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05-02-2017, 09:42 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-05-2017, 02:41 PM by Stellaluna.)
Stellaluna...
This forest is damper, darker and mustier than the dry, tall sclerophyllous community of trees she is familiar with.There, an abundance of leathery-leafed timber (mostly eucalyptus) ascend precarious, shabby granite tors, each reaching boldly with wedge crowns to gain the best coverage of sunlight; a winding, watercourse babbles gently downwards, riding savage contours into the sprawling wooded valley below; the soil is thirsty, so unaccustomed to rain that its flint-like quality repels taste of moisture (at first), yet peas, acacias and varieties of tussocky grass thrive there upon it, regardless; the air is crisp, clean, and the song of raucous parrot life drown out all peace and quiet. In the mid-section, where gnarled limbs begin their heavenward journey and knotted, silver trunks begin at last to narrow, the campsite exists, of a flock of forty fruit bats – the family the ‘pup’, should rightfully be with… Incredulous eyes dilated and glowing, behold the giantess, the pegasus, with undying appeal. Hobbling steps (forelegs undergrown, joints too large), bump the bat nearer, but she hesitates in the looming shadow of the larger and inky fingers flare the membrane of each wing – she is vulnerable (to her knowledge), helpless upon the fetid loam, like the young caterpillar in a nest of ants. Instantly she recoils, riding the mild breeze artfully until she has found refuge once again in the oak’s rigid embrace. When she moves (if the watching eye can discern it through the darkness), the clumsy motion betrays instantly the unkind reality of her makeup; the wrongness, that preserves such a babyish stature. The bat knows no better though, nothing of the glory of headlong sprinting, nor cavorting, bucking along the playful lines of earth; she has been born to an aerial existence, a wind-brushed wonderland, where gravity proves to be as meaningless as star glitter in a big daylit sky. The other is speaking again and short cups double forward to capture the worry-tinged words. “Yes, bad, bad Banksias - they are like wolfs, don’t you know?” …she utters shyly, sending her gaze quickly downwards, left and then right, “They taste the wind, the earth; they’ll come, they will!” Faces were vanishing, alabaster skin fled into the blackness, and silken grey fur began to tremble, wildly apprehensive. The giantess, she responds with an offer that strikes the pup’s fancy. Gaze snaps back quickly (from the branch she views the whole picture), and the puny point of her nose bounces with unbridled eagerness. “Oh yes please,” soft tone near begs, while hooked thumbs plunge to balance her lofty position while the excitement of escape resonates through her core. She is a dreamer, wildly creative, and thought of a pegasus’ kingdom tempts her mind into play; surely such an enormous creature could not dwell, as she did, in the tree-tops. "Turn on the dark, I'm afraid of the light!" |
