Brass Ring

The horse's nostrils flare. It snorts with a pair of motionless wooden lungs. The frozen white mane, flung in angry angles, is framed by a bright tasseled bridle that refuses to offer comfort. The mare's wild gallop makes it float endless with its legs curling madly in mid air.

King Diomedes' mares stomp their equine hooves upon my thoughts. Carnivorous.

The horse's red furry can clearly be seen as well as hotly felt. If it becomes any more disturbed it'll burst into flames. Steam erupts from her nostrils.

[Eyes shut tight.] I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

Somewhere an unseen music box opens to tinkle its charm. I can almost see the ballerina twirl in her innocent pinkness.

I've been placed upon this pedestal and left behind, grimacing and trying not to scream. I'm gone from any loving embrace. I'm tied to a drunk eyed demon horse and it's moving away from everything I know.

There are others sharing the same plight. Some are strapped to horrid nags such as mine, others are burdens to monstrous cats, a few are tied fast to dragons and still more sit pinned upon basilisks that threaten to turn us all to stone if ever the tears would clear from our eyes. I see the other children lean out to grab a dangling brass ring by the wayside and try to pull themselves free of their nightmare charge. I also try with every round I get, stretching, with every fear behind my tiny heart. They keep trying too. Our moans are masked by the gaiety of the music box tunes and its mechanical whir.

There's an audience whirling about us that smiles at each of our sufferings. All of them blurry monsters that reflect a thousand times upon a mirror laden column we slowly revolve around. Harry satyr faces grin golden between every odd mirror. It's a mirrored maze I can forever be lost within.

I grab for the brass ring and the onlookers smile widely with tilted heads and gleeful eyes. The leather and metal about my waist gives way in slow motion as I lean farther and farther to the side. I have the brass ring in hand and the onlookers take on a pale look of fear as I descend to freedom.

Someone quickly shuts the music box lid.

It's a decent to a short lived pain, to a finite flow of blood, and to a cold, dark freedom which I cannot fathom how long will last.

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Asdzani Bah & her Pandora Box