by Frances Gapper
I’m a worn-out old horse, slung from an ornamental ceiling, high above pictures of bewigged and fan-holding humans, and a clutter of empty chairs. My legs grow long and thin, stretched by gravity.
I’m lonely. Wishing for at least the distant company of another horse across a field.
My life involved a lot of scolding. After I died, they embalmed me and hauled me up. I guess this happens occasionally to post working age horses. We lucky ones, chosen to be objects of pity and fascination, before our bones and hooves are melted down for glue.
Frances Gapper lives in the UK’s Black Country. Her stories have been published in five Best Microfiction anthologies and lit mags including The Bulb Region, Exposition Review, Your Impossible Voice, trampset and Wigleaf.
