an upright position.

I was already packing up. The mountains in the distance seemed just as far as they had for the last hundred miles. Days. Weeks. The adjacent highway was silent and empty,  but that meant little in the Utah Rockies. Cars whipped along these highways as fast and sudden as a startled deer. No time to get chummy with one dirt lot or the other.

He pulled of his heavy parka, and shoved it into his pack.

Putting the finishing touches on our disappearing act, we scattered the ashes from our fire into the road, scanning to make sure nothing would make an obvious trail of our time spent here, trash or otherwise.

This is how you live, if you’re a runner. Like me and Vince. We hopped through our windows in the dead of night, and never looked back. An anger from within, something that pushed us forward, the desire to break our invisible bonds. Because, when you are runaway, you need something to push you forward, anything to prove something. No matter what that something is, because when you have nothing besides your running route, you clutch onto the very dream of something.

Maybe there is a good part to this. I don’t know. Don’t know if that something is enough to make up for the blood, the tears, the hunger and the lonely presence of the open road.

At least your never the last one to be free.

My blood dripped to the ground. Slowly. So slowly the forest around me began to pulse red. Red sky. crimson trees. Blood tinged river.

As my blood gushed my beloved began to tow me. His clammy fingers digging into my wrists. Pulling. Dragging. Struggling. Slipping.

Yanking me up, he carried me, my blood stained into his clothes, but he didn’t make a sound. My peripheral was dark and allusive. Shadows on the edges. The unknown reaching for me.

And I was so heavy in his arms. Losing his grip, he lowered me into the crimson-hinted water. Kissed me.

And slowly let me drown.

Many of you are probably about to snap of the blog, accuse its writer of morbidity, and never read it again. Be my guest, but first! Finish reading this legit reason for writing this.

Late at night, I was falling asleep to music, and the song Heavy in You Arms by Florence and The Machine, played. There was such a vivid mental picture of this guy dragging this beautiful Goth girl through the woods, blood streaming from her, and he slowly and sweetly brought her to the surface of the river, paused to kiss her, before lowering her into the rivers jaws. So very slowly, he let her drown. As bizarre as this all sounds, that’s how I see this song. Anyhoo, last night, the little piece above began to scrawl itself(in terrible handwriting, of course) in my brain.It was really late, but I often have issues falling asleep before twelve or later, so grudgingly, I flicked on the light, pulled out the bedside note-book, kept for such occasions, and wrote. When I finally finished writing this, I chucked the notebook, I really did,( I’m lucky no one woke up) and went back to sleep. The very same sleep which finally came and hour later.Yay.

As weird, and “emo” as the song sounds, I really like it, and recommend it, though most other people would find it terrible. I have a very mismatched and contrasting taste in music. Maybe the better word would be “variety”. (Snort) Call it what you may, to the losers that are my best friends, its weird.

There is a book series called The Ugly Series.

Me and my friend, and my used-to-be-friend all have whats called an Ugly name. In the book, character have names called Ugly names, like squint, or skinny. So, we made up our own names. My friend is Stitch, and I am Bleach. Stitch, because she has so many little scars up and down her arms, and Bleach because of my pale hair. Fences is the other kid.

These names are not supposed to be derogatory to ourselves, it’s just a way of being a fan of the series. It’s not like we despise the reasons for our names, no, it’s just we like the nicknames from the book, so we made up or own.

Oh yeah, Fences because she has braces, really obvious, neon ones.

Okay, so there is this girl. Who lives in this dreamland. And this girl is mean. She lies, she schemes, the term friend doesn’t exist for her, just decoy.

Let’s call our girl one of her nicknames for ease of reading’s sake, shall we? Hmmm, probably the most recent name, is  Fences*. So, Fences and I are in the same grade at the same school, sadly.We have been since third grade.

Flash back to third grade. She had no friends. But she had me. I guess I was never her friend, though she could have fooled me. All this time, and now she turns on me. So maybe she alway’s knew she would toss me away when she a got a brand new set of friends. Maybe not. Don’t know, don’t care.

But this year, she turns into bully. Yeah, bully sounds like a wimpy word, I know, but I don’t want to be a cyberbully myself, so I am trying not to exaggerate or make up details that sound good, but are false.

Anyway, Fences turned into this mean, cold, cutting girl. I don’t know what changed in her, but something did. Little things would flip her personality, until it was a raging monster. That is actually not an exaggeration. She would literally follow me when yelling insults at me. Even as I turned corners, and did sharp double-backs, she would still be behind me. Scary.

The things she would tell me, I hated it. Your such a mean person! Why am I friends with such a jerk like you? There is so much you don’t know about yourself! Like how mean you are, and how much of a jerk you are. You don’t know anything! You know nothing about yourself, and how much you need to grow up!

Her words, not mine, never mine. Okay, so it may seem like I am trying to prove my self utterly innocent. That’s not what I’m saying, not at all.

And I’m not saying that I’m being tormented by this horrible child. No, the teachers are dealing with it. I am saying that this was a really weird, and hard awakening for me, and that I want to talk about it. To have to wake up, and realize that today, you need to wrench yourself clean out of what you thought was a friend that really understood and accepted me. No joke, I thought she was going to be a really good friend. Even the first few times she would explode at me, earlier this year, I didn’t yell back at her. And when I’d tell her to shut up or be quiet, to stop yelling at me and leave me alone, I would apologize later. Because i wanted to keep what few friends I had.

An agreement was made to that we would never be friends again, ever. This was in the school’s counselor’s room. At school, I would pretend she did not go to this school, that she was invisible.Forever.

And now it seems, that forever, a forever of working to ignore, is just beginning.

Omigosh! I was going through old files, and found an old book report, one from fourth grade! Jeez! I mean, even I can find the difference from what is written and how I write now. When a book report was assigned, I always tried to do a creative stories. It did not always work out in my favor! GRRRR! Thank you to my fifth grade teacher, for an entire year book report free! Anyway, I decided to share it! It’s very outdated, but this story always has a soft spot in my heart. The assignment was to write a prequel to your chosen book. The book I was reporting was Out of The Darkness by Lauren Brooke. I fervently recommend it to any horse lover. Anyhoo, enjoy!

Into the Darkness

Ryan, my stable hand, led me into my stall after he finished lunging me. He opened the stall door that read, ‘Gallant Prince’. That’s me, but the old spirit of Gallant Prince is gone, drifting farther from human reach from what this night will do to me. And when I walked into the barn I had crossed over a threshold in to darkness.

When all the other stable hands began to leave, Ryan began to sweep up. It was a rule that one stable hand had to stay the night in the barn.

Some people say that animals are the first to know when a disaster is going to happen. I would have given so much to what was going that night, and change it. Yet what can I do? I’m just a race horse.

When Ryan left my stall, I watched him slowly check on all the other horses. Soon he came back to my stall.

“Kind of cold in here, isn’t it, Prince? Hang on” he said “I’ll be right back.”

He dashed around the corner and came back with three kerosene heaters, and set them up in the aisle of the barn.

When it’s your night to keep watch, you don’t have to sleep in the barn. There is a small apartment for sleeping in. Soon Ryan retired to his bunk in the room.

As began to drift into a dreamless sleep, the most painful night began. A stable hand came in to stack some bales of hay, and then went home for the night. But he must have spilled some kerosene on the bales of hay because some hours later, a sharp smell dragged me from my sleep. SMOKE! A fire had started in front of my stall! So…I panicked. I started to rear and whinny like crazy.

Suddenly, I leaped forward at the door, and at that moment my stall door broke, and I leaped out into the flames. The fire was spreading fast and now two others horse stalls were under attack by this army of flames. Horses have very sensitive noses, and the thick smoke burned my nostrils and chocked up my throat. Trapped by the fire (which was creeping forward all the while) I reared and coughed, hoping, praying, that horses had guardian angles to protect us, too.

Ryan must have woken up at the sound of splintering wood, because there he was, eyes huge with confusion and fear. But, he got over it quickly, and leaping across burning wood and red hot embers of what once was a shovel, grabbed what was left of my halter, and led me out of the burning barn. But I was burnt, badly. The most fragile part of the horse is its legs, and mine were burnt and bleeding as I limped out of the barn.

When we were a safe distance from the fire, he let go of my halter.  “Stay here boy.” Ryan said, “I’ll be back!”  And with that he left me, and ran back to the barn, were the fire had gone through the roof. I stared after him. I whinnied furiously after him, but he paid no attention. He then disappeared into the barn.

A few minutes later, I saw him through the smoke with Flash, a thoroughbred colt. They were about to cross through the door frame of the barn, when a large, flaming beam fell from the fiery ceiling. Flash reared up in fright. Ryan, was holding the lead rope, but losing his grip.  Ryan suddenly jumped, as though shocked by a sudden good idea. He quickly pulled a black bandana out of his pocket, and tied it over the colt’s eyes. He then led the horse out of the barn.

Several trips were made to the barn and back, and when the last horse was taken out, Ryan herded all the horse into the biggest covered arena they had. But something was wrong with him; his cloths were black from ash and burned. His skin was raw and bleeding. His eyes were teary and his voice hoarse and raspy. I later learned that the last horse he brought out of the stall, which was blazing with fire, had knocked him over when she ran out on to aburning block of wood.

Soon morning dawned, and as I woke from a nightmare filled sleep, last night’s events came back to me. The fire, the suffocating smoke and terrified screams of the horses that were waiting for rescue, it all started to come back to me. I remembered the loud red trucks, and how men came and sprayed water on the fire till it died out.

My body ached, and my legs hurt badly, all four of them. Race horses are usually very energetic, but all the energy seemed to drain out of me. I’m sure all the other horses felt the same. My throat was still hoarse and my eyes watery. I searched the crowd of horses looking for my friend, Apollo.  Apollo is a white thoroughbred with grey dapples. He is the average height of most thoroughbreds which is usually sixteen hands. We’ve been racing each other since we were colts, and three years back, the owner of the stable finally bought him. He used to be in the stall next to mine.

As I searched the crowd, my eyes fell upon Flash, the baby colt. His face was twisted with pain as he struggled to walk. H e wandered around the arena, looking for his mother. His bay body seemed black under all the ash. Flash collapsed a few yards from his mother who was looking across the group of horses with a worried expression on her face. She finally found the colt and trotted over with sore legs. When he saw her , he slowly got to his feet and walked over.

The days after the fire seemed to speed up like a video set on fast-forward. The only thing I really notice, besides that the stable hands move us into a pasture with water troughs and bales of hay, was that Ryan was missing. I haven’t seen him for what seems like ages. He doesn’t come into the stall I’m staying anymore (when my group of pasture mates gets to go in to the other barns, ant the other horses come out to the pasture,) or groom me or feed me treats. The other stabled hands do that know, if they can come near my stall without me charging them out!

“You best forget him.” Apollo said “He isn’t coming back.”

Those words hurt more than a branding iron. Forget Ryan? How could I do that? He’s my friend and we’ve always shared a powerful bond. But wait, what if Apollo was trying to tell me something. May it’s not that Ryan won’t come back, maybe he can’t come back. Maybe he was injured or worse. No, I can’t think like that.

The months after the fire have been horrible. Let’s face it, I’m a wreck. When someone approaches my stall, I rear up, teeth bared, hooves flashing. The humans have tried special herbs in my food, horse shrinks, and vets. But nothing has brought me to the horse I was. And I doubt anything will. Thoroughbreds are one of the fastest breeds of horses, yet I can never be fast enough to run away from that horrible night that scars me mentally. Thoroughbreds are the descendants from Arabians, yet my personality is more like a reckless rodeo horse. And though my burns and scars will heal, my spirit is forever broken.

 

Do you believe in ghosts? Karma? Are you superstitious? For some odd reason, I am a bizarre mixture of the three. I do not believe in knocking on wood, or spilling salt, and all the rest. But, When I am walking in a dark hallway, I end up running, for fear of zombies. I never turn my back on a mirror, or turn away from one without making sure my face had not turned into a freaky monster thing.  And I never turn my music off at night, because hearing sweet, familiar music, though my rock music is not the sweetest of the bunch, at the witching hour of 3:00 AM is rather comforing.It’s bizzare, I’ll be the first to admit, but you never know…

You never know whats lurking when you’re not looking,

or whats the substance of those creepy basement-living shadows,

why the furnace snarls at you,

and the reason for the creaking at night, the very same that sound like footsteps on your roof.

You will never know how surreal your world is

until you leave it.

Internet Friends,

I am uploading the preface for my book, which is yet to have a title. Enjoy!

                                                                        Preface           

The massive gray wolf advanced toward where I lay broken and bleeding in the snow. And I knew I had seconds left, no matter the shallow wounds I’d given my attacker, he was still winning, slashing at my upraised arms that were feebly trying to protect my face. With every ounce of strength I had left, I threw my legs into a wrenching kick straight into the wolf’s broad chest. He flew back from impact, snarling viciously, rage burning deep in the depths of his eyes.  Scrambling up to his feet, pausing only to shake the snow and ice crystals from his fur, he crouched, tensing his leonine muscles. The wolf then sprang, launching himself at me, claws out before him, ready, dagger teeth exposed in an ever-widening enraged sneer.  Even as I saw him launch, I could not move, I could not scream, paralyzed and silenced by fear and pain as I was, the fresh blood pouring from my wounded arms, legs and stomach created a haze in my brain, pulling me into suffocating darkness, drowning me in more pain. I could only lie on the bloodied snow, and loose the fight.

Carillon

Silver sound

Peal of Bells

Silent angles

Of a silent night

Embers of hope

Drift from the barn

Golden hay

Lines his manger

Sacred child

Only smiles

And angles sound off

 A Carillon,

A peal of bells

Imagine a friend. A best friend. Someone who gets you. You laugh with , go on adventures. Never once in their presence have you been afraid they would turn on you.

Because that is how it is. She is my best friend, and I am her’s. That is how it should be.

You never hold back, you say whats on your mind. Some how, those best friend types seem to have a talent in making your brain-gunk seem understandable.

A shoulder to cry on. A protector, some one to protect. A sister, life long companions.

And we understand each other.

Why else would we spend hours geeking out over computer games, Anime, wolves, and other worlds.

Or ranting about this book character, and that episode of this show.

Fighting is seldom, few and far between.

We are parts of each other’s family.

And for all these reason’s, I’d like to thank my best friend, Mackenzie.

Rock on girl.

How do you paint a feeling, sketch music, describe a phenomenon? I don’t know, but this blog shows I can try.

Your amazing, forever and always.

“Follow in My Foot Steps”

Said She

From a void above

“Prove the Power of love”

He whispered

In a downy world of clouds

“Be a flicker in a desolate night”

They chorused together

From the border of mountain and atmosphere

“But who are you?”

I asked

To the twinkling waters, and the ice

To the dancing grass, and the dreaming trees,

Over, to the old brook, and chattering pond.

Beyond, past the peaks, and pastures,

To the open air.

“I am”

it replied

” all to whom you are asking

and all unregarded

The questions un-asked

the songs unuttered

the petals yet to fall

and the tears waiting to be shed.”

“It tells me nothing”

I called

“You need not to know anything”

they called

“Only our name, and her title, and his calling.”

“What?”

I shouted.

“Fate.”

They whispered, and faded out and away

riding the winds.