Writers Forum

[Dutchgirl]

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[equinehugger3]

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I know what you mean... I'm writing a kidnapping type thing...

I'd like to read yours when it's done!

 

[chickendiva25]

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I know what you mean... I'm writing a kidnapping type thing...

I'd like to read yours when it's done!

Cool, I'll send it to you soon! Almost done with it........

 

[chickendiva25]

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Hmm, I suppose it would be gory then.

 

[equinehugger3]

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I know what you mean... I'm writing a kidnapping type thing...

I'd like to read yours when it's done!

Cool, I'll send it to you soon! Almost done with it........

 

[Dutchgirl]

Hmm... just had to post... this was something I did for Skyherd.




It was the dead of night, and the horses were gathered in a tight bunch to keep warm. The old graveyard wasn't much of a place to live, but at least it was somewhere safe.

The herd was small. They liked it that way.
The herd was lonely and far off from any other significant thing. That was how they wanted it.
The herd was mysterious. That much could simply not be changed.

This was Ghostherd.

It would be just a speck on the map, if it even were on the map. But no human had come this way in many decades, longer than the eldest horse could count.

This was a strange group of horses. They were thin and tall, and would have been majestic if they hadn't been so terrifying. They had learned to blend in. They were rarely seen and they were given their names as yearlings according to how well they fit in with nature. Brightly colored foals, such as yellow ones, were killed. Brown coats were not encourage and they were occasionally culled from the bunch also. The preferred colors were gray, or black, or - occasionally - white. Black should not have white in its coat. It would disturb the pattern.

Ghosthorses were strict. Discipline was doled out in large amounts for such things as a) kindness, b) obviousness, c) straightforwardness, d) boldness, and e) friendliness.
a. Among the Ghostherd members, the kindest was an old mare who had killed well over ten foals in her day.
b&c. Stealth and nondisturbance were part of the herd's motto. You were supposed to practice that in everyday life, no matter whether it was literally or metaphorically.
d. Boldness? Ghostfoals were trained carefully to think things through as long as possible and never, never, NEVER do anything rash. As a foal, it could result in a myriad of disciplines. As an adult... death.
e. The herd was not friendly with each other. They rarely had time for that. They concentrated on death and staying alive and unfound. Besides, friendliness often led to kindness, which led to love, which led to boldness, which led to straightforwardness. Death inevitably followed.

Over the years, with burning manure and a previously abundant amount of horses in the herd, the grass in the small, fenced-in graveyard had died away. The horses had scavenged until nothing green was in sight for as far as their weak, starving bodies could carry them. They were led to being carnivorous. Some state that this couldn't be possible, that equines are strictly herbivores. But what do they, college graduates who are still wet behind the ears, know of Ghostherd?
Now the Ghosthorses are totally carnivorous. They have experienced an evolution that has given them an uncanny taste for fresh meat and blood, good eyesight, a stronger sense of smell, teeth that are more developed for the task of chewing meat, and -- strangest of all -- paws.
Natural survival of the fittest occurred as their tastebuds changed faster than their physical shape. Only the horses that could catch their own meat survived and lived to produce, leading those paw-type genes to multiply. Now, possibly hundreds of generations later, the horses had pads on their feet and claws. To be sure, the evolution wasn't finished yet, and their new feet were not totally able to work. But they did their task, and that was all that was needed.

A small noise was heard as a horse's claw scraped a faded footstone. An angry hiss was emitted from the largest in the circle, a huge gray. "Curses on you, Cloud!" he sputtered softly under his breath. With a neat move of his own paw, he clipped the horse named Fog's offensive nail to the quick. "Next time..." the large gray began, but Cloud finished it hurriedly for him.
"...death." The poor, small, dapple gray ducked his head in shame. He avoided the large gray's name -- horses under five years suffered a horrible treatment if they dared to call the leader by his name. The gray's name was, in fact, Fog.

Fog had ruled Ghostherd strictly for eight years. He himself had killed too many offensive foals and even adult horses to count, but he liked to boast that it was seventy. (Seventy is, if you didn't know, as far as the Ghosthorses can count.)

A chill swept through the camp. They all shuddered. Daybreak was nearing. Of all things, light was what they hated most. Darkness soothed them, calmed them. The moon was a thing to fear but worship. The sun, to them, was a vast flame that was hated and feared by everything. To most creatures, fire is terror, but it was even more so for the Ghosthorses. It was not only killing, but also hot (they detested heat) and bright.

Now a barn owl swooped down. He alighted on Fog's back, and the large gray stepped away from the group. The two conversed gravely, coldly, in a secret tongue that only specially selected creatures would understand. Then, after a moment, the owl nodded and flew away into the black trees. Fog went back to the group and motioned for them to come. The Ghosthorses were afraid: not because of his beckoning -- this was the daily ritual; they would enter the quiet, dark, and secrecy of the shallow woods for the day -- but of the owl and Fog's mysterious conversation. The owl was a bringer of bad news, and the Ghosthorses were little less than terrified.

 

[FarmCoe]

Sorry this is off topic... I love your avvie Duchgirl! How did you put that up there?

 

[Dutchgirl]

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I got it from a different site, and uploaded it like normal...

Thanks!
*smacks forehead* Now get off, Dutchie... get off...!!!