Black Ice
#2 of Samples
The snake sees all. The snake knows all. The snake controls all.
Depression was upon Jason before he understood the meaning of the condition. The college student stoat spends the majority of his time working and riding at the stables, set on the edge of a considerable stretch of forestry: his only escape from the drudge of reality. Fuelled by his love of horses and his admiration for a lady friend, he is desperate to open up, uncover that help and understanding that is so sorely needed. But how will she react? Was the snake right all along?
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I'm very happy to announce the release of my second (paid) short story, Black Ice. Available for 99 pence, just click the links above to purchase and, of course, check the sample! Happy reading and let me know what you think of the story!
Story and characters (c) Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)
Black Ice
By Arian Mabe
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@arianmabe
Cover artwork by Orobas
www.furaffinity.net/user/orobas
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No one could possibly watch the hunger artist continuously, day and night, and so no one could produce first-hand evidence that the fast had really been rigorous and continuous; only the artist himself could know that, he was therefore bound to be the sole completely satisfied spectator of his own fast. Yet for other reasons he was never satisfied... For he alone knew, what no other initiate knew, how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest thing in the world.
Franz Kafka's A Hunger Artist
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The musty sweetness and groaning warmth of equine bodies made the stables a haven. Secluded from mundane lives, my meditation was to muck out boxes and grooming paced my thoughts with each methodical stroke of the body brush. Far more time was spent brushing a horses coat than my own scruffy weasel fur, trimmed around the ears and muzzle but unruly for presentation. The stable yard was tucked away on the edge of the forest - the perfect place to forget the rest of the world. Soothing routine dictated 'stable days' and I grew to envy the horses, subject to this rolling schedule. A well cared for gelding had no reason to swish his tail at anything other than his narrow scope of life, sweet hay and cool buckets of water - I was yet to have a healthy horse refuse food. I wanted to live their simple lives.
My parents called their lives the 'real world', fond of their manufactured existence. I could not bear to be in college for longer than the bare minimum, whereas they worked hard and spent the remainder of their time encased within the four plain walls of a council house. My extended schooling, an extravagance for a working class, nondescript weasel, permitted excursions to the yard only on weekends when I caught the seven thirty-five bus from outside the post office. It was a roundabout ride squeezed into too small bus seats with no seatbelts, but one endured, if not happily. More often than not, an elderly lady carved a dent in my skinny side with an enormous handbag, unaware of how their bulk pressed me against the armrest.
My breath frosted in the Saturday morning air as I tacked up the fifteen hands (give or take) bright bay mare, curiously named 'Marnie', brown coat shining with health. She was my favourite, though had a penchant to nip from time to time. I heaved the saddle over her broad back, her breath dispersing into misty droplets as her ears flicked back just the once to acknowledge the weight. Tugging the girth strap around her ample belly, I flinched as my stomach growled in reflex. The mare turned her head, brown eyes kind and dark.
Hunger. Furs as sentient beings were complacent in thinking of hunger and retreating to the clinical squares and counters of the kitchen to sate their bellies. Eating was a basic need and, in the Western world at least, we had no reason to not gorge ourselves upon readily available sustenance. That was not the point of my eating, what little I consumed. It took thought and motion to move the fork to one's lips - a conscious action that could be controlled. I could be controlled.
"Jason? Get on, are you ready or what?"
My reverie was short lived, interrupted by a familiar culprit. I wished she would leave me in my own world upon occasion, Samantha - or Sam, as preferred - that was. The grey squirrel sat astride her weekend loan black gelding, tapping a riding crop against her shiny boot, whiskers quivering impatiently. She was easy to read. Her coal black hair - a result of interspecies mating - fell to the waist, rarely scraped into a ponytail, and her muzzle was breathtakingly angular with cheekbones that cut like a knife: most unexpected for a squirrel. Her eyes drew one in like a clichéd romance novel, set in her face like chips of ice: a pure, clear blue. That was 'my' Sam. She hated her name, a true tomboy at heart. Stumped by the prior question, which had been lost by my mind, I smiled like a goon.
I scrambled up the mounting block in a flurry of activity, fumbling with the reins as Marnie fidgeted, as anxious as the other to get going. My face was uncomfortably warm in the freezing air but I managed to swing my leg over the saddle with some semblance of dignity. Sam's lips curved upwards and she set off before my feet settled into the stirrups. The cracked leather of my boots groaned and I wished too late that I had worked more polish into the grooves so that they would not squeak so embarrassingly. There was much embarrassment to be had in terms of my clothing alone: there was a hole in my jeans and my thick jacket could not be disguised as anything not from a charity shop.
The stables were on the edge of a stretch of forestry that attracted too many tourists during the summer months, not only in my opinion. Alicia, the stable owner, hated every tourist brat that dug their heels into the sides of a tired, hard-working pony as their parents smiled obliviously, plastic to the core. "Isn't my little darling oh so special?" they seemed to say, camera phones capturing every moment in a digital world. Sam and I were lucky that the grey mare, two-legged unlike her riding charges, didn't mind us taking the horses out alone, as long as I paid - Sam's father paid for Leon's loan - and were safe. I was around so often that Alicia claimed to trust me especially, though I wondered how much of that claim was cunning incentive to keep me at the mucking out. Leading the ride, Sam glanced back over her shoulder, hair half-stuffed into the hood of her padded coat.
"So," she said, startling my heart into my throat. "Where are we off to today?"
"Uh..." I swallowed. "We could go round sixty-two, route sixty-two, if you want? It might be bit iced up," I sneezed into my glove, "but, there's no rush, right?" Sam tilted her head in consideration and I hoped she would put the pink tinge under my cheek-fur down to the cold.
"Yeah, that's right... No rush today," she said, returning her attention to the sandy track, grains frozen solid into uneven footing. "You okay to get on a bit?"
Loathe to dawdle, she murmured to her black gelding before I had the chance to respond and he sprang into a lively trot, picking up each hoof with the finesse of a dressage stud. I nudged Marnie with my heels and followed Leon's swishing tail as they picked up the pace, ungainly in my efforts to simply keep up with them. It would not do to fall behind. Sam's position was flawless and I was a kit at her heels, even if Marnie's relaxed stride was as easy to rise and fall to as walking.
Sam passed the wooden marker reading the number 'sixty-two' in scratched, white paint and turned sharply uphill, selecting a narrower track that wound through the bark forest like a snake. Marnie surged onwards without encouragement, flicking up her hooves in a ground covering canter as I snatched a lock of her main, heart thumping. A stray branch overhanging the track slapped my hard hat, scattering pine needles and flakes of frost over my head. Sam laughed wildly, the sound lost among thundering hooves.
The sight that greeted Sam, a good few lengths ahead, at the top of the hill made her pull up sharply. Swinging to the right, Leon scuffled to a halt, kicking up an icy spray of sand in the process. Typical to obstinacy, the gelding ducked his head and backed into a spiky bush, lifting a hoof in offence when a curse burst from his rider's lips. Marnie jerked, dropped to a walk to avoid her obstinate field mate and edged forward, revealing the route below in a blast of golden sunlight.
"Whoa," I patted Marnie's neck, massaging in mindless circles as my stomach lurched, kept steady by force of will. "That's a lot of ice."
"No kidding," Sam said slowly, unexpectedly wordless. As if to conceal some uncertainty, she adjusted the strap of her helmet, tucking it beneath her chin.
Get it together!
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