Saturday's Storyteller: "The snow horse stood motionless, its watchful eyes oblivious to the slaughter before it."
by Belinda Roddie The snow horse stood motionless, its watchful eyes oblivious to the slaughter before it. This was because it was made of snow, and therefore, its eyes weren't exactly watchful at all. Mainly, they watched nothing. They saw nothing. But they were there. The child who had built the snow horse lay dead with three arrows in his chest. A small wound above his left eye - which at a closer glance made up for its width with its depth - had been inflicted by a dagger with an overly ornate handle, glittering green in the quieting blizzard. Bit by bit, the shades of red and brown upon the youth's body was becoming covered in white. Of course, something would make the fresh corpse freely bleed, and the white, consequently became crimson again. It, too, would be covered in more white. There was nothing the snow horse could do to stop the carnage. The war had gone on for seventeen years already - not even the innocent were allowed to live anymore. The snow horse also