A micro story about horseback riding.
I feel like Banksy. Sneak in, spray on, evaporate.
This is wonderful! Playful. Generous. Like that snow I love it!
Thank you so much! I used to enjoy doing this so much as kid, back in the day when I was "immune" to the cold! 🥰
I grew up on a beach and longed to ride a horse along it. I really felt the girl and her horse in this story.
Thank you, Celi! Riding along the beach is something I have never experienced, but it may happen next summer!
That sounds fantastic! At least you aren’t threatened by gopher holes or rabbit holes on the beach.
How bout if I publish in someone’s Comment Corner:
A scar, a scab, a stain: my hand draws the eye as I place my cup.
Drying now, not parchment, a pinkness still; to focused eyes, a told life.
The scar, sixteen, a fishing trip with my father, Come on, Son. Lines cast, laughter flying on a Channel whip.
Surround sound of Home, Sussex piers, seagulls.
The hook caught, in an armchair’s plush I feel the sting.
He bandaged me, that tobacco handkerchief. Strong, gone.
The scab. A knuckled testament to a brother’s distraction.
No helmets then, a roaming. Brownian bicycle Motion. Knees burn, elbows graze, a Seventies of forever.
The stain. Her kingdom, warm but mock. Soup, flour, noise. Nan calls us in.
Teenage hurry, oxtail heat, body art.
Phone in hand. Thumb hovers—my son.
He handles me now.
No unsolicited advice, he asked. It’s better this way.
Yes the back of my hand is dry, the years have stripped and rippled me.
I like it, I am more real, perhaps a man myself.
Connection. Ache. Life.
Late it is, but not too late.
I settle back, pick up my tea.
That dial tone is now the distant gull.
I’m home.
‘Hello dad.’
I feel like Banksy. Sneak in, spray on, evaporate.
This is wonderful! Playful. Generous. Like that snow I love it!
Thank you so much! I used to enjoy doing this so much as kid, back in the day when I was "immune" to the cold! 🥰
I grew up on a beach and longed to ride a horse along it. I really felt the girl and her horse in this story.
Thank you, Celi! Riding along the beach is something I have never experienced, but it may happen next summer!
That sounds fantastic! At least you aren’t threatened by gopher holes or rabbit holes on the beach.
How bout if I publish in someone’s Comment Corner:
A scar, a scab, a stain: my hand draws the eye as I place my cup.
Drying now, not parchment, a pinkness still; to focused eyes, a told life.
The scar, sixteen, a fishing trip with my father, Come on, Son. Lines cast, laughter flying on a Channel whip.
Surround sound of Home, Sussex piers, seagulls.
The hook caught, in an armchair’s plush I feel the sting.
He bandaged me, that tobacco handkerchief. Strong, gone.
The scab. A knuckled testament to a brother’s distraction.
No helmets then, a roaming. Brownian bicycle Motion. Knees burn, elbows graze, a Seventies of forever.
The stain. Her kingdom, warm but mock. Soup, flour, noise. Nan calls us in.
Teenage hurry, oxtail heat, body art.
Phone in hand. Thumb hovers—my son.
He handles me now.
No unsolicited advice, he asked. It’s better this way.
Yes the back of my hand is dry, the years have stripped and rippled me.
I like it, I am more real, perhaps a man myself.
Connection. Ache. Life.
Late it is, but not too late.
I settle back, pick up my tea.
That dial tone is now the distant gull.
I’m home.
‘Hello dad.’