Horses On The Wild Side

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Most people read books at airports. I write books at airports. I was waiting for a connecting flight to Hong Kong, and working on my latest story, when I became aware of a man sitting next to me. His skin had an odd greyish pallor and he smelled of plasticine. I tried to ignore him, but I could feel his eyes boring into my neck just under my right ear.

At first I thought I was imagining that vague burning on my skin, but then I felt the sensation sink into my flesh. I covered the area with my hand and gently massaged the sore spot. Bad move. My skin seemed as hot as a house on fire and the heat prickled my hand with thousands of microscopic needles. Now my hand hurt as well. I tried to pull it away.

“You will keep your hand there,” said a voice in my head.

I looked over at the grey skinned man who smelled of plasticine. He was smiling at me, an evil, knowing smile. “You will do as I say,” he said, without moving his lips.

He gestured for me to look at the people around me. They either were sitting perfectly still or shuffling along mindlessly. Yikes! I was in Zombieland.

“I have control now,” he said, “and you will do whatever I say.”

I winced. My brain hurt whenever he spoke. I wished he would shut up and go away.

“I will ask you a question and you must tell the truth,” he said. “I will know if you aren’t telling the truth. I asked all the others and they lied. You can see the result.”

I said nothing. It could have been because he wanted me to say nothing, but it was more than that. I was struck by something he’d said that seemed to contradict something else he’d said. What was it? My brain felt like there were tiny wild horses stampeding through it and I could not gather my thoughts together.

“Are you ready for the question?” He was smiling now. Really, the man needed a good dentist.

“Remember, I have control and you must tell the truth.”

Bingo. The wild horses slowed to a walk. There were six of them, all white, all with eyes as dark as coal, and one of them was winking at me.

“May I ask a question first?” At least, that is what I hoped I said. It sounded more like “Mer oisker qwist onfiths?”

His eyes opened wide in surprise. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you.

“If you have control, and people must tell the truth, how is it they can lie?"

His jaw dropped down and almost hit his chest. I could hear his breathing growing increasingly raspy. His eyes opened even wider until the left one popped right out. I screamed. He screamed. Then everyone else started screaming. We screamed and screamed and screamed, the airport echoing with our combined voices, creating an unearthly choir of terrible chaos, crescendoing to a deafening roar.

The grey skinned man who smelled of plasticine leaped out of his seat, threw his hands into the air and imploded with a dull 'thwamp'. The screaming stopped short, replaced instantly by the sounds of the airport on a normal day, serving the needs of normal people. All that was left of the man was large, grey puddle which was about to be mopped up by a surly man dressed in an airport uniform, and carrying a bucket, sponge and squeegee. In moments, even the puddle was gone.

I sat there neither writing or reading. The horses were still there, grazing in the paddock of my mind’s eye. It’s a dangerous place in there at times. Horses on the wild side.

Inspired by a prompt from Jill Badonsky in The Muse Is IN Writing Club.