Imogene hits the hallway runnin'

The gossamer door hangs loosely on two ancient hinges, even new to the world Imogene can tell what isn't. She takes a tiny hoof and knocks ever so gently on the base of it....

:ckack:

Tiny noise, insignificant even enough to awake the sleeping giants, she tries her luck again in opening the door even a sliver enough to get herself through...

:CLACK!!: her hoof reverberates at her own audacity, and the shift begins...

... a wimper is let out by the bottom hinge, a giving up of sorts. Letting one world open upon the next the door slides a quarter of an inch, and subsides in its work for the day. Groaning against the top hinge, the white boards upon boards nailed together for eternity bend to Imogene's will, and swing open another whole inch.

She is through... and into the hall she stumbles, the light suddenly gone black against the skins of her eyes, naked bumbling onto the worn rug and dust up to her neck. She runs......

Toward what, she doesn't know.

Freedom, new life, questing and more.

Another worn out threadbare rug reaches under her fleeing hooves and sends her spiraling towards the top of the stairs... noises begin to ring in her ears. So fierce and uncontrollable she stops instantly and collides with the wainscoting...

"WOOF!!!!" Reeeeeerrroooof!!!

A growl, a tension, a bloody war cry of the mongrels below... her heart stuck in her throat she ceases all movement, not even her nostrils dare flare in this dire moment of truth.

The monsters have puppies.... and they are now awake.

Imogene Leaves

The enormous spread of the place astonishes Imogene. The sheer expanse of the world, how it seems to go on forever, wood paneled horizons, glass reflections ebbing the distance, she cannot comprehend the ratio. Under two ounces in weight, her size dwarfed by all solid presence in the room which makes up her entire world.

Imogene slowly trots toward the denim divide, separating her from sure freedom. At once she is up, on top of the pile, conquering the cloth with each tiny hoof. Stumbling down the backside, half entrenched in a back pocket and then back out, she makes her way down the rough blue slope to the floor again.

Exhausted, Imogene rests her head on her front legs for a moment to regather her strength. She looks behind her at the jeans I left by the nightstand and finds herself a hero in the making. Having overcome such odds she knows little will be able to stop her in her quest, her sullied gaze finds solace in the wood floor again as she herds her legs into a standing position. Sure on her feet now, rested and in the right frame of mind for adventure, Imogene starts off with a sprint toward the door.

The tiny clacking of hooves barely heard by the slumbering giants. The door to the rest of the world lies looming ahead, approaching at unbearable speed and with an agility unmatched in her size category, Imogene reaches her destination.

Imogene Walks

First one leg sprouts, then two, she is human if a little awkward. Then two more dance their way out of the shell, attached, alive - a centaur is born.

She is Imogene.

Today she will walk.

With a tiny fury of muscles rippling over her soft down coat from nape to tail, the Little Horsey Girl tests her strength. Knee bones hit pine, shell crackles under hoof - she struggles to her newly formed four. The first attempt is a stumble to her face, hair asunder, lip trembling with fear and trepidation for the coming glory. Attempt #2: Back legs stand and lock; front right hoof sinks into the woody surface of her birthplace and plants firmly; front left whimpers, shakes off excess shell and dust - and sticks.

She is up.

Raising her large head to the sky, sun dappled cheeks grow with a grin not known to the underbelly of the bed before this morning.

Imogene walks.

Adventures are surely awaiting.

Imogene walks out from under the giant slumber of birth, toward destiny, toward heroism, toward the pair of jeans left next to the night stand.

The birth

*CRACK*

... and there she was fully formed from an old discarded eggshell left under my bed. I had made breakfast in bed for Darryl one sullied spring morning and in the tryst that followed, certain decorative breakfast paraphernalia launched and fell to the ground.
Quickly rolling toward the massive dust bunnies, the only former inhabitants of the abode save the occasional loose sock or balled up kleenex from cold and flu season, the shell settles into a pouch of secrecy and waits.
Fast forward ten aching months of solitude, fortitude and the good fortune of lazy housekeeping habits, and the day finally came for the Little Horsey Girl to enter this world...