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06-17-2013, 10:07 PM
I can see them and my heart snags with jealously at how beautiful both appear; tightly this sensation balls into a hot knot until I feel as if I’m about to shatter into a thousand pieces. Soaring. Flying high. How dare they breach heaven, absent chains that weighted most mortals down? Skychildren from the old and new times. They don’t notice me; why would they, how could they? I’m the wind. The very breath they breathe in and out. I. Am a spirit. Bodiless, yet—tangible enough to be noticed should one take the time for noticing.
Once ago I had lived a selfish life; perhaps that was why the heaven had denied me and hell wouldn’t have me. Or maybe, neither existed and this was the end. None of that matters now, nor would it ever matter, my story has ended—stirring up the water wouldn’t change things. But theirs. Yes, theirs had only just begun. I can see one, young at heart and just entering into adulthood—and the other, a painted stallion adored in gold filaments both in and around him. Proudly they are both followed by a Zephyrs.
Ah, the Zephyrs. She might notice me first, or so I suppose. I’m soaring below them; my body is a mist, nearly invisible and hard to spot. I. Am. The. Wind. In my mortal existence they called this frame that still clings to find shape, a fox. I suppose that if one was to look hard enough, and I was to stop soaring with these strange yet wondrous beasts—they would see a misty fox, without color of pelt or shiny eye. Look hard travelers.
I’m fast, and the wind is my servant; it bends to my will—twisting and turning. I can rise the currents, or close them completely. A sly smile crosses my muzzle that isn’t a muzzle; jealously is chased by the sudden thirst for sport—yet, it was doubtful that my sort of sport would be their delight.
They fly up, daring to climb higher. Father and Son in a race. My smiles turns mischievous, borderline hateful. It take no effort to follow them and even less to change the patterns they flew; one couldn’t fly well when the wind was pressing against you. That is only part one, a distraction you might say. So they might not notice my games right away. I spin a cyclone, but instead of starting on high, I begin its first spiral down low. With a snort sort of giggle that is lost in the wind, I bend this cyclone and turn it towards them. Its waves grow more powerful with each rapid turn, and a calm wind is suddenly forced into deadly movement. The warm air grows cold and bitter to taste. Would they fly away with great haste?
Once ago I had lived a selfish life; perhaps that was why the heaven had denied me and hell wouldn’t have me. Or maybe, neither existed and this was the end. None of that matters now, nor would it ever matter, my story has ended—stirring up the water wouldn’t change things. But theirs. Yes, theirs had only just begun. I can see one, young at heart and just entering into adulthood—and the other, a painted stallion adored in gold filaments both in and around him. Proudly they are both followed by a Zephyrs.
Ah, the Zephyrs. She might notice me first, or so I suppose. I’m soaring below them; my body is a mist, nearly invisible and hard to spot. I. Am. The. Wind. In my mortal existence they called this frame that still clings to find shape, a fox. I suppose that if one was to look hard enough, and I was to stop soaring with these strange yet wondrous beasts—they would see a misty fox, without color of pelt or shiny eye. Look hard travelers.
I’m fast, and the wind is my servant; it bends to my will—twisting and turning. I can rise the currents, or close them completely. A sly smile crosses my muzzle that isn’t a muzzle; jealously is chased by the sudden thirst for sport—yet, it was doubtful that my sort of sport would be their delight.
They fly up, daring to climb higher. Father and Son in a race. My smiles turns mischievous, borderline hateful. It take no effort to follow them and even less to change the patterns they flew; one couldn’t fly well when the wind was pressing against you. That is only part one, a distraction you might say. So they might not notice my games right away. I spin a cyclone, but instead of starting on high, I begin its first spiral down low. With a snort sort of giggle that is lost in the wind, I bend this cyclone and turn it towards them. Its waves grow more powerful with each rapid turn, and a calm wind is suddenly forced into deadly movement. The warm air grows cold and bitter to taste. Would they fly away with great haste?
