Photo: Photo by Mikael Kristenson on Unsplash
Note: For the next year, I plan to write a short story every day. Some may be palatable, even enjoyable(?). Others may be horrendous. If you like them, like them or share them. If you don’t, well it is whatever. I’m doing it as a challenge someone gave me. I’m calling these my fivers. I try and write them without stopping in five minutes, little to no editing after the time limit. Each story or post will come from a different prompt I am given. These are just exercises for me to be in the process of writing.
Philip means “lover of horses.” For some reason as a kid, I always assumed that meant I was supposed to love horses. Well, I naturally did, and I still do. I guess Ecclesiastes is right that a good name is worth more than many things. Anyway, I got a chance to ride horses for a week when my parents left for a trip, which I believe was for their anniversary. I’m not sure many people know this, but I have quite the imagination. For a week, a family friend at the time would let me ride one of her horses while we trailed the surrounding area. However, one time I very vividly remember my mind concocting a great escape with that horse I was riding. This is that vividly imagined escape.
Mrs. Beers would allow me to ride the horse by myself; I had just turned seven at the time. She would hold the horse with an extra rope to guide my traveling buddy with me, yet every once and awhile I could tell that she would loosen her grip. It would be at this moment when we came to a field that I would grab the reins of my life and consequently the horse to blaze forward in a dash of glory. I would channel my inner John Wayne and let my horse run like the wind. I’d become a modern day cowboy in the hills of NW PA. Everyone would know of my fame, yet no one would ever know where I was. It was a fanciful idea, and my mind raced —at the time, I was obsessed with John Wayne and Disney movies.
Then, the time arrived we came to an open field that overlooked the sleepy little town of Saegertown. She told me to look out, but my mind was entirely focused on letting just a tiny bit go of the rope. She pestered me. My hands became sweaty, and I held my breath. I could feel my mouth wanting to scream, “Yeehaw!!” Then my horse cocked its head around to me, and he shook his head. He felt it, and he knew. In a blink of an eye, I could feel myself tightening my hands around the reins. Before I knew it, my faithful steed shook his head once again, and then he pooped. Like that, my hopes were dashed. At the time, I believed that it would be quite inconsiderate for me to ask a horse to poop and run. A botched plan because of a pooping horse. So, I shook my head, chuckled, and took in the view.
I whispered, “One day, steed, we will race toward the sunset.”