#horses abuseds

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was riding in a Victorian horse-drawn carriage and my friend was driving. At one point they cracked the whip. Instead of going faster like it was supposed to, the horse stopped, turned its head all the way around, and said, “Not gonna lie, that kinda turns me on.”

[amielot]

Bonus: Have a deleted shot! I changed it in favor of the angle that looks over Dreams shoulder. Giving the sense that the viewpoint is Hob looking in on something he isn't supposed to.

I still thought the original angle was cool though so here it is in full as a bonus. :)

[local-hellhound-steals-spaghetti]

Sh*t has hit the fan in equestrian sport and I genuinely wonder if this is the beginning of the end of it's social license to operate.

I used to respect Charlotte Dujardin as "one of the kinder riders out there". Sadly it seems like this was all just marketing. She just happened to have a horse like Valegro that tolerated her harsh handling (she described him as "hard mouthed" which is a pretty good indication that he had poor training to start with).

But she was the golden girl of dressage and the UK's darling of the sport. Now the curtain is peeled back to reveal casual whipping of a horse's legs over 24 times, commenting how the whip "doesn't whip hard enough."

Methodical and not at all seeming angry or disregulated while the 15 year old on the panicked horse's back cries out. This is not a one off. It's a technique. I've seen it before. Instuctors that chase after "lazy" horses in riding schools with a whip so that the horse "doesn't get away with it."

What about horses getting chased around a round yard with a whip until rearing in panic and lathered up in sweat? I've seen that too, during an equine science program where we were supposed to be learning how to break in weanlings.

It just happens to be a Olympic gold medalist doing it and getting caught.

In the article it says "you can't force a 400-500kg animal to do something." You absolutely can and horses are regularly forced into things they don't want to do. They're flighty prey animals. They say "no" pretty clearly in competition rings but then the whip comes out, the spurs go on and the horse shuts down. Despite the blue tongues from lack of oxygen, mouths strapped shut with tight nosebands, bits that they can't escape from, froth and blood in their mouths, they continue. Because they have no choice.

When your training principle relies on negative reinforcement and positive punishment, escalation like this inevitably occurs. When your training principle is based in domiance, on "not letting them get away with it" and on "making them do it", this is where it goes. The horse's autonomy and feelings diminished into "naughty" or "just trying to be lazy" ... not fear or pain or just a simple struggle to do something they're not physically able to do.

And it becomes normalised, laughed off and accepted, especially when a gold medalist Olympian does it.

The only reason this is a scandal is because an elite rider got caught doing it. But this is not a one off or a "bad apple" this is what the entire traditional horse training model is based on.

The FEI is making a big show of this because they want to look tough on horse welfare so the Olympics doesn't throw out Equestrian sport. But just wait until the dressage kicks off. We will see the same tense, stressed out horses, toe flicking and hollow with hop-step piaffes that are an insult to the Classic masters of old.

The sport of dressage will crash and burn if it continues on its current trajectory. Equestrian sport will follow as a whole when the public realises these are not animals "enjoying their jobs". Unless the FEI allows for a huge paradigm shift where people can compete tackless and use positive reinforcement (actual +R and not the pathetic pat on the neck they pass off as +R), the sport will fall to ruin and the elites will have only themselves to blame.

[metropolitianmania]

ngl some of you so called “allies” are not good at hiding your disdain for anyone inherently masculine in the LGBTQIA community

[arte072]

"Sansa bullied Arya? Oh so you think she's worse than Tywin Lannister, Gregor Clegane and Ramsay Bolton??" is such a hyperbolic, insincere and ultimately non-existent argument. Literally name one person who says this shit with any sort of sincerity, if at all lol

This is up there with "Talking about Arya's importance to the North means you think Jeyne Poole's life doesn't matter!!!" in terms of disningenous talking points.

It's only ever used to shut down any attempts at considering Arya's feelings and well-being when discussing the girls' relationship.

and no offense, but why are 🫵 YOU🫵 equating the acknowledgement of a fictional child's flaws with calling her a war criminal? why are you treating it like that?? 👀👀👀

I mean, this fandom regularly says Arya lacks morality for surviving war zones with violence. They consider her a walking tragedy whose story is about losing her humanity and becoming the ultimate killing machine. Everyday Dany gets called a N@zi Barbie for not abolishing slavery perfectly. But Sansa gets clocked as a mean girl bully in the first book and y'all fall apart at the seams at that?? C'mon now

[deweystuber]

✨Goddess✨🪐

Seeing some… less charitable takes about Gale and Mystras relationship inspired me to make another quick piece.

The thing that intrigues me so much about Gale and his story is the fact that the power imbalance that existed between him and Mystra is quite literally unfathomable. Mystra is not equivalent to someone dating their boss, or teacher (although there is some overlap), she is a *goddess* there is no true equivalent to this kind of relationship in our world and I find it fascinating. Imagine dating someone who cannot relate to you emotionally, physically or intellectually simply because you both exist in different states of being.

I think judging a relationship like that based on our human to human relationships can be a valuable exercise, but I don’t think it will ever match up to what that kind of relationship would truly be like or how it would truly effect a person.

I don’t believe Mystra is wholly evil nor Gale is wholly good but to dismiss one’s abuse on the other, or to downplay it compared to other companions abuse, is a bad faith take that will never sit well with me.

[weird-an]

Of course Prince Harrington is just another brat. Brought up spoiled rotten and without ever touching the dirt and blood the real world outside of palaces and lush gardens has to offer.

"I don't know why my father thinks you have to protect me," he bitches. "And can we call it a fucking day? It's already pretty dark and we'll reach Hawkins tomorrow."

Billy rolls his eyes. As if the Prince is able to fight what lurks behind the trees. He has probably never seen a spider monster or Demodog. Billy has the scars to prove that reality hurts.

It's not his usual work. Escorting royalty.

Billy is a mercenary. A sword you can buy, a tool to use if you've got enough coin. He knows most people hate him or are scared of him, most people think of him as scum except when they need him.

But apparently a lot of the Kingsguard were killed by the Demogorgon. Desperate times, even for rich people, but at least the pay is good.

"C'mon, it's time for dinner," Harrington says again. It's a luxury to have regular meals, but he doesn't know that. For him it's normal.

Camaro neighs as if to agree. What a traitor.

Billy wishes he'd already have enough coin to leave for California, to finally see the ocean again. But no, he's still stuck in Indiana doing whatever contract he can find, after Neil fucked him over and took most of his money.

Camaro stops at a clearing. Billy hears water running nearby. He sighs. If his horse agrees with the Prince, it's probably time to stop.

He slips Camaro half of the carrot, the last piece of food he has on himself. He's getting paid once they arrive in Hawkins. Times are tough, so Camaro and him eat the same shit. Doesn't matter as long as he gets to leave some day.

He starts to make a fire. Doesn't want Harrington to moan about getting cold next.

When the flames begin to shine bright and orange, eating their way through the wood, the darkness of the night is already surrounding them.

Harrington points at the log of wood he's sitting on.

Billy chews on the carrot and stares at the Prince.

"Do you want some cheese?" Harrington asks. He digs through his bag, pulling out different cheeses, a loaf of bread and a few dried meats.

The few noblemen Billy escorted in the past never asked. Never shared. Didn't even talk to him, if it wasn't necessary.

Billy raises a brow. Maybe this is a joke? Like when he was little and Neil showed him his dinner and fed it to the pigs instead to Billy.

"It's r'ly g'd," Harrington says, cheeks already stuffed full. He holds out a piece of bread.

Billy's stomach growls. Fuck it. He takes the bread and sits down next to Harrington. He's wearing expensive fabrics underneath his masterfully crafted coat. Billy's own armor is covered in scratches and dents.

He groans. The bread is delicious. Harrington shares everything with him. The cheese is strong, melting on his tongue. He hasn't realized how hungry he had been.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"I don't know how you do it," Harrington says. "The whole day on horseback. My ass is so sore! What about yours?"

Billy fights back a laugh. The last time his ass hurt was after a visit to Heather's brothel. She knows his preferences and stayed silent, sending her hottest men to his room whenever he's in town.

"You get used to it." It's not really a lie. The riding Billy got used to. The loneliness? Not really. He's glad he's got Camaro. Better a horse as a friend than none.

"A toast to your firm ass then." Harrington grins at him, eyes twinkling. He hands Billy a wineskin.

He's pretty, Billy thinks. Big brown eyes, fluffy hair. He wonders if it feels as soft as it looks. Probably, with the fancy soap he smells like.

"Cheers." He takes a sip from the wine. It's better not to think about it. This is just a job after all.

Harrington's knee bumps against his. He doesn't move away.

When they lay down on the bedrolls, Billy listens to the cackling fire and watches the stars shining bright above him.

"I'm cold," Harrington groans.

Billy knows he shouldn't. No fucking way the Prince is cold. His blanket must be way better material than Billy's.

"Come over then," he hears himself say.

Harrington doesn't hesitate. Suddenly warm arms are around Billy's chest. The Prince's breath ghosts over his ear.

Billy turns his face around. Harrington's lips are right there, soft and hot against his own.

Maybe it's not the worst job he has ever taken.

[cirrus-draws]

nearl utena paletteswap. is this anything

......wait, hold on...

[homeofhousechickens]

If you live in Texas please remember to never take your horses or other animals to the vets at Texas A&M because a vet has been allowed to continue working there despite multiple instances of HORRIFIC animal treatment and torture that the people there ALLOWED to happen.

The hearing for her veterinary license started yesterday but I do not know if she is going to be allowed to keep her license.

Links for proof. Big content warnings for animal abuse and negligence on the other people working there.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1KVT2W5oDDt58iMJUpjQeMmTSTzTuHh81/view

https://www.kbtx.com/2021/10/26/texas-am-equine-veterinarian-indicted-animal-cruelty-charge/

(Below is about a different previous case)

https://www.fordazzle.com/the-lawsuit

[clearheartspurpleflowers]

‼️ Please read ‼️

If you are active in fandom spaces— Especially Sander Sides or Hazbin Hotel, I encourage you to read this thread for your own safety!!

There is a user you may know as they have been called out before, that goes by the name Roman Calvary System, Calvary or Roman Calvary, they were previously known as The Trojan Horse Collective or The Trojan Horse System but has since separated that identity from themselves as a Sub-System although I doubt the validity of that claim because they have previously admitted It was simply to seperate themselves from their past.

Calvarys previous partner, Atlas, somebody who also came forward about Calvary and their repeated abuse, has also been allegedly exposed for inappropriate and gross behaviours regarding children and also saying the n word as a white person. While I cannot speak much on the situation regarding Atlas due to my lack of knowledge, I can bring forward evidence I have seen regarding the claims.

However, this post will probably focus more on Calvary as I have been involved with the drama regarding them personally and I know more about it.

Calvary has already got themselves a reputation amongst the Sander Sides community for various abusive and disgusting behaviours- Just some of them being inappropriate exchanges with children (As young as fourteen) Telling people to kill themselves, wishing death upon peoples mother, being racist/racially insensitive. I wish that was the end of the list but It sadly is not. Calvary has also been condemned by Thomas himself personally which there is evidence of in a seperate call out post that I will be linking below, along with all the other evidence of their behaviour.

Something I would like to close down before it gets brought up as an excuse is the infamous ‘I’ve changed’ tactic. Calvary recently made a post on their X (formerly known as Twitter) claiming that they have changed as a person and the drama is from when they were fifteen and they have since bettered their behaviour- This is not true. Calvary has not changed and has not bettered themselves at all and the drama is not just old things from when they were fifteen. These incidents are recent and from this year.

One of these instances being Calvary (Or one of their alters, Remus- An alter you will probably see a lot of here as he is the main perpetrator of most inappropriate exchanges regarding children) attempting to SRP with a literal fourteen year old- Instead of doing the logical thing and refusing to SRP with a minor, they pulled the typical ‘If you’re okay with it’ card, and I mean, sure- Maybe an uninformed minor would be okay with it but why are YOU okay with it as the older person? ‘As long as you’re okay with it’ Why are YOU? That is very creepy and gross behaviour and any decent person would have refused to SRP with a minor, people under the AOC.. cannot consent.. It is your responsibility as the older person to have known better and said no. You should not try to SRP with minors and you shouldn’t be okay with it either.

Another instance regarding their Remus would be an instance where another one of their alters blatantly admitted that Remus finds it funny to make inappropriate comments about people and even FUNNIER when it’s a minor- You know what that makes Remus? A predator, finding it funny to walk all over peoples boundaries and even more so when It is a child is absolutely horrific and taking pleasure in making children uncomfortable is not only disgusting but also blatantly predatory.

Remus has also been harassing, threatening, and finding out personal information about a minor because they came forward about Atlas dating them when they were *eleven* and Atlas was fourteen, I am sure we can all agree that that is not okay and that the age gap is obviously a problem, minors can very well hurt other minors and be in appropriate towards other minors, Atlas should not have gotten into a relationship with an eleven year old at fourteen years old, children are capable of taking advantage of other children, I’m not sure if that was the case here but regardless, you should not date an eleven year old at the age of fourteen. You also shouldn’t call black people the n word. You also shouldn’t say sexual things to minors.

I will be attaching screenshots of these instances below and potentially reblogging with more to the story because there is a LOT! If you see these users, please be cautious of them, especially if you are a minor!

[amielot]

New horse girl lore just dropped

The horn idea 100% came from @moorishflower :3

[noodle-artist]

✨💙 DIMITRI BEING THE HORSE GIRL WE ALL KNOW HE IS!💙✨

[spacecasette]

Bolt the Horse — c h a p t e r o n e

@madsmilfelsen for u my angel ♡

In the summer of 2011, she wore her hair in two braids down her back, and spent a not insignificant amount of time on barstools. The air was humid as a clenched fist and humming, so the most she could do to alleviate it was with a Miller High Life in hand, shorts admittedly a touch too short for lookin', and nothing better than trouble to get done. It was in this way she found herself in a bar without a ride home in the pouring September rain.

She was not, in her 25th year, looking for any kind of trouble she could not feasibly get into on her own. She felt as if she could do enough of the fucking up by herself, thank you kindly, and did not take well to anyone who didn't seem like they could handle that.

Rust Cohle, as it turns out, could kind of handle it. At least, she notices, he can handle most things– the exceptions being exceptional humidity and obvious displays of misplaced hubris. They watch each other often; her slyly from atop her barstool, and him openly from wherever he stood behind the bar. It seemed like a lot of the time he could hardly stomach her sitting close to him at all, even when they were across the room. Once, when she was admittedly a little too drunk for a girl who was meant to be in charge of herself, she dropped a shot glass and nearly fell from her perch trying to retrieve the shattered pieces. She looked up to find his stare already fixed on her, whites showing in his eyes like a frightened dog. He was by her side in an instant, batting her hands away and calling her a "messy little thing", which she would have found insulting, if it weren't a little too accurate. But then he checked her palms for cuts and held his hand between the bar and her head when she got up, so she couldn't be too sure he didn't just feel bad for her. She would take it though, either way it was offered. She would never tell him to his face, but she was getting lonely out at her grandparents' house with only the coyotes for company. She liked too much being around to ever tell him to quit barking at her or rolling his eyes when she asked for a pen to do her crosswords with.

It's a Saturday night the first time she loses her grip. Condensed down to one or fifteen seconds, when she laughs loud at something another regular has said. At the sound of air pressed forcefully through Rust's nose in a poor imitation of a laugh, she looks up at him. Her glassy, liquor-slicked eyes, pupils big as the fuckin' moon, begging and begging with no end in sight. Her gaze darting over his face like she can't quite decide where best to fix it– and goddammit if that doesn't just tear him all up inside.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, girl?" He asks, and another of those half-not-laughs falls out.

"Dunno, Rust, wanna find out over dinner sometime?" she fires it back so quick it leaves him a little stunned, a fish whacked out of water. In lieu of a reply, he slides her beer away from her and sets a glass of water down in its place, though she pouts prolifically when he does.

"Prob'ly better if you get on home, little doggy, " he says, soft and condescending even with a corner of his mouth turned up the way it is.

"'M not little anymore, Rust, fuck's sake," she mumbles, taciturn and petulant even this deep in her drink.

"Go get some air, girl, I'll be out quick to drive you home," he tells her, casual like he didn't already know she'd been hoping and wishing for it all night, "and don't go pitching a fit about it. 'S fuckin' pourin' out there and you'd drown yourself in a thimble of rain if I don't."

The screen door in front slams quickly, and will catch you in the back of the head if you're not quick about getting in before it. Dani doesn't tell him this because she is very busy with falling over the threshold in a fit of giggles, bride to her own amusement at Rust having to shuffle her in like someone's feeble old grandma. He is rather short of patience at this hour, and she can feel herself dancing over top his last nerve, but she finds it honestly pretty funny so she makes a lot of stupid faces and asks twice if he'll tuck her in. She's not been sleeping in a bed in the house because they all make her feel a little too sad lately, so she makes a bee line for the couch in the center of the front room, like a rock face she's dead set to crashing on. Rust lets her fall into it– helps her, even, letting loose his grip on her arms to let her splay onto the cushions and roll her ruddy cheek down deep in the throw pillow. Her hair stuck to her face and her breathing slightly shallow, his fingers itch with the desire to check her pulse, to fret over her. Instead he keeps his hands to himself and watches, impassive, as she makes a valiant attempt at rucking her shorts down over her knees to kick them off, making no effort to help. His watching feels like something else, she thinks sluggishly, like a hot lick of fever climbing down her spine and sticking there as a burr would. When she notices him staring, she offers up her dopiest, softest smile, and slurs

"Rust. If you're gonna stand there all night, I won't stop you but first could you go grab me some sleep shorts out of the chester draws? First door on the left at the top of the stairs," she swallows, thick as honeyed night, "please."

The wiry automaton of his body clicks into action: mouth softly closing, limbs lurching into their movement, all economy and surprise.

He returns with her gray shorts, ratty things with the elastic long gone to dust, and sets them down on the coffee table. He turns around, all precious and respectful now that they're alone, and lets her put them on.

When he hears her settle and finally turns around, it's to find her already asleep, her cheeks flushed and limbs spread across the sofa like a child exhausted from the heat.

Sunday morning, she awoke neatly tucked under an afghan with a glass jar of water and two ibuprofen on the coffee table in front of her. Looking at the clock above the door, cogs clicking in the dim apartment of her skull, she realized with quite a start that if she wasn't dressed and ready in exactly 7 minutes, she was going to be rather unfashionably late for Sunday service.

Imagining the looks of misplaced pity from the faces of grandmothers and their daughters and their daughters' daughters was enough to light a decent fire under her ass. She dressed quickly, brushed her sticky teeth to rid them of the scent of stale beer and Black Velvet and was out the door toward the truck with 30 seconds to spare. Her hair, regrettably, was a mouse nest when she checked it in the rearview.

On the drive in, she remembered vaguely that Rust had brought her home late last night but had not, thankfully, stuck around quite long enough for her to embarrass herself any further than she had expected to. She had come to know herself when drinking anything harder than a Shirley temple to be rather childish, with an attitude and a neediness about her to rival some mothers' babies. She could be a sore loser when Robert would walk her like a dog in Rummy, and would play too many Mel Carter songs in a row on the jukebox. This last behavior never failed to put a very unreadable look on Rust's face, like she was leading herself to the gallows & he knew it. There was nothing to be done about her nature now, she supposed, except to apologize to whomever had to suffer it. Used to be her grandparents would correct her, sometimes sternly, but she could always weasel her way out of trouble if she put on the right pair of puppy eyes– now there was no one to set her straight over their knee and make her see sense.

Service was a fine, if a little lengthy, affair with a lot of the old biddies fanning themselves in the heat and cooing over her bruised up knees. She explained (falsely) that she had been moving some of Papa's things back in from the shed, and, arms full, had tripped up the porch steps. Feeling a little poorly about lying in church, she reasoned that telling them she'd come home drunk and tripped over her own threshold would have been inappropriate pew chatter, so it was okay for her to bend the truth into a sweeter shape once in a while.

Leaving church, she decided to stop by Hank's for groceries– mostly because she wanted something to make her feel productive, though she knew she was bound to spend her afternoon (and likely evening) walking around in the creek and reading on the porch. She was clear out of bread, and running dangerously low on the honey cereal she'd taken a liking to. Eggs, she knew, she could trade a neighbor for, so she treated herself to an orange dreamsicle in their place. When she was younger, and Mammy would take her here, she never said no to books or puzzles, but could always deny her granddaughter candy or toys. Now, it seemed, Dani had more books than she could reasonably read in years, and was of the mind that denying herself pleasure of this kind was a punishment she had not earned.

In the breakfast aisle, a feeling not dissimilar to a flight response catches her by the tail of her hair and will not let her go. She moseys slow like, taking her time to draw him out, entertaining herself with all the little barbs she might stick him with. Things like "you followin' me, mister?" or "funny meetin' you here, I thought you lived off coffee, cigarettes, and switch grass." But she didn't really have anything too smart to say when he finally sidled up next to her while she was fretting over cereal.

Her eyes darted to his hands, slung under the weight of the blue basket in his grip– sinewy, calloused– and then up to his shirt collar, chin, face, then eyes. She had to take it in little leaps else she'd get shy and find a way to leave before she'd said her piece.

"'M sorry you had to see me home last night. Didn't mean to get ornery, so. It won't happen again." It's soft, coming out her mouth, like they were the only people in the room.

"'S alright, just seems like someone oughta look after you once in a while," he says, just as quiet, as if talking to himself. The hum of the lights gets a little too loud and she can't quite think all the way, so her words come out rushed,

"How come you don't go to church?"

"I don't really fuss about with god." This surprises her, for some reason. She felt she knew his way, a little, how he looked at everything through the lens of dutiful futility. It stands to reason he wouldn't really bother with something so nebulous and unfixed, but for all she knows he's a thing flung straight down from outer space so she doesn't follow the thought too far.

"Well, me neither, except I like the singing, and Mammy always made me go. Just seems like the thing to do, I guess. Don't you got a thing you do? Just 'cause you feel like you're supposed to?"

"Unfortunately, sweetheart, everything I do is 'cause I'm supposed to."

Then they don't talk, for what feels like a whole winter but is really only a minute. She finds her prize on the shelf and quickly puts it in her basket, looking at her shoes until she finds the nerve to speak again,

"I'm trying to be your friend, Rust. Are you gonna let me, or are you gonna keep up this whole 'mysterious old man with a vendetta against fun' thing?"

He chuckles at that, but doesn't exactly answer.

"Look, I'm gonna be gone a while. Not long, should be back towards the middle of the week, but I want you to stay home. I mean that. Don't come by the bar, don't go anywhere I wouldn't know to find you, okay? You stay outta trouble and we'll talk about being friends when I get back."

She rolls her eyes at the implication that she couldn't handle life and its spinning without him herding her about.

"Fine. But when you get back, you owe me a beer and a game of rummy. And you can't pawn me off on Bob, either, I'm starting to think it's personal."

"Deal." They shake hands, and he's gone. When she finally quits looking down at her hand where he held it, she grabs her milk and butter, pays the kid at the till, and heads home.

Dani knows, for the most part, how to behave. She spent so long having so little reason to lash out that the muscle memory of trouble making had practically atrophied by the time she turned 19. She spends her first day at home reorganizing the bookshelves in the living room by genre, which eats up a good 3 hours after breakfast and fills her with a terribly pleased feeling to boot. By then, she's ready for a simple lunch of a ham and cheese sandwich with an entire sleeve of tollhouse crackers, which she eats on the porch with a can of pepsi beside her. The cicadas do their screeching song all day, and when she wanders out into the yard, she finds one of their molts clung to the trunk of a live oak. Papa's voice floats into her head, and she is thrown face-first into a memory of them gathered in the kitchen one early morning, heads bowed in little prayer to examine the bugs and moths he'd pinned to a paper towel on the counter. He'd told her about the dog day cicadas, how they sleep for 7 years and come alive to feed, breed, scream, and die. He'd pointed out the luna moth, its wings frayed and flaked where he'd handled it with a little carelessness. It had looked so graceful and serene, laying with its wings fanned and pinned apart with mammy's pearl-headed sewing pins. She remembers the sadness she'd felt when he had told her they lacked mouths, and existed only by the grace of whatever nutrients they'd ingested as caterpillars. She felt a bit like that now, catapulted into life without them in the span of a year, and with no way to cherish them except in reverse. Reduced to a thing that wanted, with no way of asking.

Dani spent the rest of the first day ambling through the trees looking for bugs and leaves and interesting bits she might save to keep the memory of summer alive when the rain came and the sun stayed away longer. At night, she ate buttered noodles and pinned her findings in a shadowbox she'd gutted, hunched over the kitchen table tweezing antennae and legs into place. When she felt herself growing sleepy, she walked the few paces to the sofa, and fell onto it with all the grace of a foal in its first hours. She dreamt that night that she'd forgotten her name, and was standing in the middle of her empty high school.

The second day passed much differently– the hours stretched their long fingers out toward the sun and took their dandy time to pass. She was restless, and it was hot, and she felt a searching inside her that could not be sated by any of the near dozen books she tried out. By 1pm she was packing a small lunch (ham and cheese again, with the last sleeve of crackers) and walking back through the trees behind the house to the creek. Toeing off her shoes and slipping off her dress, she slipped down into that cool, murky wet. She floated on her back in the middle a while, watching the canopy shiver apart to let the sunlight through in lacelike patterns on the surface of the water. Eventually, she uprighted herself and walked along the bank looking for a salamander or a frog, something alive she might find companionship with. It ended up being fruitless, which ratcheted up that irritable itch and culminated in a single misstep over an algae-slicked stone and sent her straight down backward onto her ass. Her eyes welling with frustrated tears, she laid there stunned with her tailbone throbbing something fierce for a good ten minutes. When her self pity ran dry and she remembered she was the only one around who could kiss it better, she gathered up the lunch she'd neglected to eat and went straight back to the house for a hot shower, or perhaps a nap on the sofa.

She woke around 6pm with all her bones feeling fused together at the joints, and a small puddle of drool on the throw pillow beneath her cheek. It was with a sense of delirious urgency that she climbed from her makeshift bed and upstairs to the bathroom, and upon flicking the light, noticed her hair had dried down in such a horrendous tangle she sat down on the floor and started to cry. She cried because she missed her Mammy and her Papa, because her body hurt, and because she was struck with the painfully sudden and obvious realization that she really was on her own now. She cried because she felt stupid, and small, and rather lonely here in this house she loved but felt guilty being in for some reason.

Eventually, the tide of her sobbing had slowed and she crawled over to the drawer to fish out her hairbrush, and set about making sense of the nest that had settled on her head. When it was done, and with great effort at that, she turned on the shower as boiling hot as it would go, and sat herself down to spend the better part of half an hour feeling put out and morose before she even picked up the shampoo. It was a quick affair after that, as she didn't really love having pruny fingers.

The boredom reaches a fever pitch around 10:30, untempered by two failed attempts at knitting and one batch of lemon muffins. Everything Dani has done in the last fourteen hours to restore a sense of normalcy has come spitting furiously back into her face, and she really truly feels like something in her is fixing to hatch. It's beginning to feel like an undoing, and she's uncomfortable, so she laces up her stupid shoes and walks the stupid half-mile to Doumain's. She curses Rust the whole way, scrunches up her nose and spits at his voice in her head telling her to stay put, like a dog that don't know any better than to leap out the door. She feels hot and itchy again, and she made up promises– one she did try hard to keep, but again her nature won out– and he said he'd be back by mid week. It's coming on 11 on a Tuesday, so she reckons she's close enough to compliance for fulfilling her end of a crummy deal. And anyway, she's fighting mad for nothing and wants a beer and a furious game of cards with Bob to soften up all the little hard upset parts of her.

When she arrives, it's unnaturally rowdy for a weeknight. The pool tables are full, and there isn't a spot for her at the bar until she catches Bob's eye and he makes another regular– Mason, her useless brain supplies– move out of the way to let her claim her usual spot. No crosswords tonight, she sets a deck of cards and a wad of folded ones on the bar-top between them. The other bartender is here tonight in Rust's place– she's only ever seen him once, and he wasn't all that nice, but neither is Rust, so her demeanor doesn't have to change all that much after all. She orders a tallboy of Lonestar and a shot of Black Velvet because no one will stop her, and she can't help herself, especially now. Bob gives her a sidelong look she's seen before, one that says she's skating on thin fuckin' ice, but she knocks back her shot like it owes her rent without meeting his eye. Her evening irons back out and starts to feel normal, if a little lackluster since Rust isn't around for her to pester and push. She really did think she might get away with coming here despite her instructions until one of those stupid dishwater-blond fucks– Amos or Andrew, the one with too-green eyes– comes over and starts inching in on her, thinking she won't notice. She tried out doing the right thing, angling her body away from him hoping he'd get the message and go find his luck somewhere else. He doesn't. Instead, he uses a knee to turn the seat of her seat of her barstool around to face him and says,

"What're you doin' over here all by your lonesome, baby? Come play with us, I'll buy you a fruity little drink if you want, somethin' to wet that," he looks down at her mouth, leans close and lecherous and rancid, "whistle."

"No, thank you. Bob and I are gonna play some cards, you're gonna go circle jerk with your friends, and we'll steer nice and clear of each other." Her brows and fingers knit together, holding herself in by the edges because she's honestly a little afraid she might bite him or scream or throw something. His answering smile comes, satisfied and too close for comfort that it makes something in her burn scalding and bright.

"Oh, come on, don't be such a sourpuss. Go a round with us and we'll see where the night takes us, hmm?"

Her fist connects with his left orbital socket before she even decides it should. His whole body ripples away at the impact– the desired effect– and while on his back foot she watches his eyes widen with the realization. Then he's on her, screaming and aiming for her neck. Dani feels, in this moment, a far off panic. Fights never really found her too easily, since she had a habit of keeping to herself (except, obviously, on this occasion). It's all she can do to flail about with closed fists until something lands or someone steps in to free her. And intervene, someone does: Mason, who despite having his seat stolen not twenty minutes ago comes to her rescue by pulling the kid off her by his collar like a rowdy kitten. She lies there, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, until Mason's face floats into her periphery and she's pulled to sitting. Her face feels sticky and hot all over, and her lashes are clumped together making it hard to blink up at the few faces looking down at her. She finds Bob's eyes, and the first words out of her mouth are,

"Please don't tell Rust."

He laughs, shakes his head, and offers her a hand which she takes to stand on her wobbly legs. Assuming she's being shown the door, she heads that direction only to be stopped by a hand on the crook of her elbow. She turns to face Bob, and his face is caught between a look of wonder and pity. He nods toward the back door, and she follows, head turned down towards her shoes. The soundtrack to Tuesday night clicks back to life and everyone goes back to their business as they exit the building. He fumbles with the spigot on the wall, and his hankie is removed, wetted, then used to roughly dab the drying blood off her lips and nose. Even in the bare moonlight, she sees it come away dark. She's heard Bob speak on so few occasions, she nearly misses it when he mumbles,

"Don't you go pickin' fights you don't know goddamn well how to win, missy. You're lucky Rust ain't here, he'd have probably hauled off and killed that kid." Her face burns at that, and not from the cut.

"I-I'm sorry, Bob, really. I just-he was being gross and it kinda happened before I knew any different what my hands were up to. Won't happen again, you know I'm not that type of girl."

He doesn't reply, but the "maybe you oughta think about that first next time" hangs in the air, limp and useless now.

He lets her into an apartment attached to the bar near the back door, which she sort of knew about but assumed was where he lived. There was hardly anything in it– no dishes on the sink or mess on the counters– until they got to the bedroom. The only evidence she could see that would lead her to believe it was occupied was a full-sized mattress on the floor, covered in a white flat sheet, and a pile of Louisiana history text books in the corner beneath the window.

"Sleep it off in here for tonight. There's a quilt in the hall closet if you need it, and the washroom's just next door."

He's gone out the door before she can thank him. She looks at the bed, and the moonlight coming through the blinds onto it. She could sleep, she thinks. She should. Grabbing the quilt from the hall closet– hard to miss, it was the only thing in there– she wraps it around herself, toes off her shoes, and lays down on the bed. Curled on her side, stray tears dripping across the still-bloody bridge of her nose onto the sheet, she falls asleep.

Rust gets home at 3:27AM, and Bob is waiting up for him, smoking a cigarette at the bar. It's not exactly uncommon, but he's usually back a little closer to sunrise and the time Bob usually gets up for the day, so he cocks his head to a 45° and asks,

"What're you doin up so late?"

"Just don't say I never told you nothin'."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Robert. Goodnight."

"Suit yourself," he mutters, "shitheel."

Rust rolls his eyes but goes to unlock the door to his apartment without further comment. His keys clatter on the breakfast nook, and when he pads into the bedroom he finds her there, face crusted up with snot and dried blood. He finds her there, asleep on his mattress on the floor with her hands tucked up under her chin like a pair of swans. Close together, too, as if they were in quiet conversation about the day they'd had. He sighs, deeply, and heads back out to the sofa.

[inconclusionray]

If I see one more "poor Izzy was in an abusive relationship for twenty years :'(" take I'm going to set this pirate ship on fire.

[horsefigureoftheday]

I will forever be mad that the Olympics have flashy, over-exaggerated, unbalanced, mediocre dressage, when they could have working equitation

But then, the FEI would probably find a way to ruin that sport too

[neechees]

You know when like a book or a show etc is about racism & then the White fans will try to say the messaging is about literally everything EXCEPT racism. That's what ppl are kinda doing with Spirit (2002)