There was once a horse, which is always tethered to the back of the wagon, rather than on the front of it, like his companions. And this horse wasn’t a bad horse; he could run, he could sprint, and perhaps even out-sprint, but tied to the back of the wagon and perpetually led and dragged along, he forgot that he could run. He forgot that he could rear his legs, and stare down the horizon and the lands beyond (for horses can always see beyond everything, and beyond everything is where they run) and plunge into a gallop where freedom brings fleet to his feet and the rushing air are trails of his wings.

In time he forgot that he was a horse, but a single entity that follows where the wagon led, which in turn is led by his companions, which in turn are under the reigns of Men.

It was the same everyday. He would wake, and eat, and follow where the wagon went, staring at the wooden frame, occasionally looking at the passing scenery at his sides, but never anything ahead of him. He would just walk, and walk some more, when the noose around him tightened and tensed. And all the while he could only hear the clop-clopping of his march, sometimes the calling of Men, but everything else that enters his ears are merely distant echoes of familiarity; dull shades of the past, or of canvases that he had never seen but had always known to exist.

It was the same everyday. Wake, eat, walk. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Clop.

It rained one day. Heavy, relentless and malicious. For once the horse didn’t hear the unending clopping, drowned by the thunderous claps the dark, toiling visage above that saw fit to brew calamity. But it was there in his mind. Clop. Clop. Even when his hoofs struck mud more than solid earth. Even when the winds howl, and the lighting flared, and the thunder boomed and doomed and loomed.

In his mind it was Clop. Clop. Clop. In front of him was the wagon, perhaps blurred by the curtain of rain, but still the wagon, wooden frame and all, wobbling and tumbling occasionally.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Clop.

Boom.

The sound of thunder; loud, shuddering, shattering. It exploded in the horse’s ear.

Silence.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Boom.

It wasn’t distant. It wasn’t an echo. It wasn’t a deep rumble brought from far away by the winds. It was loud and crashing and near.

Boom.

And the horse reared. He kicked; he tore and pulled. He yanked and tugged and lashed. The wagon skewed. His companions neighed, and the men yelled. The horse pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled.

The rope snapped.

And the world exploded.

It wasn’t clopping anymore. There weren’t wooden frames that wobbled ahead. Everything that passed at the side is blurs and sweeping lines of colours.

It was thunder as his hooves struck the ground. Massive, immense, powerful. Free. Ever-changing, ever unpredictable. And the winds that howled are the trails his wings leaves behind to the world that can never catch up.

Ahead was the horizon, and everywhere beyond it.

And that was where he ran.

* * * *

Perhaps I should’ve placed it in Monochrome Smogs, but I typed it down when I was trying to blog about today, and it was another product that came to be with a random sentence written down for no apparent reason.

Another nonsense, but it feels good to write something spontaneously. Perhaps I might get a more substantial plot in the future, and possibly something for the short story competition I saw tacked on a notice board (which deadline is this Saturday).

Goodnight People.