The Lost Islands
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we're the trash in your bed


Atlantis, the home away from home; heaven; a place of dreams.

How many times had Psychedlic crested these white-sand beaches and crisp, turquoise waters? How many times had he looked from picturesque beach to thick jungle, marveling at the burst of colors and life it maintained year-round? If not for his distinct distaste for herd life and his glee for inhabiting the Lagoon and living among his bachelor brothers, the little white-splashed dunalino might have set-up shop on Atlantis years ago.

A breathy exhale of happiness left his lungs and a wide smile rested over his mouth once it was out. He looked up and down the shoreline, allowing the summer sun to soak into his damp coat as he stood still.

Wonder who lives here now. What was that last guy’s name?

“That was the Ridge, you idiot. This is Paradise.”

Fine. The Ridge then. Who was that?

“Something about fire or something… Ember? Smoke?”

Asche?

“Yeah!”

I said it before and I’ll say it again, bachelor stallions aren’t here to be your buddy.

“Well I’m not here to be theirs, either.”

But you are trespassing.

If horses could shrug, Psychedelic probably would have. While his imaginary companion had a point, the bachelor didn’t seem to mind it much (if ever). Enough time had passed and enough fights had left Psychedelic with experience in his noggin and scars on his hide. If anything, Psychedelic invited the dramatics of a band stallion. They amused him with their macho mindset. If he wanted to enjoy an afternoon on Atlantis, he was going to enjoy an afternoon on Atlantis; invisible border lines be damned.

With such a mindset firmly in place and his coat dry with flecks of salt stuck to the skin, Psychedelic started off toward the shadows of the jungle, turning to walk along the shoreline but stick to the shade. He had a mind for a nice walk and truly didn’t care who or what he might run into.

we're the drunken gods of the living dead
WE'RE THE VOICE, WE'RE THE VOICE, WE'RE THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD


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