Upon a White Horse
Small scraps and pieces of writing were accomplished. Half formed sculptures of sentences, bereft of grammar and structure now stand frozen along blank pages of manila snow. They are landmarks, twisted screaming statues pointing me in the right direction.
The sickness had spread from my limbs to my head, where it nestled in like a wyrm in a treasure horde. Bathing itself on a heap of golden thoughts. While the sickness held me captive–pouring my greatest collection of jewels into its mouth and spitting them back out like bathwater–I laid upon the couch, wondering what life was like for the healthy.
I rode a horse of white flakes, and heard tell his name was Pox. Together we callivanted (his term, not my own, I assure you) throughout the house. From room to room. Breathing out the spores which attacked us, before sucking them back in with a decaying hiss. I remember–vaguely–lying upon the bed, stroking the hair as it fell out of his neck in great clumps.
“we must depart” he whispered. His eyes rheumy with pink scabs.
“Into the living room. Quick!” he hissed, “The sickness is spreading!”
Together we walked along the fields of my home. Passing unfamiliar walls and decor. A slow clip and clop from beneath me as the horse wheezed and whinnied. The stillness of the once familiar abode was broken only by the horse.
“These are the lands of Plague..” he would say aloud, as if talking to himself.
A new idea was born today, a new story–well, stories. I created something with thoughts, and pen, and paper that I had never thought of before; and it astounded me.
I think it will require a lot of research, for instance: I don’t know a damn thing about the Industrial revolution. And how if effected Russia.
That’s it. My mind is spent, I shall see you in better days, in better health.