The Summer of No-Rain. (wild horse adventure)

[align=center][fancypost bgcolor=#000; background:url(https://31.media.tumblr.com/08…vh3oaDnU1s0zjalo1_500.jpg); width: 400px; height: 260px; bordercolor=#FFFFFF; borderwidth=1px; ][align=center][fancypost bgcolor=#FFFFFF; opacity: 0.75; bordercolor=#FFFFFF; borderwidth=1px; width: 330px; overflow: auto; height: 180px; text-align: center; font: 10px georgia; color: #000000; padding: 6px; margin-bottom: 15px; ] [align=center]CHAPTER ONE
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The humidity in the air steals the oxygen from my lungs. Each breathe in is long and drawn out, trying to suck in as much clean air as possible. My large lungs are heaving, rolling, trying so desperately to breath but it is a constant, tiring action. I have grown used to the constant thick feeling in my body, but it doesn’t get any more comfortable. The only thing myself and the herd can do is stick to the shade—what little shade there is—and hope the summer will be over swiftly.

The grass under my hooves breaks as I move away from under a tree that has offered me a bit of shelter from the sunlight with its remaining leaves. I know that soon those leaves will break off though, dead from lack of water just like everything else, and soon the tree will be just as empty and barren as it is in the winter. The sun burns against my back as I move toward my mother, her dainty body unfamiliar with such heat.

She used to be a hooman’s horse (that is what she has called them in her stories) and they had treated her with the upmost care. She never had to endure long winters full of shivering and wishing for summer and then summers full of heat and wishing for winter. Now, she does—I’ve never heard the story of why she chose this life and I suppose I never will—but whenever I see her, bleary-eyed and looking more miserable than the rest of us, my heart gives a pitied sigh. I know I shouldn’t feel pity for her (the rules of survival include only looking out for you) but I cannot so easily ditch the love and care of a family as quickly as others.

My mother is with-child now, her barrel heavy and swollen. My sibling lies within, most likely undernourished and sick just like all the other foals of the herd are. We are all weak and skinny, with bones sticking out at odd places and a gaunt look in our faces. Only the strongest or the highest in the pecking order have survived this far and we are only a full moon-cycle into summer. Thankfully, my mother is near the top of the pecking order due to my own position. I have fought for her to stay close to me, making sure she can eat and drink (when we do end up finding little puddles or undiscovered, shriveling ponds) at the same time I do.

I am sure this is the only reason she is still alive.

Sliding under the tree next to my mother, I nudge her cheek with my muzzle. She barely moves when I touch her. The only indication she gives to my movement is leaning into me further, her bony shoulder pressing just behind my elbow. We are roughly the same size in height, though I have adopted my father’s hardy and muscular build compared to my mother’s light and dainty one. Since I am three years old, I still have just a couple inches of growing to do and then I will be at my full size, which places me a bit taller than my mother. This is obvious now in the way I stand next to her, white swollen sides pressing against skinny sides.

“Mother,” I whisper to her, hoping she can hear me past her dehydrated dream. “Mother, we must find water for you.” She gives a muttering sound low in her throat that I cannot understand, but the sound alone is dry and painful to hear. This gives me no further information, but I swivel away from her and head toward the lead mare of the herd. If a fight were decided between my mother and Loon, the lead mare, there is no doubt who would win. Sturdy and large, Loon is almost taller than my father. She is a dark inky color, with a forelock that shields her eyes from many and gives her the undeniable illusion of mystery. She’s threatening and impressive, and it is no wonder she is the lead of the herd.

As soon as I am within hearing distance, my dry throat opens. “Loon, we need to find water.” I try not to let a commanding tone play in my voice, but it still comes forth. My father is a proud and good lead stallion and that shows in my own attitude (though perhaps I am a bit more brash and stubborn). The dark mare pays no mind to me, though I did see her ear twitch at my word, and continues to groom my father’s withers until I am within touching distance.

Quick as a flash, her teeth snake toward me and my head jerks up in an attempt to protect my eyes, face, and ears. Her mouth places a stinging blow on the side of my neck and her voice slides into my ears, cold and stern. “Do not command me, child.” I can feel her eyes on me, but there is no way to be certain with the curtain of a forelock hiding the majority of her face. My head lowers to a more submissive position.

“My mother, Whisper, is too dehydrated to even talk to me. I am sure she is not the only one.” I am respectful, now, having learned my place (though my stomach rolls with anger and my mind burns with frustration). Loon turns away from me, resuming her latter position. She doesn’t say anything more, but I can understand her as clearly as if she had spoken.

She doesn’t care about my mother. She doesn’t want to move the herd yet. We aren’t going to get water right now.
And, the most prominent—leave me alone or you’re going to get another scolding.

So, having no other choice, I turn and head back to my mother, tossing a searing glare over my shoulder at my father (who had done nothing) and Loon (who was too lazy to bother with the helpless).
[/fancypost][align=center][fancypost bgcolor=#FFFFFF; opacity: 0.75; bordercolor=#FFFFFF; borderwidth=1px; width: 230px; overflow: auto; height: 30px; text-align: center; font: 10px georgia; color: #000000; padding: 6px; margin-top: 5px; ] [align=center]1,013 | 89° Fahrenheit – cloudless, humid[/fancypost]
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