Tournament 2018 - Round 1 EBSHounds of Eld stables packed up their prized EBS fighter, Leo and shipped him off to Europe. Though not nearly as practiced or experienced as his competition, they were confident in the stallion’s ability to live up to his legacy and spar a good, clean game. The Hounds of Eld were not as concerned with winning as they were with taking training slowly, methodically and with healthy amounts of downtime. Thus, the thirteen-year-old stallion was “behind” but he would live a very long, healthy life.
Still, Leo was entered into the EBS annual tournament and spent the first week on the grounds getting acclimated to the climate and the elevation. He was well behaved and obedient, getting lunged on the line for exercise in the spacious yards prior to the competition itself. The stall was lush with bedding and his name was etched in bronze on a plate they stuck to his stall, declaring him the son of his father – a famous EBS stallion who, sadly, would not be at the
UPFA Round 1 - 1928 Dulce x 1614 AbeThe tournament was in full swing. While the Equus Ballator Society was putting on their esteemed, annual tournament, the Pit Fighters were setting up their bloodier and darker mockery of the sport of gentlemen. Grandstands, music, food and luxuries were replaced by a large warehouse. If Roland had to guess, it was an abandoned airplane hangar. Rings were set up inside for practice and the horses were kept isolated from one another in iron stalls. In the very center of the hangar beneath wan lighting was the main arena – standing room only. It was dirty in every way EBS was clean, and those involved reveled in that fact.
Roland stood near Abe, the tall, white maned stallion in the corner of his stall with his eyes closed. He had tried to make the bedding as thick and comfortable as possible, but the stallion was nearly unreadable. If it weren’t for Abe’s natural aggression and interest in this sport, Roland wouldn’t be seen dead here. In fact, he dressed d
UPFA Sparring MatchThe process of getting caught was a blur. He remembered ropes and burns. Shoved into a tight, dark cavern that moved. The taste of human blood. Fighting. He shut himself down until all he felt was apathy and the desire to win. Something changed then, and he remembered that moment more clearly. He and a group of other horses were taken to an auction of sorts, and he had been sold. The man who lead him was kind and his hands were gentle. There was a sadness in the man’s eyes that matched his own. Abe was allowed to roam in a large, comfortable pasture near the mountains he used to call home, but he made no attempts to escape. He had failed his herd. He didn’t deserve them anymore.
But, he was still feral. He was unsuited for the sports the others of his type exercised. Abe was hauled with another stallion, Leo, to a wrestling match, but Abe never fought just to win. He wasn’t chivalrous in the ring. He wanted to win. Being raised in the wild, you fought for your life, a
Wolves Among WolvesThe buzz of electric clippers echoed through the frosty barn as Leo stood patiently between two posts. His slip of a human female was clipping his manes for riding, again, given that his hair grew with the vitality of a weed in spring. Though not necessarily known for his patience, he didn’t have the heart to give this girl a hard time – not when she treated him with the dignity and respect he deserved as the son of a great warrior. Besides, she kept him clean, groomed, well fed and in shape. He had very few complaints besides the presence of a yowling damned feline who thought the barn belonged to her.
A pat on his striped side indicated that she was done and his tawny colored eyes followed her as she grabbed her saddle and his bridle. Deft fingers cinched him up and ensured the buckles around his horns were secure before leading him from the insulated barn to the chill of the morning. He puffed his chest, shivering once as his body acclimated to the cold and stomped a hoo
Sleep AloneIn the northern reaches of Europe, snow-laden forests and vast expanses stretched farther than the eye could see. Mists hung close to the ground in the golden, winter mornings, and the dew sparkled freshly against the tall grass and bushes which managed to grow out of the white ground. Perhaps the most significant feature of note was the silence. Nothing but the soft whisper of collapsing snow and the intermittent whisper of wind disrupted the deafening quiet of this secluded and untarnished landscape. To some, this isolation was unbearable but to others, it was peace.
Abe and Nyx were two who enjoyed the seclusion. Their hooves crunching in matched paces and rhythmic sounds of breathing were their music, and Dog's quicker pace added spice to their song. The pair was growing ever closer as they hunted side by side, returning their quarry to Abe's band where they were safely nestled in the foothills. Nyx didn't much care for Abe's responsibilities, but she followed him all the same. She
To-Do List: February 201001-02-2010 Lets set the grass on fire and dance
02-02-2010 Smell of chlorine as the car door opens
03-02-2010 I cut my foot running to you
03-02-2010 Twenty-one year old girl on fibre
03-02-2010 Beer farts
03-02-2010 Doesn't want to have to beg you too
03-02-2010 Practicing ollies in the dark
04-02-2010 Wants to drink your smell out of her pillow again soon
06-02-2010 I really hope you don't fall for me. Please.
07-02-2010 Your hair is routinely found tangled up in mine
07-02-2010 Wishes she could be that person for you
07-02-2010 Cross my fingers and say yeah
07-02-2010 Nothing beats the open hand of forever
08-02-2010 Wish you were here instead of just your smell
09-02-2010 Don't you crush my dreams before they've even started
09-02-2010 The majority of the time i thin i'm smelling you on my sheets i'm really smelling me
09-02-2010 Another lie. You have a very distinctive smell.
09-02-2010 Cannot be alone
09-02-2010 Even rockstars have regrets
09-02-2010 Always forgets it's colder he
linguisticsAnd perhaps we artists don't speak the same language as the rest of you at all, actually. We do not even speak each other's languages. Visual artists, painters and photographers and the rest, speak a quick, throaty dialect given to slow slow vowels and long words that slither out in between the teeth. Musicians, of course, are given to singing every word of their language. They're a multilingual breed, that one, with a quite near-normal first language that is still a bit like humming, and then an incandescently ethereal and oftentimes demonic vocabulary in the other. Dancers do not speak at all, mute except when displaying an arresting, enchanting form of sign language. Artisans, and I count sculptors in their field, sound the most ordinary of all of all of us when sentences slip between their lips, but the words themselves are fantastic and endearing, little conglomerate syllables and sounds that should not be in the same phrase together but also belong together, like the French langu
So, Help me GodHow do you think it would feel to know that corruption lay in the corners of the most trusted members of society? To know that the one force that you could depend on was created purely as an umbrella for hate and greed to land on from skies that nobody could ever really control. To be there, on that day. That day when the umbrella finally gave way and those who had sheltered beneath it were buried under the weight of a thousand lies. How does it feel to read these lines and know that they were sketched out a decade ago by a ten year old child? That a child should understand so much is shocking, that a child should have to go through so much is beyond belief.
I'll tell you, how it feels.
The day that my Father was taken away from us, smelt of stale tobacco and wet leaves. The colours I remember involved the contrasting red and white of a stripy tea towel with the last greens of summer melting to a grey sky. The sounds that I recall now were what you would expec
Amongst the Moon and Frost: Chapter 1
Cake scattered the floor.
It was a beautiful red color. Red velvet. Splattered all across the tile that was yellowed with time. There was one big chunk, surrounded by others that slowly grew into smaller and smaller crumbs the further they were from this central fragment. A few of the slightly larger pieces had been grinded into the kitchen floor, smushed into it, trampled by angry feet. They looked like random dark crimson blotches among the innumerable crumbs. The way the broken cake looked, the whole scene strongly resembled a horrible, grotesque, quite unique murder scene.
Like the floor was tainted with blood.
It would have been quite the wonderful, delicious cake, too. It was moist, but not too much so. Fluffy. Just the right balance of ingredients. Holding together on your fork until the moment you ate it. Melt-in-your-mouth. A delightful quality only found in the culinary creations of true masters of pastry. She had quite the plans for this cake. It was going to be shaped like
Sea Glass and SandThe only day she could recall that they lived without fear, was a trip to the beach when the children were small. It was late September and an Autumnal breeze whipped skirts and peeled their long blonde hair back from their heads without mercy. Nobody complained though. They spread blankets on the fine sand and despite the chill the sun warmed them briefly - just enough to get by. That was all she ever would ask for. They drank hot chocolate from the cafe and didn't eat the grainy sandwiches that she had lovingly packed that morning. Instead they bought fish and chips and shared a carton of mushy peas, warm and sweet. The children swam in waves that gently caressed the shore. Whilst she pretended to read but really kept two well trained eyes on the bobbing heads, they hunted sea glass and sand dollars. When they finally heeded her calls to the beach they were shivering and salty, their hair knotted and woven with the ocean. She enveloped them in bright blue towels and instantly the sme
My MemoirAll that is written were real experiences in my life. This is a journal I wrote with my hands while I experienced these events. Please respect it for what it is. This is very important to me.
You need to read this very slowly, as if I am speaking. Otherwise it will not make sense and my points will be overlooked for the sake of focusing on your imagination/pictures.
In Short: My Memoir Journal
This is a memoir written during the subtle events of my life; composed of many thoughts, ideas, and emotions that carry themselves through my daily exercise. Such exercise is brought only to be an illumination of my lifestyle. This is a journal written to become a fragment of my being, dedicated to all who create me in their memories.
Till dusk I see the light of day,
Let this be a gift.
May it bring you company
When I am no longer able to speak
Or write words.
Dedicated to Beth, my dearest friend.
(this indicates when/where I wrote the journal e
Blog #8 I Keep all my Rejection LettersBlog #8: I Keep all of my Rejections Letters
Um… yes, I do.
As sad and depressing as that sounds, I have a very good reason and why you might want to too. But first, I have a good reference about that!
I remember this “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” episode where a man kept all of his rejection letters. Oliva walks into the perp’s apartment and comments on it with her partner: “‘Interesting choice of wallpaper…These are all rejection letters’… ‘Why would he put them up on his walls?’ ‘He’s insane?’”(Law and Order Special Victim’s Unit S6 e4).
What a sad man! Not to mention they are plastered obsessively all over his walls as a constant reminder of his failures but… you know. You get the picture!
Well, that is what I think of when I do save them, every time. Not great to think about but hey, maybe I am crazy as I can be meticulous, obsessive, quiet (watch out for those quiet ones)
Letter to myselfRadu,
my world is covered in a white mist which floats everywhere I go. Trees, people and houses are all swimming in this white mist. It is as if thousand feathers would make everything lighter, brighter. I lost my sight a few years ago, but I got over that.
I still like walking. Especially in parks. The kids are always happy to see me and call me grandpa. I laugh and tell them stories. And I still feed pigeons. But I don't give them names. That's for others to do.
The flowers grew and remained as faithful as always. They are as green as in their very first day I bought them. They grow and bloom every year. I am not sure which of us is older, the flowers or me. But it does not matter.
Well, I can say white hair suits you. I am quite proud of it. It has a silver-like glimmer and reminds me of the moon. The moon is paler now and quite often covered by clouds. I don't like that but I can't change it. Anyway, she's still a friend of mine. We talk sometimes.
And in the nights, after I finis