Open fields, though not always. Just a lot of the time. There were open fields and there were sometimes thick forests, or woodland areas, or whatever you want to call them. These were things that needed to be contended with on the odd occasion. Not always; only on the odd occasion. It was fine; There were worse things out there that required attention. Could always be worse. Could be better, but could always be worse.
These were things. There were other things as well, such as open skies, though sometimes they were cloudy and therefore not considered as having the quality of “open”. Sometimes there was rain and rain was a fine thing. Not the worst problem to have, though of course there was the odd flooding here and there and that could cause some issues, let me tell you. However, that’s not the point. The point is that this is painting the medium of the imagery. This is a tale of fantasy, or something. It’s a tale; that much is for sure. How much of it is fantasy is going to depend on how much you believe that the tale is fantasy.
Anyway, with that little bit of building the world out of the way, we need to remember that the story is about an individual.. Theirs was a humble beginning; just a young foal hanging out with its herd of horses and it was also a horse, hence the referring to as a young foal. Not an old foal; a young foal. It was a young horse.
What did this horse do? It did horse things. Galloped about, bit things, kicked things, neighed, made other horse sounds. There was the moving and the not moving. There were the things that horses do. However, this horse was destined for greatness.
Of course I cannot get into that greatness as of yet, for this is just an origin story at this particular point. Well, there will be greatness, but this is just the first part of everything. Can’t start with the fantastic as that might not make for a good continuation of the story. Need to start with the humble. Need to keep things low down for now. Perhaps there will be some tragedy. Just give me time to work it all out first.
Anyway, there was one particular day when this particular foal of the young period of its life went away from the herd with some other horses of the young period of their lives. There was some reasoning behind this, though whatever that reasoning is I am unable to tell, for I am unable to understand what it is that horses say and I am also unable to read the minds of horses, which happen to be psychic don’t you know. Weird thing, but it’s true.
Anyway, these horses were communicating with each other via telepathy as for some reason they didn’t feel much like talking openly with each other in their accursed horse language. Though, if they were talking to each other through the power of the mind, then perhaps there was some sort of telepathic openness.
So they were doing the thing where they go places and they went into the woods of a place that they had not been to since the last time they were there. Whilst there they got to experience things that horses may or may not experience. There was neighing. There was the whinnying. There were some other things. Occasionally some galloping would happen as sometimes horses gallop. Sometimes they don’t gallop, but sometimes they do gallop. It’s a phenomenon of sorts.
Anyway, once that was done the horses then went out of the woods and back to the herd. The particular foal of which this story is about (or at least supposed to be about; it could be tangential) was one of the ones to come out of the woods, as all of the horses came out of the woods of the horses that came out of the woods. In its returning to the herd, it knew that somehow it was destined for greatness, but it did not know if that greatness would indeed arrive, or in what form it would take if it did indeed arrive at all. Still, in knowing it knew, and knowing meant that it knew, so that was good for its conscious at that particular time.
However, as the days passed the weight of expectation grew burdensome and it somehow did not know how to wield the burden properly, and of course it meant that the weight of expectation weighed heavily on its mind. What if it did not want to be destined for greatness? What if it did not want to do things that would imply, suggest or even enforce that greatness? What if it just wanted to be a horse and nothing more than a horse? There are plenty of great things about being a horse. It could eat and gallop and do other things that horses do. It could visit the woods! Could it do these things if it had to fulfill some great destiny that was too abstract to completely understand?
It knew not and so, as the days turned to nights and the nights turned to days, the weight grew greater, though externally nothing changed other than the seasons and its size and suggested maturity as a horse, though of course that maturity was uneven, though paced at a steady, acceptable rate so as to make sure that there was some sort of growing later on down the track.
Eventually the weight became something forgotten, though only mostly, for it still sat there, somewhere in the recesses of the horse’s mind, waiting, for even though these things could be put off and ignored, they could never bee gotten rid of until handled properly, and this was something that the young horse did not understand. As much as it thought it adopted regular living, its story had just begun.
The time it took to write one thousand words: 13:05:62
Might be the silliest thing I’ve written in a while.
Written at home.