Short Story 1: A Man And His Mare

It is an early morning in November. You wake up and feel a sticky sensation beneath your blanket. What could this be?

Investigate.

You look at the blanket. To your unfortunate discovery, there is visible coloring of a white-ish liquid, and the smell is vaguely unpleasant, reminiscent of horribly dried pineapple.

Ick.

Very ick.

Having finally woken up with the help of good old-fashioned Ickness, your train of thought briefly reconvenes to the events of the previous day, the precise cause of this early morning detour. You were thinking about...

Erika, old Erika, why did she have to go...

Yes, that was her name, an oh-so pretty name, and the very being to whom your latter-night "incident" was dedicated to yesterday.

You manipulated and concentrated, and at last a vision appeared, the familiar figure of her beauty amidst a field of sunflowers having yesterday provided sufficiently ample fuel in inciting the violent discharging of certain bodily liquids eerily resembling milk that now color chunks of your blanket. You summon a cherished memory. Erika's ears flapped in the wind, as you ride together across a dying sunset in the Grand Valley. Fuck, why did she had to go, as you withhold tears from freely dropping from your eyes: the death of your beloved mare some seven-and-a-half fortnights ago still haunted your dreams, in more ways than one...