Post by spyder on Nov 15, 2009 15:34:28 GMT -5
i will not be
caught in these cages
watch me be free
envy my changes
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Head in pillow, snores muffled by goosedown. His shirtless torso was skittered and scattered with goose-bumps, from an open window. The breeze blew in and curled around him, wiggling and wriggling and then moving along. Blankets were strewn everywhere, three other pillows lay on the ground. Sheet was pulled up to waist covering faded forest green boxers. Heavily muscled chest rises and falls as chilly breaths are brought into warm lungs. Arms are stretched out spread eagle, taking up all of the bed, fingers dangling over the edge of the mattress. A groan escapes his lips as he his brought into wakening by the hand of fate- if he had not woke then he would’ve slept clear through the day. And that would’ve been a welcome respite for Logan. Yesterday he had been out on the trails-and in some unmarked places- with his horse, Nallah, and had not come home until well past one in the morning. It was now nine, and eight hours of sleep did very little to help his aching muscles. Nal had dumped him, thrown him, kicked him- it was just because he was physically fit that he survived without going to the hospital. Scars and wounds from his early years of being a drover in the Australian outback decorated his hide like tattoos, just with better stories. A strange, strangled tree shaped scar ran up his right femur from a snakebite at the age of four.
Dragging his hands across the mattress he pushed himself up and over onto his back, sitting up looking at the ceiling. In annoyance he threw his legs over the side of his bed. Damn it. Morning comes to early. he spoke in a husky, Australian accent tinged voice. It had been one of the many things that Logan had not been able-or wanted to- shake when his father uprooted his life those oh, so many years ago and shipped him across the ocean from Australia to the United States. Every year he went back to see the new Brumbies brought in-or, if he couldn't make it on his salary as a trainer, atleast go to the sales. This had been the first year he had skipped the trip and bought his first horse. Well, its wasn't his first horse-he had had many horses before, back in Aussie, but many of those had just passed between his legs and off to market. But this year he bought his first horse in the US of A- a semi-wild Australian Brumby named Nallah. Nallah was a wild stallion, finicky from his days of abuse on the ship that brought him from the wilds. The Grullo colored beast was flighty, jumpy and strong- he only just accepted a soft rope bit, and the saddle still gave him nightmares-Logan had tried it. There was a small scar, hidden by his beard, that ran down his jaw from that day when Nallahs hooves came up and clipped him in the jaw. The stallion was also seemingly bipolar. Rarely was he ever calm. Mostly he was jumpy and running away from you. He had, however, allowed Logan to work up enough of a trust to let him get close, and would even take food from him. Other people, eh, not so much. Logan hated people who thought they were good with horses but it turned out they didn’t. He did enjoy seeing them get kicked or bucked off-that was entertainment.
His work had him around danger horses daily. And now, with his purchase of Nallah, he had one at home, too. He had aquired the day off for today, and he was going to spend most of the day with his horse. Logan pushed himself off of his bed, and with long, powerful strides, carried his muscular self to the bathroom. not bothering to shower, he pulled a shirt over his head and splashed some water on his face. His shirt, made of gray cotton, was ripped, torn, and stained. His jeans were not much better, ragged and gnarly. His boots, dulled with age and wear, but good like new. His hat, folded and creased, dusty, dry, but comfortable upon his head. His flesh, once so dark and tan, had taken on the creamy, light white tone of someone in a land with winter and sunless days. Hands were rough, and calloused, from days of work- his eyes, world weary and knowledgable. He ran a hand through his sleep tousled hair and clapped his khaki hat on his head. A jean jacket pulled over his short sleeved shirt, he headed out the door.
Logan had no car, preferring to tread to his destination by foot. In the frosty, cool, fall air his breath became a visible cloud. Dew stained the grass on the dirt road, chucked and mixed up by the passage of few a truck and many a horse. Here an there, muddy spots held traces of deer tracks. Swans, geese, storks, cranes, and other waterfowl called out their migration to wherever they were going. The roadside grass, long weeds and wild flowers, were beginning to brown and die, but still held color. Song birds filled the air with tunes of survival and the breath of fall. A blue jay called raucously from the wood. A red-wing black bird screamed. A morning dove whispered coo-COO, coo-coo. The world was peaceful. The sun was tenderly rocking the earth in its cradle, turning it gently. It seemed everywhere, there was peace, there was calm, and there was kindness.
But Logan knew it was not so. Horses whinnied and scattered in the fields as the wild flowers and weeds cropped to fence and horse eaten pasture. Dots of brown showed up here and there, populated by ragwort and unedible plants. The air smelled of apples. Sleek mustangs and thoroughbreds raced through the fields. Sleepy ponies and draft horses yawned and huddled together for warmth. And a far pasture, a small, Grulla dot stood, not eating. Skinny from days of misfortune and mistreatment, his ears perked, his eyes wild, his mane unbrushed. Logan had to wrestle him to get his hooves trimmed and teeth taken care of. Nallah was a wild thing, the other horses knew, the other horses stayed away. But Logan was attracted to wild things like polar opposite magnets attracted to each other. He wanted not to tame or break the wild beast that was Nallah, but to befriend and have at his command the strength and ferocity that was Nallah.
Over his shoulder, Logan carried a soft rope bridle and bit. That was all the gear that Nallah would allow at the moment. A skilled horseman, that was all that Logan needed. He picked up to a smooth jog and hopped over the fence by the road, not caring about stepping in ragwort clumps were nasty surprises lay. As he got closer to his beast, he slowed to a stop. Nallah swung his head towards him, then cocked it a little to see. His ears went back, and his mouth opened. He whinnied in distress. The other horses noticed, but by some twist of fate ignored their 'comrade'. Many bore scars of Nallahs ferocity and antisocialness. Logan lowered his eyes to watch the horses feet. He slid the rope down off of his shoulder to his right hand, stretching both arms out, he took a step closer to him. Nallah snorted, and pranced. Easy boy. Logan murmured, repeating it as he got closer. Nallah tossed his head, unkempt mane flying with the action. Easy. Shhh.
With out warning, Nallah screamed loudly and bolted away towards the other end of the field. In two, fast, long steps, Logan threw himself in front of him, and swung the rope halter in a loop on his hand. Nallah, caught on the chest by the rope, skidded to a stop, nose inches away from Logans face, breathing heavily in distress. Logan met his eye, and slowly, surely, placed his left hand on Nallahs head. Slowly, surely, he forced it down. Slowly, surely, he placed the rope bridle on his head. Nallah seemed to calm as Logan rubbed the sores from the saddle that the breakers had tried to use on him. Bloody assholes, don't know a thing or two about horses. Logan swore aloud.
Looking up, he saw the other horses were looking at him. He tossed his head and quickly waved his hand. Nallah took a step back, but he held him steady and turned back to the other onlookers. Well? Get on then. Get on! He barked loudly. Nallah pranced, but again he was held still. The other horses looked away, and Logan clicked lightly to lead Nallah towards the fence. Still nervous in barns, Logan had hand rub him down by the fence.
Then we'll have a little practice, eh? he asked.
word count ; 2372
for ; open
from ; Logan Ashen Drover