How could I think? The embers pulsing silently in the fire, the words that were whispered in the back of my mind. Fabricated, crafted, specifically for my brain, fed to my brain, only to be seen by my brain’s eyes.

Godspeed. Helplessness. Tell everything you want me to hear, I’ll say it. It will breathe from my tongue and flow from my veins. Heavenly earth waiting for a choice, for a word to end our collective thoughts. Our memories tangled rat’s tails with heads waiting to be put out of our misery. Orbiting, spiraling downwards ending nowhere but the end. Our brains confused about where and when the end was. Burn slowly on the fire, blazing towards uncertain death. Sleepy slipping downwards. Tired heads in the same grave.

So how could I think? Think of anything but a time and place that didn’t exist yet. A time for final breaths.

Every day, for the last five years, I rode my horse. Every day, I had a particular destination. And every day, it was the same place. A field. A grassy opening at the top of a hill was the only clear way through. A few skimpy trees sat deathly silent on either side of the pass and grew into a thick forest around the field more towards the bottom of the hill. Not a single branch shivered, not one mouse rustled between the leaves. There had been no animals in this forest for a long time. The silence was pungent and dizzying.

My horse always refused to go through the grassy pass. He stayed, nervous and pacing at the top of the hill, eyes wide and hide tingling with panic. I went into the field. The shin-high weeds scathed my legs, making me want to reach down and scratch them, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from forward. Every blade of grass was perfectly still, like tiny spears sticking up from the earth. I stopped. Right in the center of the field, right in the center of the weeds that stood frozen, holding their breath, I stopped. Then, it changed. The trees began to gently sway, the grass lurched back and forth in the non-existent breeze. My hair moved lightly on my shoulders. I tried to keep my eyes open as long as I could… but… I blinked, and in the same spot I had burned my eyes staring at was… something. Down at the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the thick forest. It was the color of spilled ink, an upright shadow. A silhouette. It looked like a three-legged deer, but its limbs were awkwardly bent and twisted. It seemed as if it had antlers, but there was more of a dark mass on either side of its head rather than the light, intricate twigs bucks had. But it moved at the bottom of the hill back and forth; its body moved up and down as if it were limping, but its mangled legs never seemed to touch the ground. Back and forth, its body moved painfully slow, but fluidly. Back and forth. It had no recognizable distinctions between body parts, just one blot of ink moving back and forth. It had no eyes, but I could tell it was looking straight at me. Back and forth. Its stare became more intense. The grass swayed more furiously, whipping my calves. Back and forth. I blinked. Gone. The silhouette was gone. The grass froze upright, like little daggers. The trees held their breath. My ears were clogged with the thick emptiness of silence. I didn’t turn my back on where I had seen the phantom and shuffled my way back to the grassy pass. I didn’t blink. I was too afraid that if I blinked the inkblot would return, greater in size, and threaten to spill out over the sky, leaving me in the watery darkness.

My horse was ebony in the shadows, but under the lashes of the setting sun, he bore his true mahogany color, reflected by shimmering gold light peeling out the rainbow colors of his fur. I watched the translucent spectrum in his fur ripple in waves as his muscular shape fluidly ran. It was mesmerizing. The world moved in slow motion dramatized by the hazy light barely making it through the clouds. The air felt yellow and heavy-- it could drown you. I felt claustrophobic under the clouds. Dusk was suffocating. My horse ran through molasses, he could never run fast enough, darkness worked at a quick pace, sweeping effortlessly closer and closer to his tail. Every hoof-step had to wade through the thick yellow-green sludge; the dusk light covered the ground. Frenzied sprinting, the sun had passed so slowly through the sky all day, but now as cold darkness chased it, it streaked across the olive clouds. Finally, seeing the castle just ahead, my horse sloshed his way gaining speed, finding his footings in the vomit-colored bog. He surpassed the race of quick-flowing ink and stumbled to a stop in front of the dilapidated towers. Bucking and bowing I fought him to the stables and lashed a frayed twine rope around his neck. A wild panic slashed his eyes as he smelled the fear entwined in the noose. He didn’t blink.

I ran to the last chamber on the second level, sprinting down the stone hallways and slammed the oak door to its latch. I fumbled for a match and scraped my finger raw on the matchbox. I lit a tiny stub of a candle, dried wax sliding under my fingernails. Just as the candle was lit, the blackness filled in the sky and siphoned off my air. The flame didn’t flicker or move, it was as still as my breath.

Constant.

Fear.

From outside my window, laced with iron bars, I heard my horse forcefully bray. I stood perfectly still for another minute until I could feel… something watching me. Something staring intensely. The fixed light the candle gave off began to flicker, the edge of a small tapestry hanging off on one wall began to curl slightly, my eyelashes fluttered barely. I dragged my feet to the oak door, my eyes ravenously open. I brought my face to the small window in the door. The hallway was dimly illuminated by my candle. Nothing was there. Finally, my eyes burned and cried for mercy-- and I blinked.

Boom.

The inky deer.

Pressed against the stone wall, not moving, staring right at me.

Boom.

The candle behind me whipped too ferociously and blew out.

Boom.

Darkness.

Boom.

An ear-splitting scream. A scream so tortuous it shattered every fragment of air.

Boom.

Silence.

Death.

By the time the sun was able to emerge, it hid behind the slate clouds in shame. The day held a sharp, crystal vision of the moggy events of yesterday. I went to the stables. My horse was mahogany in the sun, but under the dark eves of the barn, it bore its true ebony color, painted with the crimson streams of his blood. Thick and slick, the blood plastered to each razor of hair. My horse would never be mahogany again. His lips were snarled back in a shriek, the noosed rope kept his head aloft and bend over his fallen body. I removed the heavy worn thick lash of twine. I let his heavy head plummet towards the soft hay bale of sleep. I didn’t have much time until darkness plowed through the land again. I had to get going.

My horse was white in the morning light, but under the heavy rays of the dusk sun, she bore her true ivory color, creamy and delectable. As I rode I thought of how her blood would spread across her body, rich and maroon. Like a red velvet cake with delicious cream frosting, her blood sweet and irresistible.

A river doesn’t seem like much

Maybe a stream, a babble, a brook

A trickle of water

But as time passes,

a river begins to surge

and tear into the earth

leaving its mark on the world

A river becomes a stampede,

powering through every bank, turn and delta

And inspires us

Those accomplishments create a canyon

Rivers dry up.

But in their place, train tracks can be laid

And as you sit on that train

And look out that window

All you see is the grandness of the canyon

The lush green of the trees that the river fostered

And you cannot describe that chasm

You cannot fathom the words to explain the impact the river had.

How that river created such an eternal scar in the land

in our hearts

But with every cut is a mountain

Forever standing tall for us

And forever looking down at that little train puffing its way through the valley.

And that train chugs and persists to make that mountain proud.

Grandpa is my mountain.