Jockeys skidded along the track, straddling empty saddles, reins in hand. A woman grooming her palomino found herself alone in the stall, brush in mid-sweep. A vet filing an old gelding’s teeth nearly face-planted in the barnyard. News reports trampled our hopes that the disappearance was limited. Steppes, valleys, and mountain passes—all had lost their thunder. High-risers who’d never touched, let alone ridden, a horse stared down at sedans and imagined stallions. Mane, Gallop, Canter, and Magnificent became our most popular baby names. Equine artwork soared. A sketch of a mustang fetched more than a Matisse. Then. Every likeness of a horse, from the cave paintings of Lascaux to the driftwood Messenger, joined the real things, wherever they were. We turned to our artists to replenish our collections and obsessions. But the horses they tried to create looked like lumps, trees, and peaches. We were left with only the images in our minds. For a while. They began to fade, despite our chants and meditations. One day, we know, horse will be only a word. And an ache.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has appeared in various journals including Best Microfictions 2025, Gone Lawn, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, and Bottle Rocket. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter handle is @annalou8
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