The Girl Who Loved HorsesMature

The sun bloomed atomic upon the tips of trees and stone, forcing its sizable drunkard's belly over the confines of the physical world and the mind. Its mass burgeoned red orange upon the canvas of virgin clouds, inseminating their flowing pale fleshes, celestial above where she hung, solitary in a small, dirty locker in the corner of the dressing room of the gods. The lights were returning, garments being redrawn after darkness lovemaking, the drippings of which had painted the stars now fading. She had seen the supernatural coitus in her dreams, and as it vanished she awoke. The grass in the fields swayed, its voice the final whisperings of the lovers before they withdrew until dusk.

Life roved along the creek shores of mud and small, current bleached stones, the movement of its host breathing, dispelling aura to the hollow it severed. Twenty-three paces from the veranda, memories hung in it like the Indian summer heat currently fallen. Her and him under trees, a sky beyond arms where leaves had been, their veins lit by afternoon sunflare, kissed in heat. The soul connector, a flesh crossroads. And a moss contorting itself to her flesh to soothe her shoulder blades. Back beyond warm walls, she rose and covered her breasts.

Dust drew up in clumps like flowing hair under waters at the event of tires rushing over the dirt spine through the woods. The red chrome shone in a rush of dawning celestial light as it moved through alleyways of redwood towards the metropolis; her love had left. The place where she had lay was unkempt, a derelict, cold valley of loneliness wrought of the ignorant throwing of dirty sheets. She had not felt her lips' osculation upon her leaving, her face dry upon her ascent from the depths of the nocturnal. Drawing denim up across her bare thighs, she realized she had forgotten when hands had stroked them; she remembered that love was spelt via fourteen letters, e-t-e-r-n-a-l-s-a-d-n-e-s-s, and her chest felt as a brick through pane glass. And the valley of loneliness was crumpled but remained. In her head General Buck Turgidson confided plastically to his telephone that it was at no possibility only physical, but that he deeply respected her as a human being; words that leaked of the black comedy falsity in which they were contrived, words the organic could never dream.

Cuts of bread incarcerated in oven slots, flesh searing, readied to be lubricated by butter via blade dawned an odour upon the room. She produced a glass of milk filled half-size and drew it to her lips, chin ascending, throat undulating in chops. Her lips gripped the glass in a way they had never touched other objects or things of the physical because it was it and its contents that fed her want and not vice versa. Her throat had parched from the sonorous but subtle nocturnal display, and the glass and its fill could resolve that in their lack of the motivation that the flesh overtly possessed. Never had she touched with her lips anything other than nutritional substance that could give a solace the weight of thousand worlds or, even, in actuality, the weight of brick. Finished, she lowered the receptacle from her lips to the countertop, exhaling upon the crisp autumn interior air as she turned her eyes out, out upon the hazy atomic massacre underway on the bowl of the morning sky. And in her head their muscles contorted and spasmed, their masses thrown forward in fly-- horses. Awakened now, she dreamt horses.

The telephone quartered the room with a loud but bloodless screech, cutting the white silence. In her corneas the blacksmith sky doused, twisted and pursed, the telephone yells aflood in the prisms of her nerves cutting off the perception of her eyes with past thoughts in beats. Flesh flashing. Teeth confiding. Eyes contorted by halos of condemnation. A soul hung as a puppet of unfathomable designs, she drifted, not comprehending her movement or motive, to shores and docks of the utility counter which bore the device on its spine. Across the infinite wires and centuries of its technology unfound his voice was composed in bombast. She was not presented an opportunity to speak.

"Eleanor, it had better be you; if it ain't get off the fucking phone."
"It's Eleanor."

"Good. You know, girl, you didn't talk me down very kindly last I called."

"Last night."

"Fucking right. Now you listen to me, El. I've been thinking and you will not talk to me like that you dirty whore. You stay out on the farm with that fucking lez and I'll break your goddamn neck."

"I'm staying with my horses."

"You do not say no to me. I'll break you down into the shit you are. You are coming back to the city."

"I'm not."

"You won't talk to me that way!"

"Hey, you know what?"

"Don‘t you dare--"

"Shut up! Shut up!"

"You will not talk--"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Just shut up! Now you listen you stupid fuck, I'm finished with you and finished with all your ideas. Finished, do you fucking hear me?"

"You... You will come back to city or I swear to God I will break you--"

"Fuck you, dad!"

A slap of plastic upon plastic broke the line and the upset, sun straining through the cotton curtain weaves. In her meaningless existence, molecular upon the face of the cosmic expanse, she cried tears that would only dry and be sucked into clouds. In the sky some supernatural hands displaced the sun's cape of colours to draw it tediously back, in fade, to its sharp mountain grave. And above the sun continued onward naked, and she dreamt of horses.

The End

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