2008-01-21T02:55:20Z

Whiteflame: New page: {{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}} <poem> Out of all the people In the world who need friends, Martyrs need them the most, And yet, they have no friends, No companio...

{{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}}

<poem>
Out of all the people
In the world who need friends,
Martyrs need them the most,
And yet, they have no friends,
No companions to share the burden of sacrifice,

After all, “a friend is someone
Who can like you despite
Knowing you very well.”
No one wants to befriend a martyr,
And quite frankly,
I don’t blame them.
Martyrs are too...driven
By only one concept and instinct,
And die too quickly.

A martyr is a machine,
And not a person,
In that a martyr can only
Grasp that single programmed cause–
That single looped algorithm.
He or she speaks of nothing
Else and thus, is unbearable,
And he or she tries in all vanity to
Grasp that friendship, but the martyr,
Knows in the pit of his metallic
Heart that none’s to be had.

I am a machine.

Martyrs are interesting when viewed
From a lense on a page,
But they are terribly dull
And redundant in closeness.

Martyrs make terrible friends,
As well as terrible enemies.
Alas.
</poem>
[[Category:Whiteflame]]
[[Category:Non-TF poems]]

<comments />

Whiteflame:

User:Whiteflame

2007-12-26T05:59:23Z

Whiteflame: /* Catastrophe and Whispers in the Meadow, a philosophical novel */

== Prose, Stories, etc. ==

[[The Mare in the Moonlight]], one of my first short stories. It is a bit choppy in style due to my former focus purely on poetry and my poetic style. I hope to revise it sometime soon now that I am getting a better hang of prose.

=== Catastrophe and Whispers in the Meadow, a novel ===

Part 1:

[[Catastrophe...Ch.1-3]]

[[Catastrophe...Ch.4-6]]

== Older Poetry ==

[[Beauty in White Flames]], the poem that, in essence, started it all. This poem indicates the beginning of my ostracization from society as it was submitted to a competition and scorned greatly. I went into a brooding depression afterwards (for many, many reasons) and have only recently recovered with the help of a good friend, Kevin Rooste.

[[Upon My Future Death or Transfiguration]]

[[Houyhnhnm]]

[[Before the Break of Day]], a very vivid dream I once had

== New Poetry ==

[[Mustaño]], an elegy

[[A Young Horse Floats in a Pond of Grass]]

[[Untitled]]

=== Sonnet Sequence ===

(incomplete - will consist of ten sonnets)

[[Sonnet 1]]

=== "Perspectives" Sequence ===

(incomplete)

[[Perceptions]]

[[Prison of Leather]]

=== "Poems of Equus" Sequence ===

This sequence is a set of poems that goes with a symphonic suite to complete the works. I wrote these three poems first, then the three movements that correspond to them. Afterwards, I wrote the last three movements of the symphony, and I have yet to write the last three poems. Perhaps, if allowed, I will upload midi files of the music.

[[Transfiguration]]

[[Agitation]]

[[Frolic]]

== Non-Transformational Poetry ==
I realize that none of this is transformation oriented, but all of these poems relate in theme in some way. I always snuck in refrences to my desire to be a horse, which passed unnoticed. ;-) I haven't put links to the poetry category because I do not wish to clutter the transformation poems with these.

=== Older Poetry ===

[[Circulationoitalucric]], yay riddles!

[[Sapling of the Evergreen]]

[[Subpoena]]

[[The Skewing of Time: A Land's Requiem]]

[[A Sylvan Vengeance]]

[[A Mare Hath Died and Lived]]

=== New Poetry ===

[[A Period]]

[[Lamentation is Grey]]

[[Watching a Pair of Horses and a Human After a Brief Trip on Foot Along a Paved Road in the Morning]]

[[Lying in Bed One Night in June]]

[[A Letter to the Deceased Poet James Wright]]

[[Nature's Land]], another riddle poem

[[Lament to the Eight-Legs]]

[[I am Reminded of Thoreau, Standing Beside a Pond Located Near a Retirement Center]]

[[The Ocean]]

[[A Train to Ambiguity]]

[[Fog on the Horizon]]

[[Category:Author|Whiteflame]]

Catastrophe...Ch.4-6

2007-12-26T05:58:23Z

Whiteflame: New page: {{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}} == Ch.4 == It was the next day, and Scot was pacing about the desolate plains. He was weary and deprived from sleep, and his ene...

{{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}}

== Ch.4 ==

It was the next day, and Scot was pacing about the desolate plains. He was weary and deprived from sleep, and his energy was siphoned out of him by the chilling torrent of rain. Fortunately, the temperature had diminished slightly since the storm front passed through; the sun was blushing lightly over the horse’s tan hair and dark mane and tail. Scot immersed himself in the benevolent light, and the light in turn evaporated the water off of his damp body.

He was in much better spirits, having survived the night and the potentially fatal situations of the previous day. He realized (as he informed me) that each day brought with it a chance of death. From one moment to the next, he could have drunken impure water, been attacked by carnivorous animals, slipped on a insecure rock thus fracturing or bruising a limb, or died of various internal ailments or failures, which can occur quite unexpectedly.

Each day bore with it the risk of a sudden and unanticipated death. As Scot informed me on the matter of this subject, “To live is like running in the midst of coyotes, and like such does one live, but death is death. There are not risks there.” In other words, death kills.

In my mind, there are always those (coyotes appropriately) who desire to sway one from the strait and narrow path and bring victory to the prince of darkness. To do good is to walk though the lines of wrongdoers and sinners waving a flag with God’s name written upon it in silver ink and golden embroidery.

Likewise, death, the indifferent assassin, lies lurking in the shadows, but always within feet from the living as they tread unwittingly through its path. In this way, Scot’s relation between life and coyotes pleased me. At least we come to an agreement whether expounding upon death’s ever poised attack or the cunning and hidden malice of infidelity.

To continue, life is indeed like running in the midst of coyotes, and if this does not prove true universally, at least it did for Scot on this particular day. The morning progressed quite uneventfully with no particular detail of great interest.

The horse had found a minute trickling stream from which to quench his thirst, and since grass was plentiful in the region–though frequently withered or heat-baked–he had little struggle in obtaining the necessary nutrients for him to maintain his health as far as a horse is concerned.

Running was a staple of his morning routine as it was quite entertaining and decent exercise. I cannot claim that this is as great a diversion for me, but, then again, I am human. Of course, it not so easy for me now in my frailty.

In any case, Scot proceeded to do what a horse does. That is, after he had completed his–dare I call it–breakfast, he went quite deliberately into his search for others of the same species so that he could form a herd for mutual protection and the benefit of the race.

This proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Discerning an individual trail was particularly difficult as he detected so many paths that horses had trod. If I had to surmise answer as to why this might have been, my best theory would be that he had come across the diverging paths of the former residents of Parken, Montana–about 6000 total.

As the horse confessed, he still could detect a lingering death in the air. It was not so much a smell, but a feeling. The malignant force was biding its time for some reason, and Scot was compelled to distance himself from the town as much as possible.

In light of this, he became lost as to whether his search for a herd was genuine or just a subconscious impulse. The reason behind this is that as he explored, the distance between him and Parken increased until it became a mere speck upon the horizon. It had vanished, but still he continued in direction that never varied from its course away from the town.

He told me that the true motive behind his search remains inconclusive even though it was he who was conducting it, and it only ever was an impulse. This has been paraphrased from his actual speech. It seems that communicating the point was particularly challenging for him during our discussions. I would attribute this to a lesser capacity for reason, especially abstract reason.

God gave man reason in order to for them to be capable of faith. It is Scot’s lack of trust in the unknown and even the known that presents itself most noticeably. I am beginning to worry, nevertheless, that I might be basing my ideas on the original fear that Dr. Doyle’s soul was lost to the body of a beast. Perhaps, this is only a passing feeling, and I will recover from it soon enough. Let me proceed with the account.

Notwithstanding the difficulty of communicating this particular idea, he resorted to a metaphor yet again, giving his meaning some clarity. I will include an excerpt of it here:

“When thinking back to that event with me fleeing the place, I realize that I did not exactly know what I was fleeing from. It was as if commanded by being–like the sun rises and the moon falls without any thought on the matter. It was ever since I saw the corpse that this feeling planted itself within me. I cannot, however, make what it was that I was looking for–my herd–stand for moving so far from the place, and this was looking into a pool of water and seeing oneself rippling without telling what picture of oneself appeared and seeing only the blur of the bottom because of the picture on top. I don’t trust my reasons for leaving...”

I will also note that at roughly this point in time, people began to curiously venture away from the local towns and residential areas some fifty or so miles away. This wasn’t a mass desertion but was more or less individuals deciding that they suddenly and desperately had to be somewhere else. To this ends, they packed their bags and vacationed to highly remote areas, more remote than Montana.

Of course, most of them stayed, but the number of those who left was great enough to attracted the attention of the media. This (as it later proved to be) was the first information I had heard with regards to the catastrophe. The media could fabricate no reason for the sudden increase in the tourist industry and the sudden decrease in the population of Montana, but it was curious and thus was their duty to report even if it proved to be utterly useless.

It did prove to be utterly useless mostly due to the how late everyone realized that vacationing to remote locations was indeed a very good idea at the time, but I will not expound upon this at the moment. The desertion was just curious and nothing more than that.

Needless to say, Scot continued with his search for a herd even if he wasn’t looking for a herd to begin with.

----

The weather was eerily clam by midday, and minute clouds suspended themselves in the sky, which was a pail blue, darkening as one looked from directly up to parallel with the earth. The air was calm and not a single breeze dared to interrupt the absolute stillness which had settled upon the region. Silence was all that existed. The absence of noise became noise itself.

Thus, the concreteness of the sky seemed more of a surreality then a realness entirely. It was nothingness in a physical form. Then, for a moment, a tiny cloud blotted out the sun, bathing the earth in shadow, but it quickly passed. For Scot, this was a wondrous effect.

As time progressed and noon turned to evening, the horse happened upon a bush that was rustling peculiarly. Upon nearing it, a medium sized coyote leaped dextrously out, carrying a dead hare between its jaws. The blood of the recently killed prey was dripping slowly where the coyote’s teeth had penetrated the flesh. As Scot added on the matter, “a coyote is hungry and eats because the coyote is hungry and knows that the coyote is hungry.”

The coyote glared at Scot but was also curious as to this new and sudden arrival. This is what the horse observed. Scot, however, was not particularly interested the coyote’s existence aside from the fact that he posed a threat to his life. Thus, the horse barred his teeth aggressively with his ears back and head low, conveying all possible levels of abhorrence and menace so that the coyote would not think it a greater prize having come across a much larger prey.

At this point, the coyote’s stoic, almost inanimate stance faltered. Scot’s interpretation of the events concludes that apparently, the animal did not expect such a sudden display of aggression. For this reason, the coyote felt a need to retaliate. This proved to be difficult; he had all intention of barking at the horse, but could not do so as his jaws were locked around his previous quarry.

So, as to be expected, he did the sensible thing considering his desire and let fall the hare in order to voice his hostility towards Scot. The horse lunged at him, and the coyote retreated hastily, not wishing to be fatally trampled by a enraged stallion. He left the dead hare where he dropped it. It sat there motionless, and Scot looked upon it with pity.

He also pitied the coyote because he would soon suffer from the same pangs of hunger he had suffered from, and this was–to say the least–entirely Scot’s fault for coming across the animal in the first place and displaying such aggression. I asked him why he should feel such remorse for an animal to which he did not comment.

In truth, it was a necessary action, for the horse himself was threatened by the coyote equally. Thus, Scot decided, despite his remorse, that there was nothing to be said for the event. It happened, and it was Scot who was fevered with regret. No doubt (according to the horse) the coyote felt similarly in some way. There is nothing to conclude except that we are all herbivores grazing in a field of life, and death is the hunter.

This having been accepted, Scot proceeded about his life as was his manner and took to grazing lightly in the faded evening glow. The heathenish light from the sun danced in dazzling flames upon the horse’s coat. It gradually grew redder until it simply vanished, and then it was nighttime.

Scot felt the tug of sleep upon his weary eyelids, but he knew that the forthcoming watch must remain as vigilant as the previous night. As long as he was alone, he would not allow a lapse in his guard, and this proved to be most beneficial to this account. I say this because had he not sacrificed his peace for the steadfast protection of his life, the work simply would have never existed.

----

For several long periods of time (Scot does not state units) he remained silent and still–a mere silhouette upon the moonlit backdrop. He stood nervously, poised to investigate the slightest disturbance or sound. His vigil might have been easier had their indeed been a disturbance or sound, but the region remained resolutely noiseless.

The absoluteness of the silence was profound. It instilled upon Scot, a feeling of nothingness yet also a feeling of anticipation–almost as if in a moment this temporary limbo would be settle into a heaven or be shattered into a raging maelstrom of hell. Scot waited. He continued to wait.

A cool zephyr passed over his hair and fluttered his mane, but it did not create the smallest sound. In pertinence to this, Scot was determined to combat the will of nature. If nothing else was going to disturb the peace with even a minute noise, then he wouldn’t either. He and nature would see who falters first. It, of course, was a contest of pretend nonexistence–hide-and-seek in essence.

Scot waited some more. The stars were twinkling through a transparent and thin horizon. They glared with blinding brilliance, and Scot watched them not move. The infinitely distant suns struggled to show there true light upon the earth, and the nearest of them only managed to appear indirectly off of the moon’s glassy surface. The stars formed various shapes, which Scot was playing with in his mind. One line here, another there, and soon an ideal picture of the most beautiful mare was illustrated in the sky. There was no mare floating in the sky.

Scot waited a tad more. Another zephyr passed over his head, and this one did not emit a single sound as well. Scot snorted quietly but restively. He had lost the competition.

Yet another zephyr passed over his head, and as if to exclaim Scot’s defeat, it too did not emit a noise. It was relaxing, though. It skipped like a ballet dancer across the air and barely touched his mane, dogging all the tiny shrubs and only contacting the largest object–the horse. The wind was very skilled at this game, and Scot waited some more...

And then, all hell broke out. A ravenous carnivore leapt from the nearby bushes and sank it fangs into Scot’s flanks. The horse went mad with fear and let out a high-pitched squeal, which shattered the delicate silence of the night.

More figures paced about him, calculating the precise moment and angle in which to attack the herbivore so to avoid injury by his flailing motions and deal a mortal blow.

In a moment, Scot had thrown the coyote from his hide with the shear force of sporadic movements and of his powerful muscles. Even with his acute night vision, he could hardly make out the black shapes converging on him poised for the fatal attack which would bring him down upon the dirt floor and cease his life.

He kicked and spun in a berserk rage, hoping against all hope that it might fend off the aggressors. He reared into the air as one particularly bold coyote sprang forth to claim his prize. The hunter narrowly avoided an instant death under the hooves and weight of eight hundred-pound animal.

The attack was relentless. Scot was in terrible danger. He could feel the bite marks of the coyote searing his flesh and burning through the body, but this only served to fan the flames which coursed though his soul and increase his fury.

He could see such passing glimpses of white fangs, pointed and razor-sharp as the light of the moon shown upon them. They flashed like bodyless jaws, floating in the darkness and lunging upon him only for the sake of appeasing a voracious hunger. Cold sweat turned though his coat and body, which sent shivers of terror along his spine.

Scot could sense his death was imminent. It was drawing around him with each circling of the carnivores. He had only seconds left, and then, it came. The coyotes rushed in unison. Scot leapt in one final effort, envisioning the ruthless meat eaters tearing flesh from limb as he remained barely enough alive to feel his body being devoured. He landed with sickening crunch upon the dirt. And as soon as it all came, it was over. The threat vanished; the coyotes retreated.

It took a decent amount of time for Scot to calm himself after the horror and stress of the high stakes battle. Sweat was still dripping profusely though his coarse hairs and had foamed into a sort-of lather. He breathed cold air quickly through flaring nostrils. Gradually, he nerves relaxed, and he decided to reflect on what had happened–particularly what had inspired flight in the aggressor.

He looked upon the ground where the battle had occurred and saw a limp body sprawled upon the dirt. Its left paw twitched slightly. Its rib cage was shattered and compressed, and a few of the bones punctured the flesh where Scot’s hooves had landed. It wined pitifully for a brief moment and then shut its eyes–dead as dead can be.

Why the coyotes retreated is not entirely evident, though I do believe that Scot must have killed the alpha male, the pack leader. Scot informed me that he believes the dead coyote was the largest of the bunch, but one cannot be sure in such an emotionally charged situation.

In fact, one can never be sure in any situation as long as there is a situation. Even with the likely reason that the coyotes retreated upon their leader’s death, this is not typical behavior for these carnivores.

First of all, they are not pack hunters and generally rely on individualistic cunning. Coyotes have been known from time to time to conjoin forces into a single hunting machine, but this occurs infrequently. A single coyote would not be a great threat to a large herbivore like Scot, but a pack is extremely dangerous. Also, it must be noted that pack hunters do not usually retreat upon the injury of a member, even the alpha male.

My personal theory on the matter is that the animals were behaving more aggressively due to the catastrophe which had occurred and was still occurring.

During disasters, living beings tend to become more belligerent as they brace themselves for the survival of the race. I know this is even true for human beings, who are above the level of common animals.

One such example is during the aftermath of a hurricane. People in the midst of flooded streets can be seen to loot stores and various other businesses in hopes of obtaining the necessary (and sometime unnecessary) requirements for continued living. Killings also increase, which is a result of aggression but is also contradictory because in a crisis situation, people should be supporting one another in order to insure the greatest number of survivors. Murdering each other surely won’t achieve this and yet, murder occurs frequently.

Perhaps this is directly related to the proportion of those who work towards the benefit of a race and those who counteract it. I am, however, not sure on this matter and so will not proceed further. Instead, I will continue with some of my discussion with Scot at this point in the retelling of the account.

I asked him if he felt remorse for having killed a coyote–a much greater transgression than simply scaring one off as is what occurred before. Scot told me that he did greatly–unbearably for that matter. He also said that he must avoid dwelling on the matter. “Death is death, and the coyotes ran to me knowing that they were running in the midst of death, and I was in the midst of death. I regret it, but regret is suffering. And suffering is life; grieving is not...” Thus, life is all about coyotes.

=== Ch.5 ===

That same night, Scot did sleep, though he didn’t necessarily think it prudent at the time. He was, however, weary from the previous battle and sleep deprived to begin with. The horse figured that if he didn’t rest at some point, life would become increasingly difficult, and he would eventually die.

Though awareness while not sleeping proves to be a great protection, but it eventually takes its tole when the living being is no longer able to function at standards during the day. Death will come then instead of at night. To me, this was all very acceptable and logically sound in the way Scot described it. Unfortunately, he continued his description into a realm that instilled an uneasiness upon me. This was mostly due to what it implied.

Scot did sleep, and he also (as he suggested to me) dreamt. At first, he stood with his legs locked and his eyes shut into a black absence of thought. Then, after several minutes, a picture manifested itself which was vivid and possessed a concreteness as if it was simply another reality.

I sat before him dumbfounded and silent. I could not control myself enough refute anything he told me but instead, listened ever more intently with an ever growing fear. At the same time I was being enticed by my curiosity, I was also experiencing a burning pain which yelled for me to stop and which I ignored. My curiosity was too great to be wavered by these prickles of forebodance.

Scot continued by describing the setting of the place: “A bright bush that glowed yellow and then blue was hovering in the air, and next to it was a little island just big enough for a patch of grass and a small tree. The tree grew up out of the floating dirt, and its branches arched over me.”

“Then, a small human foal rode past me one some strange object with two spinning circles. He stopped some ways under the tree with the arching limbs and pointed to a small rock barely the size of a hoof. And that rock moved and fell.”

“It land upon mare in center of the tree, and the branches unfolded to reveal her. The rock merged with her back and was absorbed. I could smell her. She was beautiful like a morning breeze just before one is awake but is waking. But then the child’s face went bad, and he frowned, becoming something dark and mean. And he menacingly point a finger at the mare again.”

“From his finger and the surrounding area erupted black shapes with blood soaked fangs, and they dove at her. I watched helplessly, bound to the floor as my hooves melted into the dirt. I watched as each black shape tore a section of her body off until all that was left was a putrid skeleton whose blank eye sockets stared at me imploringly but also in anger.”

“Then, I smelt it–a reek of death and her former smell changing into something horrible–something that drew me in and tore apart my body in sadness. And I saw the human foal, who was now a man but ugly with hate. He grinned at me for the smell was now his. Then, he pointed a long black stick at me. And there was a horrible crack and fire–oh fire that burned! I woke up. The sun was hot on my head...”

“I do not know why I dreamt that, if dreamt is the right word. I guess I dreamt that because of what had happened with coyotes. I also hoped to some day establish a big herd for the good of all like me. I cannot be sure this is why I dreamt it. I only think I know it. This is my idea. I know there is some human who likes to think of dreams. I don’t bother. It gains nothing but confusion and no good answers because there are no answers. I think his name was Sighhiieh Fraud, but I cannot be sure. The name is hard to say right...” and Scot continued apparently unaware of the ghastly expression which had engrafted itself upon my face.

Or perhaps, the ghastly feeling was so profound that it remained internally within my heart and mind and was too painful even to define itself with physical gestures. It was a seed which had planted itself within me and could only grow until its roots had dug into my intestines and its angular branches sprang forth through my skin. It was a seed of doubt–the doubt I had experienced ever since I had come across Scot, but now I had felt it for some reason gnawing in my gut.

Scot described a nightmare to me. I don’t believe that horses dream during sleep, nor do I believe that they have long term dreams for the future. Animals only exist in the present; they don’t think in the past of memories or in the future of dreams. The horse’s evidence proves against me. Unless his recount is true, Scot would have had to fabricate the story entirely. I absolutely cannot believe that he would do that, so this isn’t an answer for me either. Lying is a sin.

''“Therefore, putting away lying, ‘Let each one of you speak truth with his neighbor.’ for we are all members of one another.”''
-Ephesians 4:25

=== Ch.6 ===

I don’t know what is wrong with me. What am I becoming? Last Sunday, Father Heinrich preached a sermon on the nature of the human soul being constant and either under His light or the devil’s dominion as determined by God at birth. The significance of the catastrophe and its involvement of everyone at this point had provoked the religious community into a fanatical two color spectrum–black and white, good and evil.

I confess that during the sermon, I could not control myself enough to keep my seat. Instead, I stood up and contradicted the Father in the middle of his preaching, professing that the soul changes over time and that the individual is capable of change. There was a hushed silence and stifled gasps at such heresy, but still, I could not bring myself to stop. The father looked down upon me from his pulpit and stared half out of anger, half out of shock by my sudden effrontery, and half out of a righteous pity. My words did not cease with the contradiction, however, and I continued by incensing the already baffled congregation to a further degree of horror.

I preached that the soul experiences the life of the body it inhabits, and this alters it over time. The bad are shaped into bad through their life experiences and how they reacted to these particular experiences, and since the bad did not choose what occurred in their life and might not have been instructed on the ways to a morally right path, they deserve pity. They cannot necessarily be considered bad either mostly due to the fact they fell to the uncontrollable nature of change and were blown around like leaves in the wind–God’s wind–His creation, mind you. Anything that experiences life also experience life’s changes, and this determines the nature of the soul.

Once I had finished, it took a couple of moments for my audience to realize that I had ceased my calm ravings. I do believe that they were still fixed back at the point where I first spoke out against the priest in such a rude fashion. I felt terrible, but I had lost control entirely. My doubt was gripping me, and I could do nothing as hundreds of eyes stood blankly fixed upon me. I stood erect and frozen in the center of the church, positioned upon an invisible pulpit. The priest was the first to speak.

“Mrs. Amnerson, I cannot justly deny anyone admittance to a house of God–the almighty whose arms are open to all those who would open their hearts to him–but might I suggest that you not stay here right now. I would hope that you’ll reflect on what you have said. It is quickly like this that the devil so deftly takes hold of those thought most pious when they let their minds stray. They start to believe that the world is all good or all bad, and soon they fall prey to the dark prince himself who is ever waiting. I hope that you will come back later to see me when there are less ears to be injured. If you will allow it, I can steer you back to the righteous path, but I will not let you corrupt innocent souls during you time of ignorance. I hope for your sake that you will return. I pray you will.”

“Father Heinrich,” I replied, “I was not hailing those who seek to injure others. I was just explaining that the humanity, in essence, is not evil and that goodness and evilness are not present within the living. The living only experience that which is around them, and this influences them. It is all the same...”

“Go!” he interrupted with a sudden eruption of stoic forcefulness and finality, which gave the impression that he was the process of performing an particularly strenuous exorcism. I walked as quickly as my worn body would allow me through the rows and across the blood red carpets. I felt the painful jabs of a thousand staring eyes upon my back, and upon leaving the church, I felt the needle-like pricks of a frigid wind in my face. I was wretched for having questioned the words of one of God’s voices on earth, but also aggrieved for having been persecuted for saying that which I was unable to restrain myself from saying. Then again, God doesn’t lie or speak; only men do. What is wrong with me?

After a few days, I did contact Father Heinrich as he had prayed I would, but only to ask him how horses played into the grand scheme of existence. He was, to say the least, puzzled by my inquiry and for what reason I found the world of horses so urgent in current state of my soul. I cast aside his questions and insisted that he answer me promptly.

In summation, his response was that God’s will does not apply to them aside from the fact that He created them to serve man to whom He bequeath reason. “They were created simply like God created rocks or twigs–animate, yet inanimate.” In other words, they do not fit into the scheme of existence. This is, of course, how he and many others view the matter, but if it is true, then doesn’t animals’ existence contradict his argument? How can it be true if animals with feelings and desires exist? This troubles me greatly because if we look down upon animals, how could...yes and I will say it!... how could we ever treat them fairly?

It seems as though humans find it easier to justify to themselves taking advantage of animals as much as they do by not acknowledging their anima. How much does everything change, when suddenly we must value a bird, a rat, or a bull as much as ourselves–not in a mere materialistic fashion, though some view love, marriage, and other humans in such a way. Oh, and how easy does it become to oppress once something is considered not human or inhuman!

This was entirely evident in the concentration camps of World War II. Need I explain further than to simply mention what the Nazis’ views of the Jewish people were at the time–how they were considered to be the heathenish downfall of the German people–how inferior their race?

This is also evident from the slavery in United States, and in Saudi Arabia, England, China, America, Europe, Asia, and Africa. Slavery persists today. We have not yet abolished it.

Not considering animals in religion, philosophy, and morality makes humans’ lives much easier lest other animals appear too human. This is understandable to some degree. We silently whisper to ourselves how ignorant all other life is–how inanimate. Yet still, life is life. Animals feel pain and pleasure, sadness and happiness, rage and infatuation, apathy and contentedness, depression and jubilance, fear and resolve, anxiety and excitement, sickness and healthiness, life and death. There is one that I did not mention, which I personally feared should prove true, but I will not expound upon it now.

Now it must be know that these events occurred all of last Sunday. On the current Sunday, I skipped church altogether and instead spent my time with the horse, gathering notes for his account. I am so curious, but at the same time I enjoy it, I am also tormented. Is my immortal soul suffering from this? Am I being profaned by giving into my desire which is to hear an animals thoughts?

I can feel myself slipping under the corruption of an animalistic passion–curiosity. More accurately, I am slipping under a drive to rid myself of habitual thought. Certain things which I have never questioned before I am now questioning with the algorithmic precision of a machine. Quickly, I move in a progression of thoughts; one uncertain idea leads to another. If one is questionable, then the rest are equally questionable.

It hurts so terribly, but I must listen, write, and ponder. I hope to God that each stroke of my pen is not subjecting my soul to blows by the devil himself, each strike chipping off a piece of my being. This is such a horrid thing to have befallen me as old as I am and nearing death. I will be forsaken after such a long life’s devotion to chastity and righteousness, yet I must write. I am compelled to write. God forgive me.

I will resume the account after Scot had spent several more days in much the same manner as he had up until this point.

----

The horse woke early before dawn to a slightly colder air, which had settled upon the surrounding area and seemed to cause even the spears of grass the shiver soundlessly. Scot glanced up at the stars and saw the feeble and oblivious moon hanging pointlessly above a patch of clouds. Every now and then, a lumbering whiff of vapor would blot out the pale light, and the witless moon acted in nor accord to prevent it. The opportunity to stifle the moon’s reflected light was limitless, and thus, malicious cloud after malicious cloud took advantage only mere seconds between departures. The foolish orb let the clouds block its gentle shine and was ever unaware of its plight.

This proceeded for much of the remaining morning hours until the sun finally brandished its sword through the open air and scorched the sky like a fiery brand upon tough hide. And yet, the clouds continued to humiliate even the lordship of that golden speck. Of course, the light was always present by its shear intensity, but it did not care whether or not it was dimmed by vapors. This is, more or less, what I have gathered from Scot’s descriptions. I wonder, is the horse is capable of sarcasm, or is he, perchance, trying to communicate an idea?

Now that the morning had taken a firm hold of time, Scot ventured across the grasses, pursuing the same goal he had committed himself to a week ago. Surely after no success in finding a herd or even a herdmate, he would have given up, but against all reason, he proceeded in his endeavor, searching to fulfill his particular dream, if I dare call it that. Scot commented on the matter, “they are there, so I walk and look, but I do not know they are there, so as long as they can be there, I walk and look.”

Thus, the horse dedicated himself to walking and looking, but even with such determination, he was unable to gather any of the information or companionship which were his affairs to seek. The concept of a herd remained an always possible, but ever distant prospect. It was a image of desire and an image of expectation–hope, none the less– but it stayed clouded in the back of Scot’s mind because he could not physically have what it was that he pictured. In short, he dreamt of having it.

After a period of time, Scot discovered that a fierce itch was developing alongside his back. This simple backfire of nerves became unbearable, and the horse attempted to arch his neck beyond comfortable range so he could use his teeth to scratch it. The attempt, however, proved to be an unsuccessful endeavor as much as the search for a herd.

Having failed once but not given up, he instead laid his breadth and length upon the floor and began to roll around vigorously in the dirt. This movement kicked up so much dust and debris that it clouded the air and stifled the lungs.

For the horse, though, it was well worth the effort and sacrifice since the tingling sensation became agonizingly painful. He twisted back and forth, and if viewed from the unsuspecting eye, he would have simply appeared to be frolicking in the dirt. He was, however, committing himself to a task, not just for the sake of caprice or enjoyment, although the itch itself was capricious and its banishment would be joyful.

As the itchy area frictioned against rough stones and prickly shrubs, the intensity began to diminish until the feeling was almost entirely obliterated. The horse returned to his hooves and sneezed an tremendous equine sneeze, spewing phlegm and the rust-colored dirt from his sinuses in a puff of mist. All in all, he had thankfully overcome yet another life threatening situation to add to his daily routine of life threatening situations.

Now that this pressing irritation was abated, it was time to cease a much more painful and threatening loneliness, which plagued the horse and stifled his life. As long as the wretched disease remained within his body–his very cells–he would be incapacitated, unable to live as much as he could.

Loneliness is a walking death, and it is not the physical absence of another like being that is the great symptom of pain. Rather, it is the physical absence of an intangible thought. The true absurdity is that the thought is both the disease and the relief. It both fills in the void-like emptiness and creates other pits of desire.

In this way, it spreads like a pathogen, enveloping whole towns, always exponentially growing. It compounds itself until all that remains is hope, and all other feelings like contentedness, enjoyment, and the like are extinguished. And hope resides, not so much an emotion but an absence there of.

According to Scot, there are really only two cures for loneliness. They are “the real being of the need (the physical presence of the desired person or object) and the sudden thought that it might never be there without giving up trying.” Like diseases, the first of these–the antidote, if you will–may or may not actually expel the contaminate. It depends on the disease and the host. The latter allows the disease to go into remission on its own. This does not always work either, and sometimes the host dies of it. Only the realization of loneliness’ fatality will suppress it entirely in whatever organism it afflicts. Yes, loneliness is indeed fatal.

Needless to say, a combination of both antidote and remission in an amalgam of remedies is sometimes required as in the case of Scot. Even today, he remains bedridden with loneliness. It is in light of this that I have finally realized what it was that always grieved him–his need for companionship of his own kind.

Still, I don’t fully understand it since he has many more alike to him on my farm. He himself has even stated that “they are same as me in all way, and my human speak does not matter to me.” I must say that it does not appear to be the same disease which Scot originally described his loneliness to be. He does not speak of it, so I must guess.

Of course, his time with the inept owner compounded his grief, but the disease itself can be traced back much earlier in Scot’s account. Perhaps, it is a want to share his memories with another being not of the same species and he is fighting the disease as I speak. His statement contradicts this in a way, though. I shall not think more on this subject until he is ready to confide more to me.

He might never be fully rid of his disease of loneliness–the same loneliness that we all possess. Nevertheless, I won’t know until he is purged or he dies, if I don’t die first. I pray he will be banish his pain for his sake, and for this reason I attempt to maintain a daily regiment of company of his kind and myself. This is all I can do. I don’t know enough about the disease to cure it besides to maintain his healthiness.

Now that I have strayed greatly from his actual account, let me retrace my steps back to where I had left off. Ah yes, it was at the moment of the horse’s first administration of antidote, so to speak...

----

After having grazed and found a trickle of water along a wall of smooth stones from which to drink, Scot came across a scent that he recognized, but to which he did not immediately react. The primary reason was that it seemed too good to be true. There it was, the most beautiful scent in the world, floating like a bodiless fragrance upon the undulating breeze.

I gather that Scot had bent his thoughts on maintaining the image of a herd so much that when he finally came upon the actuality of it, he was startled into disbelief. He couldn’t fathom the actuality of the scents existence. Realization, however, slowly began to draw upon him as his ears perked up in curiosity. He began to pace in small increments towards the scent’s origin. Then, as if suddenly let loose from his restraints, he broke into a full gallop, not wishing for the moment to be lost in circumspection.

As he trotted, the scent gain potency until it became an overwhelming force upon his body and mind; it seeped into his blood and warmed him out of his grief. In essence, he became the scent–the ever compelling force which demands, or rather, forcibly takes another’s heart. He submitted to it fully and irrevocably. He would never again be able to live in absence of that scent.

As his pacing slowed, he happened upon the source of his obligation for the first time. She was a lovely, crimson horse similar to himself but, according to Scot, all the more beautiful. Upon sighting Scot, she became inquisitive. Her ears rotated forward telling the horse that she was not feeling at all threatened and desiring to investigate this new appearance of a like being. Scot stated on the matter:

“I would think that she felt the same as I had whilst searching for her. She nickered to me and said that she had been searching for so many suns and moons. She also stated that she ‘was hesitant for not seeing what it might be not within that which now she sees.’ I sorry, it difficult to say in human speak. This is why she did not right away come accept me. In truth it is the same reason why I did not accept her, although I felt so jubilant for her being and me finding her. We did not come to each other right away...” and so forth. Even after they came across that which they were searching for most desperately, they couldn’t even believe their senses upon discovering each other. It took more than a moment for this confusion to disperse. The Universal Law of Animal Life dictates that you must hesitate for a 5.83 seconds before embracing another as your own.

The mare gradually eased out of her frozen stance and stepped towards Scot until she was able to sniff him up close. She moved her flaring nostrils along his neck and flanks as if scanning every fiver of his being. The stallion did likewise to her. After several moments in such a manner the mare placed her head over his neck in embrace–the equine equivalent of a hug. Scot was overjoyed.

Even still, he feared that she could vanish out of concreteness at any moment for any reason. How did he know she was not just a figment of his mind which spawned out of shear want? He assured himself that nothing could break the bond which they had so strongly formed–a bond of friendship, a bond of trust, a bond of...and still he was doubtful.

He could not dwell on these thoughts, however. He had to live and not succumb to the inconclusiveness of thought versus feeling. At least, he would use his feelings to assume she was there with him, even if she wasn’t.

Scot expressed to me that the mare did not have a name in the sense that humans name each other. He knew her by her scent–an identity that was bequeath upon her by birth and not by any sire or parent. In a sense, she was born and suddenly alive, suddenly herself. The name just popped out of nonexistence. Thus, to call her by something was shear absurdity. He could for instance, whinny in a certain wavering pitch and then cadence down to a low nicker every time he wanted to attract her attention, but in truth any sound he could produce would in turn train her gaze upon him.

As Scot wittily put it, “if I wanted to get her to see me, I would get her to see me. If I wanted to talk to her, I would talk to her. If we always said the same thing to each other, how can we learn to say other things?” In conclusion, names are little mice that scurry out of one being’s mouth and into another’s ear for reuse later. Eventually, the mice grow old and die somewhere along their journey. And sometimes they are even too fat to get out of the beings mouth in the first place. And there are too many of those who are poor and do not have enough mice.

Scot and the mare, who I will call Laila for the sake of reference, traveled and grazed together under the golden sun, which smiled outwards. Perhaps the sun was smiling upon their union. Perhaps it wasn’t and with no particular reason. It does not matter for the horses were inseparable, joined by invisible bonds of mutual benefaction.

Each, in turn, watched over one another with no hesitation. Scot was finally relieved of his solemn watch. No longer would the stallion have to stand alert and awake within the black abyss of night, calling silently for someone, anyone to fill his empty solitude and coalesce some felicity from the nothingness that absorbed the very air. They were together, and that was all that mattered. Life is life and unity is unity. Sometimes they overlap.

The bond, which joined their lives, was so strong that neither could be called an autonomous being. They existed as components of the same organism. And yet, they were both individuals, freely thinking whatever thoughts they choose. It was a unique relationship to say the least, not one that I can say readily exists in humans. This bond I suspect can only occur within a herd. It is that fellowship which links herbivores’ lives together such as in the case of Laila and Scot. They were united and only in death would they part from each other, or so they thought. That, however, is another matter, reserved for latter in this account.

Upon one particular morning, Scot caught a scent from Laila that was altogether different from any other one she had diffused in the past. It was more compelling, more invigorating. It surged through every microbe of the stallion’s being. He felt drawn to her, gradually coming closer as she drew him in with an invisible line, his every fiber wound upon a spindle of adamantine thread. Each twirl drew him around the mare until every minute weave became taught and secure. Laila was at the height of her estrus, and Scot was caught upon her scent. Needless to say, I will not continue on to describe the details of equine reproduction.

Instead of listening further to Scot’s vivid descriptions, I quickly changed the subject, thus avoiding the overweening awkwardness of the situation and my own personal embarrassment. Oddly enough, my self-consciousness also included a tinge of anger–anger which seemed to have no origin or any particular reason for being. This anger was in all earnestness directed toward Scot himself, but deeper within me I did not wish to be irate with the animal.

So, I presented a question, which of course, was not asked entirely in want of an answer. Indeed, it came out rather bluntly, more so than it needed to be, however, my anger was gradually bubbling–frothing up from my bowels. Alas, I was not at all tactful in what I asked as to be expected. It was with good intentions that I questioned the horse so rudely, for I did not wish for my anger to increase at him.

The emotion that surged through me was of a disquieted rage, and it was not only unpleasant but potentially destructive. My question might have hurt Scot, but it probably afflicted less pain upon him than if I had not released the unvented steam building within me. It was a necessary circumvention of his story.

Daresay, I implored him as to whether he felt any tinge of indecency having been aware that he was once human and having just copulated with a common animal.

“What is copulated?” he witlessly asked. Rather, it came out as “Whhuyyht hyyhys ceyyhperheiteeih?” which it hardly ineligible to hear let alone inscribe upon a page. This was to be expected considering the fact that his vocal chords in their current orientation were not designed for proper speech.

Oh, but this did not excuse his lack of knowledge! I took a few moments to enlighten him of this apparently new concept, which required a bit of ingenuity on my part, though it should have been a reasonably simple notion for him to comprehend. I beg that the reader does not inquire further as to my methods. My descriptions were, let’s say...creative.

“Oh, you mean merging of body,” was his response, unarticulate, and obviously dumb. “If indecency means not feel good, then I don’t feel indecency.”

“But it was an animal!” my irritation building further.

“Do you feel bad when you merge with another animal?” he calmly asked of me. I looked at him perplexed. I could not believe he was implying that I have coupled with an animal. How repulsive! I quickly voiced my indignance, and upon hearing me, the horse’s ears turned back, and I knew that I had over stepped my bounds.

Horses are temperamental and do not take well to outbursts, especially outbursts of spite or rage. This expression of turning the ears away is an expression of agitation. This is what he was communicating towards me. My wits came about me more, and I regretted having attacked Scot for no reason. My anger seemed to have been consuming energy from some hidden source. I was so remorseful. It came upon me like a wave upon rock. I apologized, but no apology was enough.

Once again, I attempted to resume the conversation, and having drifted so far from our previous exchanges, I was at a temporary loss. After a moment, I asked, “Did you love her?” I felt the beast that former rage gradually lift its eyes and become aware again. The flame of anger was reigniting as if from ember that was ignore, now rising to scorch the unwary person who had treaded to close. My own speech seemed to trigger this flame.

“Love? I think I remember this concept, but I don’t be for sure. Can you explain?” My anger grew, but I was collected enough to describe the notion.

“If you mean that, then I desired her and she desired me, and we needed each other, so we did love each other.”

“No! You don’t understand me. Here, think of it in these terms. When a man loves a woman, he’ll do anything to please and support her, emotionally and financially. He takes her to different places and cherishes her, consoling her with soft words, embracing her, protecting her. She, in turn, does the same for him in her ways. The man goes to great lengths to have the woman, and she resists at first. In light of his attempt at wooing her, she flatters him but also flirts with him! She will not give over without cautiousness in order to ensure her lover’s chivalry, chastity, and fidelity. Thus, when they finally embrace, the love that is their’s is their’s alone and no other’s. It is deep and passionate, not merely a passing infatuation that only glances at the surface of love. It is for their mutual benefaction.

<poem>''“Let me not to the marriage of minds
''Admit impediments; love is not love
''Which alters when it alteration finds,
''Or bends with the remover to remove.
''Oh no, it is an ever-fixéd mark
''That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
''It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
''Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”''</poem> -Shakespear “Sonnet 116”

His response was this: “I supported her. We ran across the planes together, and she and I nuzzled each other affectionately. Each day while she grazed I stood over her, eating not. Only in a moment could she have been snatched from me, and so in time she was. I don’t hold it against; life is life. She flirted with me, such as before we had our merging of bodies. I would chase her, and she would cunningly evade. Then, she would pause as if waiting, but after enticing me to join her, she trotted off, and I would chase her again. Eventually, she, after quite some time with our diversion, gave into me, convinced I was of good and true intent. Why did we hesitate before meeting? Would she want me to abandon her and her foal? I loved her. I protected her. I would always be there for her, and I love her still, though she is gone...gone.”

“But you cannot love her! You are not capable!” was my response to his argument. At this moment, I was teeming with agitation. It was burning within my deepest gut. The horse snorted but otherwise remained silent, watching me through his dark, warm eye. “You cannot love because you do not have a soul! God is love, and you have no god. You are an animal!” Though I said this with all intention of provoking him, his response was calm–a highly controlled question in spite of my condescension. His frankness startled me, but I detected a tinge of sadness within his words, which grew as he continued. His oval eyes were glazed with a small moisture.

“Why can’t I have a soul or love? Is it because I am different, or do you not love me? Would it hurt so much for one to say that those who are different can love, have a soul. What could one lose by sharing such a simple thing. All I know is that the grass grows short or tall. The wind blows north, south, east, or west. Life is life. Love is love.”

Now I felt the anger consume itself until it ceased to be. In its stead a wracking pity sunk into my thoughts. It was terrible, wretched, utterly intolerable. I felt my whole body retch in spasms of pity. And yet, the horse continued, and I could but listen helplessly as each passing word fed the sorrow. I was speechless, mute...dumb beyond compare.

“You treat me differently because you think I am different. This is understandable. You think I am different because you wish to not be the same is me? Why?”

“I have been beaten, starved, whipped, spurred, overworked, teased by your foals, pelted by rocks, strangled, imprisoned, shackled. I have experienced more chance at death in human hands than ever in the wild. Why? All I give is my love. I am different, and so I am tortured? Please tell me why. What have I done?”

I could sense it now. The irresistible curiosity I had experienced before was not a curiosity at all. It was something wholly different–something that compelled and did not let go. Change had captured me in its clawed grip and would not release until it had its course, the pointed talons sinking deeper and more painfully with each passing moment.

I felt them fleeing, all hopes and happiness–all that could be called human. I could feel myself being swallowed up by a void of meaninglessness. I knew not what I was changing into, but it was no physical change.

I resisted, but it was not my place to resist. I resisted like the clouds resist a breeze. I resisted like a dropped stone resist the earth. I resisted like the mindless tides resist the relentless tug of the moon. I pleaded in my mind for him to stop, screaming silently with no listener to listen–only my own tormented self which granted no solace. I could not resist. I could not shirk the mental convulsions of change. The horse continued.

“I waked, and I slept. I toiled, and I rested to ready myself for more toil. I did what I did. I did not bite. A man kicks a dog, and the dog likely bites him. A man hits a man, and likely gets hit back. Only the dog can be put down...”

“If I am so horrible, I beg you to kill me now. My sorrow is large, and it only grows. This is not life. I am not alive."

And so I was left with all that I had before but not as it was. Pain, happiness, grief–they were all changed, and upon my completed transformation I drew a single conclusion (life is not without a sense of absurd irony); in the end, I concluded that animals feel pain and pleasure, sadness and happiness, rage and infatuation, apathy and contentedness, depression and jubilance, fear and resolve, anxiety and excitement, sickness and healthiness, life and death...and love.

[[Category:Story]] [[Category:Animal]] [[Category:Equine]][[Category:Whiteflame]]

<comments />

Catastrophe...Ch.1-3

2007-12-26T05:49:05Z

Whiteflame: New page: {{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}} “Of life, death, and change, change is always the hardest in its uncontrollability, and life is her brother.” Part 1: Catas...

{{byline|author=Justin S. (Whiteflame)|user=Whiteflame}}

“Of life, death, and change, change is always the hardest in its uncontrollability, and life is her brother.”

Part 1: Catastrophe

== Ch.1 ==

I am currently writing this piece on the behalf of a horse by the name of Scot, who specifically requested that I record his story and recount it to his children should they prove to possess the ability to converse with me as Scot himself is capable of doing. This, of course, is in preparation for the future because, as of yet, he has not sired any foals. I am, however, sure that in due course he will, which is a duty he will commit himself to as long as he is a resident on my farm. Elsewhere (if he ever does live elsewhere), he will consent to the duties commanded by whomever is his owner as is right. This may or may not include such stated duties as are present on my farm.

The account itself is a retelling of his most prominent memories. It consists of experiences that are both disturbing and amusing. All of these, though, bear a single relation. They are all extraordinary despite their sometimes mundane nature. Perhaps, this is due to the perspective from which they are told. Perhaps it is the events themselves. All I know is that to me, they are extraordinary.

The setting of this work takes place in to definite locations that are quite remote from each other. The first of these, I am not familiar with as it is a place that I have never happened to visit. This little town of Parken, Montana and the surrounding area constitutes for the setting of the first half of this tale. It was here that the peculiar events leading to Scot’s ability to converse first occurred.

The second half of this account takes place in Louisiana, my home state. It is beautiful and perfect.

As the reader, at this point, is most likely puzzling over the unusualness of the horse’s name and under what circumstances he obtained the ability to communicate, I will work to shed some light on this matter. On one hand, the reader will discover in the progression of this work said circumstances, so I will not expound upon them at this particular moment. I will, on the other hand, attempt to inform the reader as best as I can to the horse’s name and its origins.

Scot, in terms of what most owners call their animals, is a rarity, but it only seemed fitting to me–Lisa Amnerson–considering the events under which we first became acquainted. These mostly are the moments when he began first to vocalize within my presence. I gave him a more human name because he could speak.

Scot is unable to remember his original name as far as he has expressed, but he assures me that it began with the letter “p.” This he reiterates quite often to no end. I do grow tired of it. I cannot, however, justify becoming irritated because I know of his true identity and thus, would only be irritated by this fact.

It is most understandable that the horse does not possess any memory of his former life aside from the fact that he was. The trauma he experienced in the past must have erased all knowledge of it. Should the reader come across this work while Scot is still living, I do ask that he or she never informs him of his true name. He has already suffered too much at the hands of an unworthy equestrian, who could not possibly know how to take care of such a fine animal as he.

I presume that it is only right for me to be patient and attempt to piece together a history of his life up until our meeting. It would be a small consolation after much suffering. Anyway, since it was he who requested it, pleasing him would surely be a more profitable endeavor for me.

The horse’s thoughts, I might add, do spark a tingling curiosity within me. It is my wish not to bring forth memories of his past before the trauma because it would not be in either of our best interests and would surely lead him into a less than functional frame of mind. I do stress, as is a reason for the former statement, that it is my least desire to have him suffer more than he has.

Now that the reader knows Scot at least partially, I must properly introduce myself. As is right for the narrator of a story, some details and credit is due. The reader might have already discovered from the renown of my name that I am a 60-year-old wealthy, widowed lady descended from a very long line of horse breeders, raisers, and trainers. These well-to-do ranchers inhabited an extravagant farmhouse in Louisiana and presided over a vast amount of pastureland.

Thankfully, all of this never left the family’s possession and currently is bequeath to me. I suppose I will eventually pass my inheritance along to my much younger sister, but I assure you, she will have to wait until I kick the bucket, so to speak. Besides, she is not nearly as great a horsewoman as I and does not know the proper way to treat these animals.

I, myself, am also somewhat of a literary enthusiast and writer. For this reason, I found it more appealing to undertake this account of Scot’s past than most would. I will note here that I insist no one reads my work before it is completed. This is something that I particularly cannot bear. It infuriates me when a passerby glances over my shoulder in curiosity. A work is of absolutely no one’s concern except for mine until it has reached what I deem is its final form.

Getting away from my writing habits, I do want to make three things clear before I continue with Scot’s accounts. Other ranchers have made it to my attention that I am particularly fond of spoiling my horses. I wish to inform those who might partake in this notion otherwise.

All in all, I am a strict disciplinarian. None of my animals walk or step out of line, but they do receive extensive care–my affection and what my funds can purchase or provide. Scot, in comparison to the others, is an exception. Had he not the ability to speak or reason, I would not consider him above the level of a common equine. In consideration of this, it would be inappropriate to assume that he deserves the same as the others or that the others deserve the same as him. In this way, he attains the most of my attention, especially for the writing of this narrative.

Secondly, I am Scot’s owner. A more keen reader might make a point that since Scot obviously possesses a phenomenal talent, I would have made the existence of a talking horse known publically should this have proven to not simply be a farce. I keep this knowledge to myself not for selfish reasons, but for my principles and aspects of my personality.

I am dignified and do not wish to become a target of mockery and/or ridicule. Unlike some, I value my solitude. If asked why, I would mostly attribute this to a portion of my being; I simply cannot endure such publicity and company. It is because of this, as the keen reader should note, that I have decided to put my knowledge to the pen and not to the mouth. Is that necessarily selfish?

Lastly, I would like to indicate, more specifically, the exact moment under which Scot was prompted to share his first words with me (indeed I was quite surprised, but it did not strike me as completely absurd as it might have for some others). After I had purchased him from his inept owner, I began to notice a decline in his health and inconsistencies in his behavior. This is usually the first sign that a horse has gone lame, and the reader should already know what happens to lame horses. In case the reader doesn’t, usually the horse is put down (as is the term). I definitely did not desire to undergo that experience as it is both remorseful for the owner to see through and, more or less, a disgrace in the high circles of which I am a part of. And so, by chance, I informed him of what would happen to him while in the midst of speaking to myself.

As he told me later, this is what, in essence, rekindled his lust for life out of the apathy that had developed in his heart–a cataract which threatened to blot out all light for him. This festering despair griped him with each passing day, and he knew from whence it came. Perhaps, it originated from the shear neglect of his former owner. I, however, would vouch for a different cause, though the it would only be a subconscious impression to him.

----

He was once a man, and who, anyway, could truly degrade oneself to continue living in the body of a mere animal? Could you–the reader?

During Scot’s period of impassiveness, he must have felt the bitter pangs of a torn soul, which had no business existing in a nonhuman being. Even if he was not consciously aware of the severe breech in God’s divine providence, his being must have sensed the searing flames of His wrath in that Scot had unwittingly allowed himself to be cast from a chance at heaven. Scot brought this upon himself, but I pity him greatly as no one deserves to be forsaken as he is. He is even forsaken from knowing that he is forsaken.

Unfortunately for him, there is no hope–no assurance of a future after his death. One cannot expect him to dwell among the souls of those who have passed. This would not be possible. And yet, he is a martyr because he brought this spiritual death upon himself in hopes of preventing a catastrophe, which will be explained later. Can one really expel someone or, in this case, something from a blissful existence if that blissful existence is rewarded to those few who have sacrificed themselves for the good of others? Could one ostracize a soul at his or her moment of beneficence?

For this reason, I have taken up the notion that the man died long ago, and this Scot is not the human whose body he took over and changed. The real man is already passed on and is dwelling with those blessed few. The horse whom I talk to is human no longer and is an animal. A horse simply is a horse. The reader might ask why I choose to believe this, and the only answer I have to return is that the alternative would be too terrible. As Scot himself later told me, he understands that “to believe otherwise would be to forsake one’s beliefs and it is perfectly reasonable for one to not desire that to happen.” He also adds, “Amnerson, you are in a bit of a pickle, if I recall the use of that phrase correctly.”

As I have already stated, Scot no longer can recollect his true identity and name, which supports my notion as to the true man having died. The simple fact still remains that Scot was not always a horse, and he realizes this to some degree. In this way, his past remains shattered like a mirror blasted upon the floor for him to glance at occasionally and view the shards of his former humanity. This is primarily the reason (as Scot has stated in accord) that he is able to converse with me in the first place.

Had he not fragments of his memory, he would be unable to recall human words or phrases, so he would have no language or speech from which to order his thoughts. His semblance of a memory, however, does not prevent him from behaving as perfectly as a horse should. He eats, sleeps, relieves himself, and acts as a horse. He sniffs my hand to discern that it is me. He bobs his head when he walks. He scratches himself against fence posts. Believe it or not, he even neighs like a horse, which I have witnessed when I was around unnoticed. I do not need to go further; the reader realizes that Scot is a horse. To this ends, a stranger would not be able to discern any abnormality just by watching him, unless of course, Scot vouched for human words.

In consideration of his behavior, Scot seems to be at ease with the other horses, and sometimes he (as he has stated after a few heated arguments) prefers their company to mine. In truth, I believe he always prefers their company to mine.

I gather this from his speech. He always says that “their words are more fitting, considering the proper situation in light of the current situation.” In this manner, however, his speech sometimes loses its coherency. This only occurs when he attempts to communicate something about the other horses. Human words are too elevated for the petty thoughts of a horse. Humans possess superior reasoning. This, at least, is how I and many others view it.

Scot, however, betrays a small sadness of his own, which I have detect, though he hides it well. I believe that his apathy and depression has never truly left him. At least, it no longer hinders him physically. He needn’t worry about being put down.

----

Although this account is entirely Scot’s, my sources for writing it have come from a variety of places. Included within this narrative is information obtained from interviewing several relevant persons. I sought to peruse these individual’s memories so that to fill in certain pieces of information, which the horse couldn’t have known. This includes such details as events that occurred while Scot was not present. Otherwise, certain aspects of this account would not make as much sense.

Scot, although once human, does not understand or recall all human institutions or devices and their functions. Some of the objects that he refers to would not be clear to the reader if I did not translate them into a intelligible form. An example of this is what Scot describes as “a tossing wind from a floating fan”–in other words, a helicopter. The reader might be vexed that I have not kept more of his speech intact.

One must realize, however, that writing this account is a tedious and perpetual task, drawing on through countless evenings, colorless sunsets, and empty, void-like nights. At the latter part of my conversations with Scot, I was often weary beyond tolerance. My limbs barely held fast to keep a pen upright. I am not of the best heath. For this reason, The first hour of our conversations would usually be a recapitulation of the former nights proceedings. Aside from this, I have often had to ask Scot to expound upon an object or idea further because the words he uses are sometimes not direct or improperly used. In a few cases, I was completely unable to translate his words. Alas, I tried as best as I can.

Before this account continues, I must also note that I came across a number of documents, which informed me as to the period during which Scot suffered extreme trauma. These were not easily to acquire and I only succeeded in gaining one of them from interviewing one of Scot’s previous colleagues, who was exceedingly difficult to track down. This, of course, was under the guise of a journalist attempting to stem the public’s consternation of the catastrophe that had occurred in Parken, Montana–Scot’s birthplace, so to speak.

Since the general public was aware of the catastrophe and what it had resulted in, the colleague had no reason to withhold the document from me. As he stated, “perhaps the way to go about preventing a wide scale panic would be to just give the people all the knowledge they want. This journal might stun the population into submission. Who knows? You seem trustworthy enough...” I think he only considered me trustworthy because of my frail complexion and body. Alas, I don’t entirely believe he ever contemplated how much damage the documents might do if they fell into an opportunist’s hands. They would spark public outrage–the reason: the documents are a first hand account of Scot's experiences while he was present at the catastrophe. They are written by the man he was.

Of course, the public already knows of the incident and what happened to the victims of the catastrophe. Disclosing this particular information, however would ignite the fuse of the public, which until now has remained a silent, but ever waiting, unstable bomb. The public is in a state of alarm.

Initially, the authorities tried to conceal the catastrophe’s occurrence as much as possible, but it is not as easy of a task when an entire town vanishes in an instant, even if it is in the middle of nowhere. Of course, the people found out. Of course, they are scared. How could a person be expected react to the physical evidence of an event that is unbelievable and, moreover, utterly absurd? What if that event could potentially threaten one’s life? That fear, though, does not need to manifest itself into unchecked bedlam. When I first heard of the catastrophe, I was also entirely shocked. Everyone was in disbelief.

----

The journal is wholly disturbing and grotesque but entirely true. I have included the journal in its purest form because it is an integral part of Scot’s life experiences. It is, in essence, the beginning of his story, and so it lies at the beginning of this account. I must warn the reader, however, that this journal might repulse him or her to some degree.

The journal depicts the struggles of the former man of Scot as he comes to grips with the catastrophe, and his involvement in it. It is also very detailed and scientific, almost as if, in his last moments of life, he was attempting to latch on to something human, to contain some breath of life. This is why he resorts to a very accurate and disgusting description of the events which resulted from being a victim of the catastrophe. It is his will to survive, which comes through most in these pages. At least, this is how I view it.

=== Ch.2 ===

(Narrators note: this journal is copied verbatim from its author's notes. All erratums present within this chapter were also present within the journal)

''Dr. Frank T. Doyle, Epidemiologist, Center for Disease Control:''

''Day 5 of our investigation - Sunday, July 2, 2---:''

It must be noted that this journal is intended purely as a scientific documentation pending an investigation of an outbreak that occurred in Parken, Montana, June 25, 2---. Upon our arrival at the site (June 28), my colleague and I discovered the town to be devoid of all population. This includes the medical practitioner, Dr. Micha Wysocki, who first reported this outbreak to the CDC. As of yet, we have found no viable explanation for the town’s disappearance, but this is worrying because the pathogen might induce exotic symptoms. The desertion of the town might be a result of delirium or hysteria.

In light of this, my colleague has contacted the CDC to present all of our observations to the head of the department of epidemic control and containment, and we have concluded that the site is to be placed under strict quarantine until further information has been obtained. For the moment, we have taken up temporary residence in an abandoned medical facility. We have no concern as to becoming introduced to the pathogen as we follow strict decontamination procedures when returning to the building and wear protective suits during our investigations into the town. My colleague and I have been speculating on the symptoms, means, and communication of the pathogen, but without a sample, this has proven to be highly inconclusive.

The next day, June 29, we located a sample of the pathogen from dried saliva along the rim of a glass. At the time, we had ventured into a number of vacant homes. Further testing confirmed that the sample was a virus and the primary cause for the outbreak. Over the next couple of days, we introduced a live virus to a tissue sample, extracted from my colleague’s skin. Initially, there was no change in the sample, but on the third day of introduction, the tissue sample’s genetic structures began to deteriorate. The virus appears to be cancerous in nature, causing increased replication of cells with dysfunctional DNA patterns. This is hardly a cause for comfort.

At the rate the virus incubates, fatality must occur in only a number of days. Considering that we have not encountered a single individual during the entire time that we have been here and that the outbreak was reported three days prior, the fatality rate must be close to one hundred percent. Likewise, the epidemic spread rate is approximately 2000 cases/person days. I will not pretend that panic isn’t justified. A rough extrapolation shows that in a matter of months, a significant portion of the United States would be devastated. In only a few years, the human race will become an endangered species. I am, however, less worried due to the high fatality rate. This is because the virus will be easier to contain if none of the hosts exist to spread the disease. I personally believe that the government will resort to nuclear sterilization once they receive the data, but this virus must be contained before we can resort to that.

Due to the urgency of our situation, my colleague has left to deliver samples of the virus to the CDC personally. I volunteered to stay and further the investigation, for there are several questions which have yet to be answered. I do not doubt that it will be some days or weeks until he returns.

First of the issues that were puzzling me was the fact that no bodies were found within the premises of the town. According to our data collected from the viral test, the break down in genetic structure would have resulted in the deterioration of cells, but unless the deterioration progressed to protein structures as well, some corpse would have been left behind. Even with protein or catalystic deterioration, we would have found organic residue, and the intact saliva samples we obtained earlier prove against such deterioration.

The next major concern of mine was how the virus is communicated, and upon contraction, how the virus affects the host. This would shed some insight on the apparent disappearance of the victims’ bodies and how quarantine is to be conducted.

This brings me to the most pressing matter and reason for starting this journal. Today, July 2, 2--- at 7:15 PM, I became aware that I had an elevated temperature. Upon inspecting my suit, I discovered that it had been breeched infinitesimally either before or during our occupation of the medical building. I prayed that it was breeched today in the morning or else my colleague would have been contaminated, thus perpetrating the epidemic by leaving the quarantine zone. Thankfully, I checked the control samples collected from his arm. Yesterday’s samples gave no indication of contamination. It is both fortunate and unfortunate that I am alone in this matter. At least now I know that the virus is airborne.

''Day 6 - Monday, July 3, 2---:''

I awoke this morning with an incredible soreness in my muscles. To go along with this, my senses were also acutely disorientated. I could detect the scent of an otherwise sterile room down to the minutest detail: the metallic tinge of surgical instruments, the crisp smell of paper and wood, the sharp, piercing odor of rubber on my pencil’s eraser. The smell of antibiotic was nauseating, almost unbearably. Aside from my sense of smell, my vision seemed slightly odd. I believe it was difficult to place because my nervous system has become accustomed to the irregularity. From what I could tell, though, light appeared much brighter that before, but the colors were more solid–concrete–possessing less distinction between different shades. I felt like I was viewing the world through a cubist painting, each item depicted with a single, dazzling block of color. My hearing was also painfully augmented. The natural ambience of the room rattled my brain. I had to strain to focus my thoughts amidst this new bombardment of sound. Also in accordance with this, my sense of touch has become extraordinarily sensitive. It seems as though my skin has coarsened and become less pliable, taking on a rough, leathery surface, but I can now detect the smallest air disturbance in the room. I was even able to kill a fly before landed upon my body.

All of these, however, did not contradict my implications of the virus. Such muscle soreness is understandable for a weakened immune system. The senses must have been altered due to the structural change of my cells. None of this shocked me, but I was horrified when I examined my body for the first time.

Sensorial changes were not the only symptoms fo the virus; there were physical ones as well. Scrutinizing my eyes, I discovered that the pupils were enlarged and partially oval. The color was darkened and the general shape broader. My ears, were located about a half centimeter above their former position and had grown pointed near the tip. Most startling was a protrusion near the base of my spine, which can only be described as the beginnings of a tail. It was hairless. I could sense and twitch it as if it were simply another appendage. I even noticed that throughout the day I might absentmindedly move it when I experienced and extreme emotion such as agitation, nervousness, or excitement. This worries me greatly because if the virus can alther my motor neural system as well as my perception, then my mind is being affected. I do not know how long it will be before I lose myself cognitively or physically. Although all of this is a most fascinating discovery in genetics and virology, what cost will it be to me? Will I live to see this knowledge bring about new changes and advances in medicine? How long do I have before the virus kills me with its alterations?

In light of this new, somewhat unusual development, I have had to change to course of my speculations. The vanished population is probably dead, but before they perished, they must have deserted the premises. The only other explanation is that the population is not deceased as I suspect, but our former tests disprove this notion. I am, however beginning to have doubts about the validity of our tests. I plan on reviewing the infected tissue samples tomorrow. At the moment, I am to incapacitated to leave the room. Perhaps after a little rest, I will feel more apt to move.

''Day 7 - Tuesday, July 4, 2---:''

This morning, I awoke to extreme physical agony. My boDy burned and tingled while every muscle contracted beyond reasonable range. IT is difficult to describe exactly how this experience felt, but I fear that the next time will be worse. During this brief wave of pain, I felt my spine elongate, pushing the underdeveloped tail further out, which prickled as small, dark brown hairs grew in. These hairs soon filled out into the long strands of a whisk, such as those of animals in the Equidae family. My chest expanded slighly and forced my ribcage to crack open and become filled with stronger lungs. My posterior and abdomen suffered a similar fate; my internal organs readjusted themselves. I doubt they are in their final configuration. Also, the muscles around my buttocks, thighs, souldiers, and arms gainded significant girth. From what I can tell, they and my feet and hands have elongated about an inch each. The most sickening phase of what I now call my transformation occurred in my face. My head felt as though it dropped into my spine, but in reality, my neck attached itself closer to the back of my head, pushing my skull forward. My face itself also pushed out several inches during which, I almost fainted from intollerable pain. IT is now more snout like, similar to the muzzle of a grazing animal.

Upon inspecting myself, I discovered that the front six teeth of my upper and lower jaws have broadened and become the incisors of an herbivore. Since they are longer, they protrude from my lips visibly. My ears have become noticeably higher up on my head and now have a pronounced pointed-oval shape. Also, they have become slightly flexible, and twitching them is a cognitive action. My voice has become more guttural. As I noticed in practice, if I am not careful in concentrating on the enunciation of words, an occasional animalistic grunt works its way into my speech. The only change that seemed to spark remorse in me was that of my eyes. They have become entirely dark and wide, bearing no resemblance to their former shape and complexion. I am much more glad to be able to see all around me, but there is no sign of myself beneath the black pupils.

I am now thoroughly convinced that the virus is changing me into another animal, most likely some breed of horse. The virus itself seemes highly adapted by changeing the host in such an order to ensure maximum chance for survival. This explains why my senses were the first to alter, and in the second phase, I grew more muscle mass, a tail, and more suitable internal organs/facial features, while retaining my feet and hands in a functional form. For equines, the tail and facial expressions are a primary form of communication. A virus bent on ensuring its host’s survival would want to adjust the senses and then secure the communication of that animal–I mean host. I have found that I have grown more giddy, curious and quick to startle by ordinary occurrences, which must be behavioral and instinctual imprints, definitely important traits to survive in the wild as a prey animal.

Just in case these changes could be attributed to insanity, I checked the infected tissue samples as I had planned on. I am not insane. The genetic structure of the tissue samples appears to have become equine and alterations in protein sturctures, etc. have caused physical change in appearance. This is all correct; I checked. Plus, the town was deserted, which also supports this. The scans of the samples indecated that they was most definitely equine.

This virus is far to specific to be taken lightly. It is far too specific. I don’t know of what origen this virus first came about. Perhaps, it was a mutation of another strain, but it is so radically different than any yet encountered. It is awso possible that because the pathogen has lain dormant until this point. Maybe nature has something to do with. And to what end this? I think I will pick this up on tomorrow. It is becomeing increasingly difficult to focus on a subject. I want to sleep, but I can’t. There is no one around so I must keep watch.

''Day 8 - Wedday, July 5, 2---''

No change this morning. I awoke and found myself hungry. Unfortunately, my altered organs has made me lost the desire to eat most of what is in the building. When I tasted meat, my mouth burned, and I vommitedd. I found some crwisp lettuse leaves and bread, which seemed to abate my hunger, but It Sceems like I am always eating After I ate several times, I went down to the lab room with a Idea.

I decided to test my breath for traces of the pathogen. I was hopeful that the virues had embed IT self within me and no get out of my breath. I was happy when I found not trace in my breath. This means that no breath has virus in it. So virus cannot spread from those affectedive earlier. I was pleased with myself. Very happy.

Not strained from a new phase in this changeation, I go outside to look around. The dust gets in my nose and makes me sneeze. Also the grass looks sonice. Like a change to what I have been eatin. Oh, and by the way, My see a first living being since my herdmate and I came to this place. She was nice, her scent appealing me. I wanted to go rub against her. She looked at me strange. For a moment. I could tell that she was warningin me. Why? No not warning, sad–Why Sad? She stopped lookingin at me. No not sad, but confused. She was confused. Then It go away and she leave.

I came back to the builid later to see what happen. There be blinking dot on responding machine. Must be my colleague. I hav been waiting for responce. I pressed the button and listened. He asked if an everything alright. I said yes. He said that they will send people to pick me up in to days; that I should hold out until they come. They are finisin some tests of some sort. Then they have permission to use nuclear sterilize on town to stop virus. Smawl sterilize. I think I know what he mean, but I am not positive. It seems foggy. He dOesnt make muc sense.

I find it important to talk about the changeation that happened latter. My neck grow longer and my head. Hard to see strait to wite on paper. My toes get merged into hoofs. So much more comfortable then earlier. No like toes. My butt is bigger too and I have hair all over. It is ruff but keeps me warm, but this is good. It is hard to stand on two legs so sometimes I use four. I don know why I uses two legs sometimes. I have completely lost to ability to speak. My speak is whinnies and neighs. I ame sad for some reason. But I don see wy. It go away tomorrow, I think. I now like stallion and can mate wit mares. Reproduction is important to virus to survive. It fell different but good in sheath. I feel great urgas. Must be testosterome changes. I feel sensul an want to run ad fid my herd. It drives. But I still think, but different. Cannot understan wy here in buildind, better outside. O, well. I hurt during but it gow away, no problem. My back is longer and me much bgirr. I have nice hair on my neck. I like to flick it. It is fun and sit around and gaze. I sleepy.

''Dy 10 Tus, JuL 5 2--''

Had wiT No FinGrs. No Not MoV gooD. No geT wY wIt muts do it. I can do it. Mus for Hrhsses. Wit yeses. Now me Hungr com BAK in Bit...

Fid pAper in buld. ViruS no is a nature thing. Hrd read. So MaDI lettr. I Fid. It Ned chAng. Men mak in RoOm. No is naturl. Fid Anti-thing But it brOk in My Hof. I smel mySelf. It me. I hrse no duth. Ned fid hrd. Com bak ltr Primisse in howr...

''11 Ju 2--''

MUS RIT> AlmOT FiNIS. Dom alMot Hr Wit. HRt. MEy Hrt. AHH HuR. Hrhryyh. HRHYSHHRR HY

(indistinguishable scratch marks)

=== Ch.3 ===

As the reader can see, Dr. Frank T. Doyle was a martyr. Even in his last moments, he was searching for something to give humanity–some glimmering hope to cease a scourge of mankind. Alas, it was to no avail. In the process of searching for insight, he came across the cure itself.

Unfortunately for all of us, he inadvertently destroyed it. Still, his intentions were for the good of everyone, and his thoughts were inspired from the unity of humankind–a motive for the mutual benefaction of the race–the survival of the race–though he might have doomed us all.

It is also apparent that the virus was not a natural phenomenon. As the doctor stated in his second to last entry, “ViruS no is a nature thing...Men mak in RoOm.” Who made the virus and under what intentions remains a mystery. I would guess that the virus was not designed with the motives for changing people. One cannot be sure, though. What the reader can be certain of is that the virus was airborne. This would play a significant and devastating role in later events.

The information that Doyle discovered concerning the virus was never unearthed by any of the CDC epidemiologists, who returned to the site after Doyle had failed to give them some word as to his present state and condition.

They did find a shattered vial upon the tiled hospital floor and a brief memo, which had dissolved in the vial’s contents. The liquid evaporated, and no evidence was left to confirm that these were the objects Dr. Doyle had described in his journal. All of this I gathered from my interview with the doctor’s colleague. In spite of not having any evidence to support my claim besides what is evident, I do believe they were the objects that Doyle referred to. There isn’t anything standing against this notion.

Also, it must be apparent that this journal is a written record of Dr. Doyle’s untimely end. The reader can see the regression of thoughts from a human to a horse. Certain details that no rational human would include in their last entry are present. This supports my belief that Dr. Doyle died, and his soul left the changing body as Scot was coming into existence. Therefore, Scot has no immortal soul because Dr. Doyle’s left at the moment I presume he died.

I prefer that the body lost Doyle’s humanity and gained the identity of a horse. God does not punish those like the doctor who do work for good, and He would never give unreasoning animals a soul. This isn’t because animals are wrong. It is simply because He created man in His image as a being to do His work in the world. Animals were not created for the same purpose. Thus, they do not require an immortal soul. This is, at least, how I perceive it.

----

Scot’s story picks up where the doctor’s journal leaves off. He recalls being severely frightened, but without knowing why. Questioning the unknown is always the most fear inducing especially when one is questioning oneself. After several moments, he realized that he was alive and had not to worry.

Puzzling still was that he could not recall his foalhood to any degree. He could procure from his memory images of a human child or a human man but could not piece together his own life up until this point. He looked himself over. Everything appeared as it should; he felt as he should; he behaved and thought as he should. Why were their memories from another being’s existence present within his mind?

These were the first thoughts that Scot experienced as he stood in the surgical room, which he described as “a white, bare, unforgiving, enclosed package.” He did not (as he indicated to me) feel at all comfortable in that environment. It confined him, inducing a state of extreme claustrophobia. It was not at all the natural color a place should have been.

He did realize that this was because he expected something more earthly, being a horse and being most at ease in such surroundings. Still, he irrationally felt as though someone was aggressing against him by denying him a place to run–a place to escape. If the reader can imagine it, he was experiencing a terrible conflict of emotions and thoughts. At the same time he was questioning his thoughts and memories, he was also experiencing the terror of a assumed threat to his life.

Scot decided, at this point, to venture outside of the medical facility under the assumption that clean, wholesome air would alleviate his somewhat disjointed thoughts. Leaving the building, though, proved to be a slight difficulty. It was more than simple enough to exit the surgical room, but Scot could not recall the layout of the floor and thus, couldn’t recall exactly how to get out. To this end, he paced along the vacant corridors, hoping that he would come across the exit by chance.

He expressed to me that he distinctly remember how his hooves resonated with a crisp, hammer-like noise upon the tiled floor. It was not at all pleasant to walk atop a floor that was so hard. His hooves were not soft like flesh and contacted the tiles in such a way as sent chills along his limbs. But still, he never ceased his search, deliberately exploring each entrance, and so he happened upon the very threshold he was searching for.

In the evening air, Scot felt a little more at ease. A strong breeze was turning up the dust from the street. This, he described as “an obnoxious wind.” He caught of whiff of it in his nostrils. It had a acrid tinge, which diffused itself upon his tongue and in his sinuses, and settled in his eyes.

Such is the dust in Parken, Montana. It is unlike that of other towns in the western United States. As opposed to fine grains, which float subtly in the air, this red tinted dirt needs to be blasted by high winds. It gets all over the body and sticks resolutely but, despite its pungent flavor, is somewhat pleasant. It has an earthen, coarse, unbridled quality about it. This is, at least, what I have gathered from Scot’s musings on the matter. Needless to say, it allowed him a greater clarity of thought compared to that while he was in the sterile hospital room.

The horse made another attempt at conjuring up some idea of what had happened to him in the past. Human words flittered through his mind, but equine gestures of communication did so as well. He could picture human actions and objects. He could not, however, discern any reason or motive for them. Nothing of human behavior made sense to him. Why did he possess these memories–these images of a life that was not his own? He was a horse, though, and that was entirely undeniable. He could smell his own scent–his own identity– his name. It made him placid and even gave him a sense of security. He was who he was.

Still, there was this matter of a memory not in accordance with his current existence and life. The period during which the human memories ceased and his current life began was an utter void in his mind. No information of the sort presented itself to him; he could not draw upon a single minute image of that particular time. How then (as he thought) could he possibly know what had happened? How could he even trust that these recollections as another living organism were of his own past?

The reader must note at this point that, had Scot possessed the former reasoning capabilities of a human, the answers to his uncertainties would have been readily apparent. Of course, something had to have occurred in order for him to cease existing as a human being and suddenly become a horse.

All that he could conclude, however, was that in the past he was a human and was, at this specific moment, equine. I inquired once during our many conversations as to why he might simply accept that nothing of any significance occurred during the period in which his memory failed him.

His answer was this: “I do not accept that thought, but I do not accept that anything happened. I cannot accept either. I know what I know, and I think I know what I think I know.”

“But what do you believe?” I asked him with a slight tone of impatience. In our frequent conversations, I attempted to create some semblance of tranquility even when I was agitated by a seemingly irrational remark. It is not always possible for me to maintain a controlled and ordered complexion. I am human, after all, and so am prone to such lapses in restraint. “Can you believe?” I added.

“Believe? Believe is mask. I only think I know.” This last comment of his summed up his power of faith. It is most understandable that a horse, even a horse with superior reasoning, wouldn’t be capable of believing in something as profound or abstract as God. For what purpose, anyway, would a horse need to believe in something that transcends itself? God does not require the faith of animals.

Animals are not good or evil. They do not possess the ability to exceed themselves beyond their concrete existence and so could not possibly be able to contemplate a majestic, mysterious, omnipotent, and omniscient God. These thoughts are only in accordance with what others and I have observed. I apologize for these tangential thoughts. Perhaps, the reader will benefit from them, or maybe he or she will not.

To resume the story, Scot, who’s name I had not granted him yet, decided that the matter wasn’t worth so much time spent on meditation. More pressing on his mind was the fact that he was hungry and dehydrated. This I personally would attribute to the trauma of change itself.

Scot, being a horse and having significantly more mass than a human, must have spent his energy during the period of the virus’ infection of his body. This is why he was famished beyond compare. For him, the hunger was unbearable. Furthermore, there appeared to be no source of nourishment within the premises of the Montana town. All was crimson dirt.

He ventured across deserted roads and trough alleyways, searching for something to abate his insatiable hunger. The dust was worse in the air now; the breeze had increased in strength. Black clouds were moving across the sky at a violent pace. The wind could have, at this moment, been said to be more of a gale, tossing up the coarse powder, which blinded the senses and scorched the throat.

There was now too much of it in the air to have been at all considered pleasant in some way despite its “earthen, unbridled” quality. Buildings disappeared in its wake. Objects lost their substance and dissolved into an ambiguous organism of dust, dirt, and stones. The world ceased to be, and a reddish uniformity became all that was. But still, the horse plodded on–on with some will to survive despite the fact that (as all senses would confirm) the earth had vanished.

Likewise, life in the town had come to a stillness. This, in fact, was not due to the dust storm but was a real and worrisome development. As I found out later from my interview with Dr. Doyle’s colleague, the virus did not discriminate against whom its victims were. All were equal targets in its mind, and so, all were free to suffer equally.

As Scot supposed, all living beings fled out of fear. He felt this same fear within himself–a fear of unnaturalness–a fear of the uncertain duration of their lives–a fear of death. Scot did not know that it was the virus, which terrified him. I would guess, based on this notion, that life in all its forms had evacuated the western town because they sensed something malignant in nature. When a catastrophe occurs, all living organisms are aware of it. Nothing goes unnoticed.

More puzzling was why animals already changed by the virus (ones that were once human) would also possess the same fear of it as the other normal animals. They had already been transformed; what would they have fear from the virus? I did not discover the answer to this until later in this narrative. In fact (as the reader will discover), this fear was a fear of what would happen to the virus further on in this account.

I will not inform the reader of what exactly occurred to the virus to cause it to become so malignant at this particular moment. I will, however, in due course, so the reader must be patient. Alas, I will leave the reader something to ponder. I discovered the virus’ hidden malice from a highly alarming and urgent newsflash.

To return to the story, Scot was far from being out of the water, so to speak. Actually to be more appropriate, he was far from water, and now the throbbing arid heat of the Montana region was beginning to affect him greatly. Its heart pulsated, beating on and on in a perpetual, redundant, wearisome, overpowering, unending, rhythmic figure. At first, the horse did not register how immensely hot the churning dust clouds were, but–as is always true once one is starving and dying of thirst–heat became a much more terrible adversary to contend with.

Wracked by hunger, Scot’s strength was highly diminished. Like most animals, he could sense his imminent death. He felt compelled to find a quiet location where to lie down amidst the chaos of the storm. A brief respite for him seemed so desirable yet so simple. It was something to alleviate his wracked, tormented body. This only proves that death, itself, is not comfortable.

Instead of succumbing to fatigue, however, he continued to plod forward through the dust–delirious yet determined. To rest now would be to drift into death. That tiredness was not a need for sleep, but an impulse to close one’s eyes permanently and not prolong the inevitable. This, of course, would only lengthen the period of suffering. He realized that lying down would mean death, and so he would keep walking–trudging until he collapsed from exhaustion, thirst, or the relentless hammer of the hot dust storm. Only then, would he go to death willingly.

As his pace slowly diminished, he came upon an open door. In reality, he had been standing besides it almost the entire time he had been in the dust storm. Upon entering, he was immediately dismayed. Even with the sudden realization, he was far too weary to turn back and search for another shelter. This was it. He would die, having reentered the medical building from which he had first glimpsed light. His weary eyes was were slowly drawing closed as his last strength–the strength of thought–left him. He had contested against the will of death by not bowing to the dust storm, and now death had come out the victor. There was no chance for survival.

Though this was partially cognitive, it was (as I was informed by him) only what his body believed. In this way, it had fooled his mind into agreeing, for it was indeed his body that desired the peaceful oblivion of death. However resentful, this is what occurs to all living beings whose flame of life is all but spent. If one is to be able to pass on, one must feel a dire obligation. The body provides this obligation. Its whispering promise of a serenity beyond the suffering moments of actually dying allows the mind to finally repose in perpetuity–God’s paradise. At least, this is how I view it. Scot’s mind, however, was not yet ready to be played as a fool by death.

The coolness of the building revitalized the horse’s senses out of a the bewildering affects of heat exhaustion. When he opened his eyes to greater clearness, he realized that the room was not in the same medical facility he had exited before the dust storm. It was all together in a different arrangement. The following is a description that Scot presented me during one of his more articulate moments:

“A long table jutted out from the far end of the wall and bisected the floor into two separate areas. Alongside this oddly oriented table were a series of log shaped objects, which were evenly spaced and placed upright so that they formed a sort of platform. I could see the dust through large panes of glass and besides these panes, were more tables, which were obviously used for discussions as there were chair shaped objects facing each other on opposite sides. Upon the tables sat a pair of two cones. One was white and the other black. Also, there was a small shiny box placed neatly beside the two cones so that they formed something of a face-like shape when viewed from above...” and so forth.

Though I had figured it out to some degree by this description, Scot later recalled and informed me that the human word for the place was “café.” He also apologized for not thinking of it sooner so that the description would have been more vivid and clear.

After Scot had analyzed his surroundings, he recommenced his search for food. He ventured over to one of the tables used for discussions. He overturned the black cone over with his nose and the top came off, spilling its contents over the neatly polished surface. He sniffed the black cone, trying to discern whether it was edible, but immediately recoiled when it scorched his nostrils. He snorted it out and blew a fine mist of powder into the air. Clearly, it was not food.

Once his sense of smell returned after a severe the shock of pepper, he decided to be more cautious when delving into human devices. For this reason, he gave a cautionary sniff of the entire room from a hopefully not so eventful location, equidistant from any human object that might confound his senses. He detected a flitter of water across his wide nostrils. This he followed until he came across a bizarre human object positioned behind the oblong table cutting across the floor.

The horse examined it with uncertainty. He could definitely smell water, there was not question of that, but he had already experienced the effects of tampering with human devices, which were not all that pleasant. Slowly, the device’s function an name floated to the surface of his mind from the depths of his mysterious human memory. The object was a sink, and if he recalled correctly, one of these knobs would cause water to flow from the aching tube. He nuzzled the handle on the right, and a burst of water spewed forth, sprinkling his muzzle and startling him slightly. He drank fiendishly and the crisp liquid revitalized him. His body was young once again, his weariness was beginning to diminish.

It was difficult (as I was informed by Scot) to precisely describe how that drink restored his vitality. His limbs were returned to their former strength and stature, and proudly he stood upon his haunches. Also, his mind, which had burned itself out with the test of willpower felt like it had become as it was before the dust storm–nimble and vivacious. In all aspects, he felt as if he was born again and experiencing the fruits of youthfulness. He was alive.

But he was still hungry. Thus, he explored the building further by crossing a fairly wide threshold adjacent to the oblong table. The room back here was less easy to navigate, and countless obstacles inhibited his path. It was cluttered and chaotic. Various pots, pans, and utensils (“shiny eating and cooking objects”) were tossed haphazardly across the floor–some broken–others dented severely. All looked as if they were suddenly abandoned. A few of the tiles had apparently cracked under the weight of some large animal.

Scot sniffed the air. A wave of excitement rippled through his body. He could smell that others had been here. “Where were they now, though?” he wondered. The horse also smelled food. He navigated through the debris until he happened upon a sack full of nuts and seeds, apparently used in the preparation of some dish. The bag looked as if it had been breeched by an undesired intruder. The top of the container was gnawed open, and some of its contents were scattered along the tiles. It also smelled faintly of like that of an equine. Scot brushed the opening with his muzzle, and rat-sized horse burst from the sack and bolted. As Scot reared his head and neighed in fright at the sudden disturbance, the miniature horse scurried much like a rodent from the room and out of the building.

Scot’s shock quickly subsided as he looked after the terrified animal quizzically, but after a moment, he went back to the food, never giving it another thought until he recounted it for this work. He was about to begin eating, when he detected a new scent–one that sent a tiny shiver of nervousness across his mind.

It was a peculiar and light smell, but now that he had noticed it, the pungency was more apparent. It had a sort of rancid quality about it, but this could not be considered rancid in terms of spoiled foodstuffs. It not quite so horrendously repulsive, but it was repulsive. It also had a tinge of sweetness. Scot proceeded to investigate from whence this peculiar odor was emitted. As he drew closer, however, his nervousness increased as did the rancidness of the scent. His nose detected the odor and transmitted a signal of alarm to his brain–one that suggested he was in extreme peril. His curiosity, however, was immense, and so he proceed forth despite the warning signals.

It wasn’t until he saw the object with his own eyes that his curiosity gave way to terror as he finally realized what the scent was. It was the reek of death that was resent but far enough passed to have fermented into an appalling, yet faintly sweet aroma.

Scot looked upon the corpse, if it could be called such. It was about the size of a rat, but was indistinguishable from anything other than a shapeless, formless blob of puss, blood, and distorted appendages. Parts of it resembled that of the miniature horse he had seen earlier, but it seemed to have been sewed together with those of a rat. This juxtaposition of body parts formed an undefinable creature until the putrid, grotesque mass became simply a gooey puddle of organs, dissolved bones, and extremities thrown together much like a Picasso painting. Scot fled in horror and in fear. Though he did not know it at the time, he was actually fleeing for his life.

When Scot left the building into the outdoors, the wind that had been tossing the dirt was diminished. The dust storm was nearly cleared and the temperature had dropped drastically since earlier.

Scot was still hungry. He hadn’t eaten any of the sack’s contents because he was to distracted by the scent, and later, too afraid to stay in the building. He decided that there should be plenty of grass outside of the town, which he could now access since the dust had settled and his thirst was abated. He walked and did not think as he walked. His only notion was that reaching the edge of the town would mean survival for another day. Thus, he plodded on but not quite so desperately as before.

Once he began to near the borders of the town of Parken, he saw for the first time blades of grass. He continued a little further and then stopped to graze. The grass was dry, but edible. His acute sense of taste told him that it was a decent source of food. It also told him which blades were dead and which were rotting.

Now that he felt satisfied, he dozed lightly but remained ever alert in case of threat. A crack rattled the air, and a heavy shower came down upon the earth. Scot found a small amount of shelter by an overgrown bush, but this proved to only halt the rain slightly. Day turned to night, and the horse shivered as cold droplets fell upon his head. The bush, however, proved to have been more help then expected. It kept the rain off enough so that it did not soak beneath his hair. This would have been disastrous and would have most likely resulted in him becoming sick.

Even with the shelter, he did not sleep at all during the night. He remained ever watchful for he was alone and possessed no herd to watch over him or for him to watch over later when it was their turn to rest. He lay there drenched, cold, lonely, but alive. This was the important thing. He was alive and would be content only with that being known. I asked him as to how he could possibly feel this way with all that had transpired, but his only response was that “to live, one must suffer, not grieve.”

[[Category:Story]] [[Category:Animal]] [[Category:Equine]][[Category:Whiteflame]]

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