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The Pretty Horses
by
Michael A. Nielsen
This is not
the story of some nobody that finds fame, it’s not
a story about a rich or a poor kid, or even a kid
at all, but where should I begin?
I sat beneath a tree on a grassy hill near an old
brick building that appeared crumbled and ancient,
yet stood firm in its foundation. All about me were
people, milling and conversing about the weather
and politics and sports and love, their hands
intermingled in handshakes and loving embraces or
just the casual touch of a human being. In my lap I
held a pad of paper with which I recorded these
visions and actions which took place about me. My
tie hung from my neck, all blue and green with
slashes of occasional red and gold, my shirt all
starched and white and comfortable in its own way.
I inhaled the deep rich air that swirled gently
across the yellow-green grass and began to hum a
distant melody as my pencil scratched against the
open pad. The dark lead drew straight and twisted
lines that blended and curled into shapes of humans
and wildlife and how they both coexisted in what
seemed like a melodramatic state of happiness.
I drew the lofty trees that sprouted here and there
across the crowded field, their limbs stretching
proudly up into the morning sky, the leaves dancing
in the summer breeze. Beneath, in immense expanses,
stood the reddish brick buildings of the
University, row upon row, set in sequence as if
they must match the very science they contested to
be true.
"Draw a strawberry." She said, her dark brown eyes
resting on my face and her thin soft lips curving
into the hint of a smile. They were pink and red
and would probably be the perfect conception of a
strawberry and my mind wandered and remembered them
sweet and cool against my cheek.
And so I agreed and turned the page and glancing at
her lips I began to mold them in my mind and then
transfer it onto the pad in deep dark gashes of red
and orange and leafy green. The whole while she
rested her chin on my shoulder, her curly brown
hair falling down against my neck and chest and she
was quiet and watched without movement until my
rendering was complete. We both gazed at the
drawing for several minutes. The crowds about us
were beginning to dissipate, pending the beginning
of the next series of classes. I sensed a slight
longing in her, a division between remaining here
with me, watching what I would make for her,
touching her skin against mine, listening to the
wind, or returning to the ever ominous amount of
study required for that day.
I took her hand in mine and held it firmly for a
moment, my eyes locked on hers and hinting that I
loved her I tore the paper from the pad and folding
it, placed it in her soft, sun bleached, leather
bag. She smiled and whispered something in my ear
and rising and turning she walked away, and I
watched her go and admired what I thought was mine
until she disappeared around the corner of the
library.
I placed my pen inside its case and reached for the
brown paper sack that lay all crumpled and cold
beside me. From its innards I retrieved two ham
sandwiches and carrots and crackers and macaroni
and celery salad, a box of apple juice a toothpick
and a napkin, and leaning back against the tree, I
fed the only hunger I could at this moment. And I
smiled and ate and was content.
For hours I contemplated the meaning of different
aspects of my life, I wrote and sketched and read
from my favorite novel, the relaxing words soothing
the wrinkles in my mind and retrieving thoughts and
memories of her. In the waning moments of a
majestic sunset, she came again to me, crossing the
circular field, her step all soft yet brisk as the
evening breeze. She sat and admired my works of the
day and we talked about this and that and I
listened to her voice and held her hand and we
watched the sun bleed across the crimson sky until
it finally melted behind the western horizon. She
pulled the chair up close and gave me leverage with
which to place myself upon it and stooping she
gathered my books and pencils and paper and the
remains of the sack lunch and stuffed them in my
blue nylon bag which hung
from the back of the chair. Releasing the brake and
thrusting my hands against the wheels, I set the
chair in motion. She grasped onto the handles and
steadied our voyage across the grass to the smooth
pavement walkway that spiders its way between the
buildings and trees and small grassy hills until
finally reaching the parking lot.
The sky grew
dark and cold and the breeze brushed and clung to
my numb legs and feet and glancing out across the
vast expanse of partitioned blacktop I saw them and
they saw us and they came. Yet she continued to
speak to me, her voice a soothing melody and she
did not understand the danger or merely thought
nothing of it until they were upon us and had
grabbed her and I cried out. I swung my arms wildly
about and struck at them with my fists and raked
their flesh with my nails until they pulled her
away from me and threw her to the ground and her
smooth white knees tore against the jagged gravel.
One of them turned and looked at me and I called
out to somebody, anybody and nobody replied. I
yelled vicious things at them until they beat me
across the jaw and against the chest and I heard
bones break and felt the blood surging in my mouth
and seeping down from my forehead and against my
eyelids. They grabbed our bags and began to search
through them, their filthy hands rubbing against my
pictures and smudging the gentle red of a
strawberry, and they tore into her clothing and
jeered at her nakedness and kicked her until she
could cry no more. With one last rush of energy I
threw myself from the wheelchair and in a rage I
pulled myself toward them, toward her crumpled body
and they laughed at me and spit upon me and then
glancing across the parking lot they turned and
fled in the opposite direction.
I began to sob as I pulled myself across the ground
toward her, the tips of my fingers sliding ragged
across the pavement, my blood mixing with hers
until I finally reached her side and gently took
her bruised and broken body and held her in my arms
and my sobs turned to uncontrollable weeping and my
sides shook with pain and horror and my legs were
cold and dead as usual. I picked the blood clotted
strands of hair out of the creases of her mouth and
eyes and ran my thumb down her swollen jaw and
slender neck searching each vein for a beat of
hope. Fear crept into my soul, gripped my heart,
stilled my breath, the blood and tears mixing in my
eyes and clouding my vision until the pain in my
head and in my side drained the strength from my
living limbs. My world had fallen and lay
breathless in my arms and bled as red as a
strawberry.
And then she moaned.
Tonight the sun is orange and the air is warm and I
watch as dragonflies skim across the tops of
flowers and shrubbery and unpicked weeds. The
horses dance in the field, their manes shaggy and
black and glistening in the setting sun as my brush
folds back and forth smearing color upon color. And
when the wind is still and the clouds hover
silently above, she comes to me and slides her arms
about my neck and kisses me and holds me. And I
cannot protect her and yet she remains and I love
her for it.
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