Deer adoptables -; hiatus

[Ki-Mono]

how do i get the one up for adopton? i don't see a forum.

oh, nevermind. i just read the thing.
i guess i won't enter then, cuz, i never win this kind of thing...

[Trollestia]

how do i get the one up for adopton? i don't see a forum.

oh, nevermind. i just read the thing.
i guess i won't enter then, cuz, i never win this kind of thing...

It's worth a try, you never know you could win it!:)

[Ki-Mono]

how do i get the one up for adopton? i don't see a forum.

oh, nevermind. i just read the thing.
i guess i won't enter then, cuz, i never win this kind of thing...

It's worth a try, you never know you could win it!:)

no, i don't think so.
everyone says i'm great at making up storys etc, but when it comes to other people liking them, it's alot harder to do.
and also, i can't think of anything right now, and my story are never very long.
i mean, look at this story...

Beautiful. (Salmon is still and will always be my favorite but... I like this deer too).
Okay, this story is written from alternating perspectives, Melinda's (the girl) will be normal, Cornflake's (the deer) will look like this. Now, I'm going to have Melinda starting this, with a bit of background on herself. And then Cornflakes will come into play next. Just a heads up...

* * *
I couldn't be good enough for anyone. Not even in my dreams. It was this downhill battle, except not with anyone else but myself. I was my own worst enemy. I knew my worst secrets, my fears, I knew my every move. I won. Except it wasn't me, it was the other me, like that makes any sense at all. It was the bad me, the one who insisted time after time that I wasn't good enough, pretty enough. Skinny enough. Anorexic enough. I stopped eating, when the pressure to be perfect got to be too much. No one was supposed to find out. But they did.
* * *
I'm not really real. I mean, not truly. I am a statue. In some ways, by how I stand still in the same place each and every single day. 24/7, 365. But I am real in the fact that I think, I have thoughts, I process, I infer. I suppose I am a literature teacher's dream come true. Deep in my brain, I imagine that there is a file cabinet, storing my stories. Most are not exclusively my stories though. They partially belong to someone else, a confidentiality agreement of sorts. For me to know, for them to know, but for no one else to find out. Unless they decide otherwise. I can't decide. My lips are sealed. Literally. I am a statue.
* * *
They are wheeling me into the place, this prison I will stay in. It's supposed to help me. Help me "deal with my issues." I am strong enough to walk, but the nice lady wheeling me in explains liability issues as she helps me into the wheelchair. I see a deer, and I think it is real at first.
"A deer." I murmer.
"Yes," She pauses to glance fondly at the deer, as if she birthed it herself. "It's been here as long as anyone can remember."
"Oh." I wonder how long that has been, but I don't want to ask. My brain will go into overload freak out mode, and will convince me there are ghosts there. But ghosts are not real.
The nice lady frowns, the loose skin at the corners of her lips pulled down. "The paint has peeled though."
"She's still beautiful." I consider this, rolling around in my head the forbidden thoughts of food. "She looks a bit like a bowl of cornflakes."
The nice lady laughs at my observation. Not a nice laugh, really. Maybe she isn't so nice after all. Once again, I am reminded that nothing is ever what it seems.
* * *
The girl is wheeled in. Typical. She is pretty, but unnaturally skinny, gaunt even. I can see all the tendons in her neck easily, her skin is pulled far too tight around her face. Anorexia. After a century of seeing people admitted to this place, I can name their problem right off the bat. She sees me, and has a conversation with her nurse, a lady who has been working here the past 40 years. One thing naggles me, in the back of my mind. Why would an anorexic girl be thinking of cornflakes? And is my paint really peeling that badly? But, I can tell already she will be needing a reassurance, needing some help to get her out of here, needing help to get her life back. She will be needing me.
* * *
The deer was so beautiful. So captivating. Almost magical. Except for the small fact that magic does not exist, or else I wouldn't be here. But other than that, it is perfect. So... it makes perfect sense that I sneak out there in the middle of the night, to Cornflakes. I reach where she is, without setting off any alarms. I find that slightly strange, but I'm for some unknown reason so giddy it doesn't matter. I reach her, and stroke her face, notice the paint's peels, but I think she's beautiful anyways. Her black eyes are sharp, all-knowing. She almost seems real.
Then it hits me like a train. Memories flood my mind, and I almost yank my hand away from the deer in shock, but I can't. I'm frozen in time, remembering the good times. It's not from my point of view, but from an outsider's. Me as a child, riding a bike up the driveway. When I fall and ruby red blood trickles out of my knee, Mom comes to me, kisses it, and makes it all better. Me, just when I decided to stop eating. I look fine, healthy. I couldn't see it them. Me, when they found me. Me, now. Me, then. Back and forth.
"Just stop already!" I cry. "I get it! I shouldn't have done it! I'll stop."
And? A voice in my mind questions. It isn't my voice. Melinda, you think I'm beautiful despite my peeling paint, you can see past that. What do I think of you?
"You think I'm stupid to have done that." I say cautiously.
What else, Melinda?
"I don't know." I mutter.
I think you're beautiful. Just the way you were. You didn't need to change. Melinda, it's what's on the inside that counts the most. You're beautiful, inside and out.
And then the voice leaves me, and I'm standing in the middle of the lawn, and Cornflakes has not moved. But I start to believe her.
* * *
My last quest. I was to help one hundred people. Melinda was the last. She will be fine. She will get better, be better, and embrace what I told her. Because of this, I could leave now, escape this prison. Go to heaven. Or I could stay. Help some more. It is entirely my choice. Maybe it is not a prison. I have changed, and saved, too many people's lives to stop now. I stay up with them all night, because I know how to save a life.
*~*THE END*~*


M'kay, now for my explaination. This is about an anorexic girl, named Melinda. I chose this topic, because to me, that deer looks like a bowl of cereal. So I wanted to write a bit about that, anorexia... not cereal, and I also wanted that deer, Cornflakes, to help Melinda see that she really was beautiful just was. When I was writing as Cornflakes, I was writing from my own experiences because it kills me to see people I know battle that, and they can't see they're fine the way they are. And with Melinda, again, my own experiences, because that's normally the type of stuff I say to myself. Okay, I'll shutup now. Sorry if this is really horrible...

i could never do something that long! or that good at the matter

[Flicka]

agreed. The only time i was able to pull a story out of the blue that long was when i wrote that story for the afri-dog event.

[Ki-Mono]

agreed. The only time i was able to pull a story out of the blue that long was when i wrote that story for the afri-dog event.

yeah. i can sometimes blow myself away, but... i'm just not feeling it.

[Flicka]

Well goodluck guys, may the best "hunter" capture the deer!

[astrocompass]

It was dark, though not in an all unpleasant way. It was dark, but it was warm; in a seemingly impossible way. Snow fell thickly outside the window, painting the landscape of winter-bare trees with hues of the starkest white. Each counter was washed, and every carpet vacuumed the whole of the house prepared for the end of the winter holiday, and the return to a monotonous cycle. Every decoration had been carefully wrapped up and stored away, and the pile of brightly colored boxes of ornaments stood sentry beside the attic door with every decoration tucked inside. Well, almost every decoration that is. A miniature herd a deer stood scattered across the pristine carpets, the youngest child of the home loved them so each one different and painted with unique markings. Except for one, always an exception.

The year was 1939, and the light standing on the edge of the worktable gave feeble sputter every minute or so. A woman, pale as the snow that flurried outside was working, her hands creating lines that even the youngest of fingers may not have recreated. Each stroke done with careful and certain movements. Each object upon the desk told her story, A black and white photo of a young man in military clothing, then a simple jar beside the photo with lines so smooth and crisp marred only by the fingerprints and the tell tale sign that it had been hand made with a great care, six figures stood off to the side of the table, each adorned with a different shade of tawny along their slender and glossy bodies. Miniature deer, presents for her youngest godchild a little girl just born as the twelfth month began. It was so silent, so blissfully silent as the old woman worked the paint across the doe resting in her palm. The grandfather clock chimes eleven somewhere off in the catacombs of this empty house, at the second chime the woman looks up from her work her eyes slightly clouded but filled with that unmistakeable spark of life. She moves to get up at the fourth chime, the movement taxing on a frail body so ravaged by time. Then it strikes on the fifth chime, a pain just as precise as her painting, she doubles over the air never quite reaching her lungs with every rasping breath. A weathered hand grips the table for support. Six chimes, then slides across it as she losses her grip spilling white paint across the surface of her work, the photo, the jar, the lamp, even the little doe her hands had just completed moments prior. Seven. Eight chimes. She can feel it leaving her, the fire from her body the pain from her chest. It's leaving her bleak and numb as the lights fade from her eyes. Nine. Ten chimes as her body hit's the floor knocking what little air that was in her lungs from her throat. She blinks once, the photo on the desk still visible and the young man's face unmarred by the onslaught of white paint. It's that moment when she lets go, a wry smile breaking the glass of her aged face. Eleven chimes, and then it falls silent the last chime ringing out in a resounding echo before it fades. Fades into silence, it was so blissfully silent.

This story would never reach the little girl's ears, not until she was much older, much wiser for the wear. So each of the seven deer stood there scattered across the pristine carpets, their coats each a shade of tawny except for one doe. Her coat was laced with white paint, obscuring the majority of her tawny body in it's bleak contrast.

Ding rings the grandfather clock that stood aged in the corner of the room, the first chime of eleven and slowly as a budding flower they began to breathe. Miniature chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as if to an ancient feral drum. The second chime rings out and they begin to blink, great glossy black orbs opening wide into that warm darkness. Third and Fourth follow as they begin to stretch their legs, and each white backed tail gives a wave. Five and dainty hooves prance in place, only the boldest leaving their place on the carpet with great bounding leaps. Six. Seven and they move off in a wave, the two antlered stags bellowing into the hushed and warm air as the five doe followed behind their strides mirroring dancers to a great ball filled with silent music. Eight and they've bounded up to the window sill, inquisitive black eyes watching each fleck of snow as it caresses the ground. The night so much like that of their birth. Nine and the stags burst through, their lithe bodies simply melting through the glass as their leaps carry them out into the chilly winter night. Ten, and the does follow suit that silent music following them out until all but one remains. That doe, bathed in swathes of white across her flank, her eyes follow the lines of the home each shape a pattern etched deep into her memory. Them she sports something, that little girl on the bottom of the stairs her tattered teddy bear clutched in one tiny hand but she doesn't seem to notice that the other deer have gone for her eyes are glued to only the splashed deer. She smiles, the dimples in her cheeks deepening with the movement and she raises her hand waving it in exaggerated arcs. Her squeak of a voice drowned out by the eleventh chime. "Bye doe." Then she's gone, the doe as she leaps through the window after her brethren into the chilly night as the echo the clock fades away, and It grows silent, so blissfully silent in that house so warm in the dark.

[Temperance.]

║Furtună║Doe║Queen of Storms║

Sunlight peered its head over the horizon, slowly, hesitantly, as though anxious that the regal doe who stood on a high hillock might disapprove of its shining. For her part the doe did look slightly irately at the sun, it wasn't her area of specialty after all. Furtună was her name, the Romanian word for storm, and it suited her well, she was the Queen of Storms after all, a highly coveted title and no easy position. Flicking a glance over her shoulder the graceful doe dipped her head to the handsome stag who approached, "Greetings Romulus, how do you fare?" She queried in a smooth, cool, voice. Romulus was the Lord of Volcanoes, a minor job but it still placed him above the mundane deer who wandered the earth with boring colours and a love for nothing but eating grass. Furtună supposed they made a handsome match but she knew full well that he had his eyes on Whisper, an unusual doe in that she possessed no high position and yet still commanded much power, she had the ability to see when another creature was near death. However that was all of little concern to Furtună, she felt it was all beneath her, not to say that she was stuck up but....Furtună tried not to concern herself with the events of deer with lower positions it only ever ended in her getting hurt so why bother? She finally registered that Romulus was looking expectantly at her, wincing at her own rudeness she shook her head slightly, "Sorry Romulus, my mind was elsewhere, what did you say?" she murmured softly, turning her expressive dark eyes to look into his red ones.

"Ah it wasn't anything really important, I only said that I'm doing well but a bit anxious about this storm you're bringing on. Don't you think its a bit early?" there was no reproach in his eyes, only a gentle concern but Furtună bristled anyways. Who was he, naught but a lowly lord, to question the queen of storms? Still, she knew there was truth in what he said, yet only when she was immersed in the creation of a storm could she forget the pain of betrayal and loss.....and so each year the storms were more violent and came earlier then the previous year. A prick of guilt hit her conscious, she knew the deer dreaded her storms and many were wounded, injured, or died in the wake of her vicious winds or flooding rains....and yet....she couldn't bring herself to stop. If she did the pain would return and she didn't believe that she could endure that. No longer able to meet Romulus's eyes she looked past him at the nervous sun instead.

"That may be true but there is nothing I can do about it." she said quietly, her mind kept flashing back to that day....the day Umbră ripped her heart out, stomped on it, and ran off into the sunset....literally. Squeezing her eyes shut Furtună forced the bitter memories out of her head and focused instead on the sky above her. Soon. Soon she would be able to throw herself whole-heartedly into the creation of the Great Storm and forget everything. Romulus took that moment to shake his head and nudge her shoulder gently with his nose.

"Furtună, you need to let Umbră go. You can't let him rule the rest of your life like you have been. Just let him go, move on!" there was an undeniable earnestness in Romulus's voice but all that Furtună could think of was the dark body of Umbră walking away...with another doe. How was she supposed to let him go? The only stag she had ever loved...Stamping a hoof she shook her head, no, she'd never be able to let him go, she COULDN'T, why didn't Romulus understand that? And yet, a small voice deep within her whispered the truth No Furtună, you REFUSE to let him go. not wanting to think about that, and refusing to believe it she glared at the stag beside her.

"Its time you go. The time of the storm has arrived." she said icily, Romulus looked unhappy but he did nothing but dip his head and turn abruptly to leave. For a moment Furtună almost felt like calling him back but her pride wouldn't allow that. Instead she let out a soft breath and let her mind focus on the sky.

══════════════════

Particles of water sat like twinkling stars within the air, hanging like crystalline icicles just waiting to be called upon. Among them weaved the gentle breeze, hiding its great potential beneath a mass of of forced calmness. The ocean itself sat still, placid and moody, eager to release the pent up energy it had been holding in, while the mighty thunder and lightning snoozed uneasily as they too waited for the moment of freedom. Thats what storms are you see, the moments of release and freedom where you can revel in the true nature and might of the earth, unfettered and free. A beast in and of itself that is both terrifying and beautiful. The creation of storms, one would expect, should be a violent and abrasive thing. Yet in truth it was a song, the weaving of the elements together, combining in their natural ways and threaded together by the song of wind and the melody of rain. This was what Furtună did, she sang the song that knit the storm together, created it through the most haunting of melodies and then stood amongst the storm, both in and of the mighty tempest, as it raged its wrath and reveled in its freedom among the poor souls upon the ground. And so it was. This time like all the others Furtună closed her eyes and began to sing, the words that bubbled up both a part of the language of the Herla mixed with the language of the Storms. An ability she had had since birth, the way she could speak to the individual particles of rain and whisper with the winds. This particular storm was already beginning to swirl chaotically around her, as she began to sing in a lilting, chanting voice. Winds began to roar, thunder cracked, lightning flashed, and the ocean pummeled the earth violently and still her song rose in tempo and intensity. All through the night and well into the next day she sang, sang until her voice ran dry and she could sing no more. And then, and ONLY then, did the storm begin to die down.

══════════════════

Furtună raised her head wearily, the beautiful doe couldn't remember the last time she had ever fueled such a violent storm. It was terrifying and empowering all at the same time. Yet something had changed this time, for the first time the storm had sung back to her. Speaking of kindred spirits and kind souls, but most of all it had spoken of forgiveness and letting go. A beam of golden sun suddenly rested on her head and with it a whisper of peace. Romulus had been right, she had held onto her feelings and grief over Umbră's desertion of her for too long. She was letting him win if she allowed her old feelings to ruin any future she might have. With that thought in her mind Furtună closed her eyes and turned her gaze inwards, searching around until she found a darkness within her, like a belligerent cloud that refused to let in the sun. Taking in a deep breath she softly began to sing the song of storms, yet this time it was reversed, a banishing song of sorts. Like a dark funnel the blackness within her began to spin until it was abruptly sucked out, allowing, for the first time in years, her heart to greet the glowing warmth of the morning sun. And as Furtună watched the dark cloud that had been expelled from within her rose into the light and was obliterated. She was finally free, and in that moment Furtună truly knew the joy of a storm, freest when letting their true selves show. Something she hadn't done since before the dark stag had met her. And with that thought the dainty doe turned and began to walk towards the meadow, leaving behind the darkness of her past to embrace a new and happier future.

[Hmmm well, not my best work but I really loved the story behind it and how Furtună created the storms. For the record herla refers to the common language of all herbivorous creatures and the name Umbră means shadow. Hope you enjoyed reading this, had a lot of fun writing it out ^-^ Good luck to everyone who tried/tries out for this doe!]

[ɾïṿεṉḋεll]

((Wow, that's good. Dang, I don't think I'll win this time, you're all whuping me! XD))

[-Firesong-]

((Wow, that's good. Dang, I don't think I'll win this time, you're all whuping me! XD))

Haha same. I've been stalking this thread anyways though.