He’d been wishing the horse his whole life. As a boy, he managed the tail, pinned to nothing out back. As he grew older, the outline of flanks and a golden neck were visible in the right light. When his desire couldn’t sculpt the chest, he realized love was rain on the fire of his imagination. Loneliness ignited his creativity. By the time he was gray, the horse was nearly whole. On his deathbed, he visualized the right front fetlock. Too weak to check whether the horse was complete, his last words were Tell me. There was no one to answer. But the horse, at last, was free.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn and Moonpark Review. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
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