[eli sunday]

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[Wileyfangs]

Username: Wileyfangs
Good Name: Jhavani
Pet Name: Trisha
Gender: Heifer
Prompt:

"It is a different world," Trisha murmured to the other cows that settled around her. She eyes them, finding them to be strange enough in her eyes, but a cow is still a cow and after the journey she has had to get here, she is thankful enough for their attention to her strangeness or not. These dairy cows are nothing how she is, and she is reminded of that fact by their awe and fear of her now that shadows across their eyes. They are young, whereas she is older than seemingly time itself. It has been too long to tell anymore, but she remembers with the clarity of a fresh spring the way the world changed and stopped. The way her own did.

"Where I came from, the land is lush and wild, the grasses grow that way and cows like I grow old. And older still."


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When she was born, the air was bustling with the sound of millions, the voices inter-lapping and changing, but no sound could ever have been sweeter than that of the water that babbled and ran with the rush like a winding rope down through the land that stretched seemingly forever. The first sight she had was that of the sky, orange and red while jungle leaves framed them as the world turned around and she felt the warm breath of her mother's muzzle against her own.

She cannot understand the voices, cannot understand this new world she is now in, but she can understand the quiet warmth and closeness of her mother's voice though she does not know her words. Not yet, a little voice inside says as her mother nudges her to shaky hooves and a shivering body. Mastering her steps is not an easy task, but she manages it, though she nearly slips and stumbles. Gravity, she is learning, is not yet kind.

But as far as she can see, the world is warm and orange and her mother is there and she decides her mother will be her world for now as she feels the warm sigh and gentle murmurs against her.

Praises to the River she would have her good name from whilst the herd closed in closer to meet their newest addition.

wip wip

[skip]

Mark

[vanilla bean.]

Username: vanilla bean.

Name: warble (v.) to sing softly and with a succession of constantly changing notes.

Gender: heifer

Prompt: wind chimes, twittering birds, a carefully spun pottery wheel, soft humming, warm sun on your back, knowing you are loved

these delicate pleasantries mean the world to warble, and remind her to stay soft, even if she becomes afraid. Please tread carefully, for trust does not come easily to this one.

Gentle hands spun the lump of clay expertly. They were frail, but worked with a purpose, having done this many times before. Honeybees, dizzy from the heat, buzzed lazily around the window. Despite the temperature, Adelaide was focused on the mug she was working on, thin lips pressed into a line. Brow furrowed in concentration, she didn't even realize the tune she was softly humming. Adelaide had lived at Mulberry Meadows her whole life, and had always been a very down to earth and sturdy woman. But as lovely as she is, this tale is not about Adelaide, but her bovine companion, Warble.

Though no longer a spring chicken, Warble was not quite as elderly as her dear human friend. If you were to describe Warble, it would sound something like this- grey, wrinkly, soft and drooping features. One could easily assume she was geriatric, but looks can be quite deceiving, as she is only about halfway through her life. Unlike most of the other resident cattle at Mulberry Meadows, Warble is not very fond of humans. All humans ever did was poke and prod her, and force her places she did not want to go. Perhaps this was an over-generalization from her past, for Mulberry Meadows treated her kindly, but regardless, she felt how she felt.

Visitors would see her in the fields and call to her, offer treats and love, anything to pique her interest. She could hear them just fine, but instead of going over to greet them, she'd lumber off in the other direction, heading for a more isolated part of the field. I's times like these when she'd go to spend time with Adelaide. Though human, Adelaide was patient, and had given Warble the space she needed to find trust in her. She'd never brag about it, but it had never been done by anyone else she knew of.

The two were both relatively solitary, but could always find peace in one another. Be it spinning pottery, knitting, or just hanging laundry to dry, Warble would somehow know Adelaide was out, and come to spend time with her favorite person. Even the other cows were no match for Adelaide's company. As often as Juniper asked about Warble's day, Warble would respond with a dismissive flick of her tail, and often head off to graze elsewhere. It's not that Warble disliked the other cows, they were lovely! But none of them provided that safe comforting feeling that Adelaide did. She knew that she would be safe with her, no matter what the circumstances.

494 words including haiku

[cece.]

dropping ~
good luck!

[Synerie]

Username: dysania.
Name: Tazanna
Gender: Heifer
Prompt:

lets see ,,

[BadgerBuddies]

Sunday
BadgerBuddies ♥︎ Heifer
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It was hard to breathe. It was humid, and the oppressive smell of ammonia hung heavy in the air. Sunday and her younger sister Monday were laying in the corner, huddled together, regardless of the brutal temperatures. They were baking inside their cramped shed. Suddenly, the door kicks in and the two sisters are blinded by the intense sunlight now bursting in.

The pair springs to their feet, startled. Their own manure was piled high, reaching halfway up their legs. Sunday gasps as she stands, her terribly overgrown hooves putting her in a world of pain. “What’s happening?” Monday whispers to her elder sister, already attempting to choke back tears. Sunday was too petrified to even reply.

Suddenly, lassos began flying into the shed. The sisters tried scattering, but there was no where to go. Monday slid on the manure under her feet as she tried to flee, and the lasso tightened around her neck. She bellowed out, her call booming and echoing her fear through the shed. Despite her fears, Sunday charges through the shed to follow her sister as she’s dragged out by the rope around her neck. Strangers with large boards corralled the loose heifer onto a trailer and eventually dragged Monday on board. The sisters returned to huddling together in fear as the trailer rumbled away from their squalid shed.

After a long while, the trailer rolls to a stop, and the doors were open again. The strange people who had extracted them from their home were there, speaking soothingly to the cows. The sisters were too exhausted to run anymore. The humans were able to come right up to them with a weird object, and suddenly each heifer felt a pinch. Shortly after, everything went black.

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Sunday’s eyes flutter open as light replaces the inky darkness of her slumber. She yawns, feeling groggy, and stretches out. She looks around, completely unfamiliar with her surroundings. The sun was shining, warming her back, and a pleasent breeze ruffled her fur. She notices Monday across a grassy field, sleeping peacefully. Sunday rises to head over to be near her, but she notices something strange. Her feet no longer ache, and her overgrown hooves were at the best length they had been in ages. Her legs were also clean, no longer caked in her own manure. Sunday felt... good, for once. She happily curls up next to Monday, comfortably napping for the first time in a long while.

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It wasn’t long before the sisters were loaded back onto that trailer that had brought them to this safe haven. They weren’t sure where they were heading this time, but they both had quickly grown to trust the people here. They trusted that wherever they were going would be alright.

The trailer let them out in a spacious green field. There were many other fields, but no other cows to be found, only horses. The two heifers shrug, and step out into their new home.

This land was owned by a very kind husband and wife, whose main mission in life was to provide children who were differently abled with therapeutic horseback riding lessons. However, they often got carried away, taking in rescue animals when they had no where else to go. Besides the two heifers, there was a flock of ducks, once reclusive stray cats that were now friendly barn cats, and one mischievous pot bellied pig.

Most of the horses here were not rescues like Sunday and Monday. They were seasoned veterans at their jobs, and were brought here in their retirement as calm and level headed companions, suitable for this type of program. Monday never took much interest in what the humans around them were doing, but Sunday did. She would try to ask Monday what she thought, but her sister would always brush her off.

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Sunday watches from the fence line as she sees a grey mare carrying a child towards the forest. There were two humans on either side, holding them in the saddle. Another human was at the head of the mare, leading her along. One last human, the husband that took Sunday and Monday in, was also there, engaging with the child and playing games with them. The heifer was confused, this wasn’t what horse riding was supposed to be like, right? Of course, Monday had no answers for the many questions buzzing inside of Sunday’s head.

The sun was setting on another beautiful day. The flow of horses and their children, plus all of the other human helpers, had subsided until tomorrow. Before heading home, the humans got all of the animals their dinners, and turn out the horses for the night. The heifers share a fence line with the grey horse that Sunday had seen earlier, and she decided that she was going to ask the mare her questions rather than her sister.

“Hi! I’m Sunday!” she greets. “I saw you earlier carrying a small child. What were you guys doing?”

The elderly mare chuckles, smiling at the heifer. “Hello Sunday. I’m Moon. Pleasure to meet you.” She pauses for a moment. “Well deary, this place is a therapeutic horsemanship center. We provide lessons for children who normally would not be able to ride. Not to mention, we provide them with comfort, and a safe atmosphere to be themselves and feel happy.” Moon had a humbly proud smile. The work she did wasn’t always easy, but she wouldn’t trade her role for anything.

“How do I get to be apart of it? I want to help!” Sunday says, her ears perking upwards. The mare chuckles softly, shaking her head. “Oh hun, I’m not sure they’ll welcome a cow into the program. After all, it is a therapeutic horsemanship program, not cowmanship.” Sunday’s ears droop down, the excitement draining away. “Now dear, don’t give me such a long face. If you work hard enough, maybe you can do it! Never sleep on your dreams.”

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Monday jumps awake from the duo’s usual mid afternoon nap. “I can’t sleep” Sunday confesses. “This is something that I need to do, and I need your help.” Sunday shares her plan with her sister, and Monday agrees, hoping the quicker this was over the quicker she could get some sleep.

The sisters break out of their field as calmly as possible. Sunday knows there’s a secondary barn with old supplies and saddles. The people rarely go into that barn. The pair sneak inside, Sunday having Monday place the riding equipment on her as precisely as a cow can. Once she was ready, Monday returns to their field while Sunday continues on with her plan solo.

She spots a small boy, hand in hand with his father, walking through the parking lot and towards the barn. She gently moos and the boy excitedly points at her, attempting to drag his father along with him. The father smiles, taking his son over to see the funny looking cow wearing a saddle.

Sunday lowers her head to the boys eye level. It’s apparent to her the he isn’t able to speak, but that’s alright. He was still adorable and funny. She sticks her long tongue out to give him a kiss, and he starts to giggle uncontrollably. He begins to motion with his arms “up”, asking his father to go up and into the saddle. His father shrugs, and straps his helmet on. He raises him up onto Sunday’s back, and Sunday just stands calmly as the boy pets her neck.

It was then that the people in the barn notice a cow that was not supposed to be out that also had a child on her back. They wanted to be upset or worried, but all they could do was smile and laugh. They joked about how they might have a new addition on their hands, and Sunday was hopeful. Thankfully for the unusual looking heifer, she would be getting the chance to train and participate in the program.

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Sunday had passed her training easily, and she was now apart of the program, thanks to the most understanding group of humans. Not only did they give her and her sister a second chance at life, they gave the Brahman heifer a higher purpose. Sunday was a set of eyes for those who could not see. A pair of ears for those who could not hear. For those who could not speak, she was the only one who could still understand. She had four legs to carry her small friends who could not use their own two. She was lending her body to those who were unable to use their own, and she felt good about it. The warmest feeling in her heart had been planted, and only grew with every outing she took with her kids, their smiles and laughs telling her all she needed to know. She had started in such a low place, but now, she had found her true purpose.

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[Kassypen]

kassypen | maeve | heifer

Maeve's hands shook as she read the letter. Each perfect word felt like a small attack on her heart. The sentences were strung together in the same beautiful cursive that Grandma Blue used to speak in. Her voice, although soft and gentle, could carry across an entire crowd. She'd speak like she expected something from you, even if she was simply asking you to go to the grocery store. You'd feel the need to drop what you were doing right then and there to do whatever she asked. Her voice was truly that powerful.

But now the only time Maeve could hear her sweet grandmother's voice was in old family movies, and this letter. Her eyes returned to the old piece of paper sitting in her hands. If she closed her eyes she could hear the older woman sitting on her front porch, reading the letter to herself with tearful eyes. She'd have hum while she wrote it, Maeve was sure. You barely ever caught Grandma Blue not humming some sort of candy store tune. Her favorite was the Beatles. "Hey Jude" was a Sunday pancake breakfast classic.

A tear rolled, burning as it went, down Maeve’s cheek. She could picture herself as a young child, standing on a wooden stool and mixing the batter as her beloved Grandmother sang. Her apron would have been white, with all of her grandchildren’s handprints stamped up the front. As she twirled, her beautiful gray hair would fall from its perch high on her head. Despite how many pieces fell, Grandma Blue always found enough room to tuck them behind her ears. Instinctively, Maeve did the same. Her own hair dyed a silvery gray, a tribute.

The taxi driver woke her from her thoughts when he spoke, “Ma’am, I knew your Grandma well. She always baked my family blueberry pies to bring to church when my ma was too sick to do it herself. We never missed a Sunday thanks to her. I hope she knew how much I appreciated it. My ma never looked so proud as when she carried those pies and set them on the table. And she never told anyone she hadn’t baked them herself.” He chuckled to himself before continuing, “It was your Gran’s idea, she was always so witty.”

Looking into the mirror and seeing tears dripping down Maeve’s face he added, “Uh… anyways, tell your folks hello for me and my family. We miss them down here but understand why they left. But everyone is glad you are moving back into our little town. When we heard she had left the farm to you we were all overjoyed. If she’d entrusted it to anyone else I’m sure there’d be a ‘For Sale’ sign sticking out of a blueberry bush.” His voice drifted off as he focused on the road again.

In the corner of the car was his registration. Hollis Vanderbury. Maeve didn’t know the family well but Mrs. Vanderbury had been a good friend of her grandma’s. She wasn’t surprised in the slightest that the family had gotten pies every Sunday. It was exactly the kind of thing her gran would have done. The farm also had an infinite supply of the berries. It was a blueberry farm after all. The technical name was “Brook Haven Blueberries,” but everyone just called it “Miss Blue’s.”

Thinking about the story again, Maeve blinked her tears back and forced out a smile. She was getting the farm. She then looked down at the letter and reread the sentence confirming it.



It was then that the taxi crested the hill and the Brook Haven Farm sign could be seen hanging from two rotting posts. It was beautiful. Large, blossoming trees lined the white gravel driveway. Two main pastures in the front were bursting with luscious, green grass. A couple gray sheep dotted the landscape, letting out baas of nervous greetings. A fawn and its mother were eating in the corner of the field, and quickly jumped into the forest at the sound of the approaching car.

Meave carefully folded her beloved letter and put it back inside the worn envelope. It was then that they reached the end of the driveway. Ahead of the girl was her grandmother’s house. The house she spent endless summers in, the house she invited her friends over too, claiming it as her own, the house she loved with every ounce of her being.

She felt as if she was outside her body when Hollis parked. It wasn’t her who gave him his money and helped him get her things out of the trunk. It wasn’t her who gave him a hug before he left, and then waved a cheerful goodbye as he drove away. No, it couldn’t have been her. She wasn’t smiling, she felt as though she would never smile again. Her heart was broken, her breath was stopped. It was as if she could feel chips and shards of herself falling away and drifting off into the wind. She could never be whole again. No one could possibly find all of her pieces. There, one was in a tree. Another, stuck in the wool of a newborn sheep. She saw herself all over this landscape.

No, she couldn’t stay here. She had to get away. She’d say she had gotten sick, had been bitten by a wolf that was attacking the sheep, anything, she just had to go. But when she turned, Hollis and his bright yellow taxi were gone, their tracks already disappearing as the gravel shifted back into place. Maeve dropped to the ground. Large sobs wracked her body.

She’d always wondered when she’d truly break down over her grandmother’s death. So far she’d only experienced silent, burning tears. Days, weeks, even the funeral went by and nothing. She shouldn’t have been surprised it was the sight of the house that broke her. It was the one thing she hadn’t spoken about since the passing. Yet, sitting there, it all felt wrong. Like she was being selfish for crying. She was taking a personal moment for herself, when Grandma Blue didn’t get any more.

As the tears continued to flow, Maeve felt the need to hear her Gran’s voice again. She pulled the envelope out of her back pocket and took the letter out. But as she did so a small slip of folded paper she hadn’t noticed before dropped as well. Her hand shook as she reached to pick it up from the ground. The corner was ripped and there was a small coffee stain in the center. The paper was clearly old and thin. It looked as if you could rip it apart with barely any force at all.

Opening it carefully, Maeve could feel her tears dry. The date in the top right read, The date didn’t mean anything to her but it must’ve been important to her grandmother. She brought her eyes further down the small page and was greeted once again by the cursive handwriting she knew so well. It was a poem.













After reading it the meaning of the date formed like a cloud in the back of Maeve’s mind. 1958 was the year her grandfather died in the Vietnam War. She had never met the man, he had passed while Grandma Blue was pregnant with her mother. All she knew about him was that his name was Charles Edward Banter III and it was said he had the most infectious laugh out of anyone. Finally, it all made sense.

The house had been Grandpa Cheech’s, as he was still lovingly referred too, final gift to her gran. He had wanted them to raise a family there together. That is why the house meant so much, why she refused to ever move. It was because it was her greatest connection to her beloved. She put the poem she wrote to him in the envelope because she wanted Maeve to know. It was too hard to talk about in life, so she told her family in death.

Maeve put both the slip of paper and the letter back in her pocket before standing, eyes wet. She then walked onto the creaky front porch and into the house, her heart full.

{1445 words}

[bluex]

──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

❝𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞❞
── (𝚗.) 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝; “𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜”

──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦: 𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦: 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘹
𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳: 𝘧𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦
𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵:

»»────────────────────>

I sometimes wish I could remember what it was like to feel grass for the first time, springing beneath my feet and curling around my tiny toes. I wish I could remember the first time I rode a horse, the first time I could read the words sprawled across a page, the first time I heard the rain. I used to wake at night, fearful of the thunder booming across the sky. I remember curling up under my nan’s arm, counting the lightning strikes and watching the rain as it hit the glass. The sound of the rain drumming on a tin roof is still the only lullaby that’ll get me to sleep when I’m restless. I’m still in the enchanting years of my youth, but my firsts are coming to an end. I still get that nostalgic cloud in my mind when I watch the cold air fog up the glass and see bolts dancing across the sky. I think you can safely say you’re reaching the end of your firsts when everything gives you that little cloud.

I have such fond memories floating around in my mind, and it always makes me daydream when another floats to the forefront. Whether it’s laughing and smiling with my great grandfather or watching my little thoroughbred foal gallop through the clover, I always seem to ascend into what can only be described as a timeline, a memory bank if you will. My memory has always been confusing. I never seem to remember anything important, or recent. I can’t remember what happened in biology today, nor a single math formula. I can’t even remember my best friend’s birthday most of the time. Despite this, I remember my mum’s favourite flower, the turquoise pencil I treasured in 2nd grade, and hollering the lyrics to Dancing Queen out of a car window at midnight. I envy those that can remember the logarithm laws, or how pH affects the function of enzymes, but I will forever treasure my little childish bubble.

I guess the reason why I’m so attached to my little astral plane is that it comforts me to have something so familiar to cling to. A fear of change is both a rational and irrational one, but regardless, things are changing all the time, and things that aren’t are subjected to inevitable change in the future. Recalling times from my childhood, or being told tales of my mischief by my family is quite a relaxing distraction from the bustle of life. I think that being able to stay connected to the chubby face of your 5-year-old self is rather grounding. Though I’ll never know that ignorant bliss again, it’s rather motivating to think about all the things you promised yourself to do as a kid. I remember swearing that one day, I’d write a novel, I’d become a mermaid, I’d own a horse of my own, and that I’d live in a big blue house with a slide from the top floor. Though I’ll never really have a sweet white unicorn named Winter strolling through my house, most of my goals were and still are completely plausible. I am eternally grateful to my younger self for her intolerable personality and her endless imagination - without her, I wouldn’t have coped with nearly this much change.

Youth is one of, if not the, most beautiful and ethereal parts of life. Though I’m unfamiliar with the exact childhood memories an American child or a European kid would experience, I think that no matter where you are in the world, that every kid should have the opportunity to roll down a hill, build a sandcastle, and feel the stickiness of a melted popsicle on their chin. I love to hear the stories of how people grew up, or even just the little things like their favourite childhood snack or the colour of their first home’s walls. The soft, silvery tone of people’s voices, the gentle pull on the corners of their lips, the visible lift in their chest from their swelling heart - all while recalling the fond times of the past.

Why this Buttermilk inspired me to sprawl all of my nostalgia onto a message board is beyond me. Maybe it’s the softened stare, or the tones of grey similar to that of a stormy sky. It could have been her uniqueness, with her rare trait reminding me of how different everyone is, or rather how similar in a sense. Whatever the reason, it’s instilled an urge to pour my emotions out on a computer screen. I feel connected to her through this feeling of nostalgia - this feeling of saudade.

»»────────────────────>

Pondering, she begins to walk along the edge of her mind, tracing her gaze across her memories of home. Her heart drips in gold, heavy with hiraeth, feeling her youth slip away. Her face molds into a sad smile, her nose wrinkling as she holds back the tears welling up in her clouded eyes. The flowers, painted in the colours of the sunset on her birthday, the colour of her father’s eyes and the pine trees lining the beach, had started to uproot. Their petals falling, her memory fading. She reaches out for the soft blue haze of her father’s wide, calming eyes, vision blurring as her own start to overflow.

She blinks, and she’s left alone in a field, her pelt reflecting the setting sun’s golden rays. She turns her head in the direction of the rising moon and stares at the purple sky, waiting for the sky to unfold into a blanket of white stars. She sighs, lying down and settling her head on the grass. Her grey eyes glow yellow as she watches the sky melt into the night.

Saudade’s fragile heart throbs with yearning, her eyes blinded by longing, and her mind swims in the memories she so desperately grasps. She can almost smell the pine on the wind, feel the sea breeze on her nose, feel gravel crushing beneath her hooves. Her gaze searches endlessly past the landscape, reaching over the hilltops and climbing past the trees, beyond the line of the glowing horizon. She breathes in the still air and feels the cold sink into her lungs. She waits for tomorrow, but wants to wake up yesterday.

[1072/1500]

[ p.s, even if i don’t win (the writing ability of the people in this community floors me), i wanted to thank you for this creative outlet. a semi-rant is always good for the soul x ]

[chromatic.]

mark