The Shine Journal

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Force Feeding the Fed by Kim Farleigh

The asphalt vein, disappearing into vapours, was silvery, glinting black from rain.

Heavenly blues, whites, and greys enhanced earthly greenness, lit-up vapours against black mist.   

Shadows extinguished sun-lit green, changes magnified by silence. 

Horses snouts were touching in a field, neck bells chiming, quietude deepened by peeling.

“Look!” Teresa said.

The huddled horses were eating bundled grass.

“How lovely,” Teresa said.

Mist toupees softened distant peaks.  Bald, granite busts topped wig-clustered trees on a facing slope, boulders like firm ideas in green.

Peter parked.  Another car appeared.  A man rushed out of the still moving car and charged towards the horses, his right hand outstretched.

“Hey!” he yelled.

“Idiot!” Peter gasped.

“God!” Teresa said.

The horses turned away.  The man held out bread.  The horses turned away.  The man followed, hand outstretched, the horses turning away, the man’s hopeful eyes glinting, arm outstretched, horses turning away.  

“Those boulders are more sensitive than this idiot!” Peter snapped.

The horses avoided the man’s outstretched arm, the man saying: “Hey!” his tone less certain.

“The horses are well fed here,” Teresa said.  “They’re not interested in bread.”

The man followed the horses, determined to establish that his desires were legitimate; but the horses, flicking their heads, escaped up a hill, their indifference spilling over into annoyance, their head-flicking more severe, the bells clanging without the sedate peacefulness of their previous rhythms, manes shaking with shaking heads, the man still attempting to thrust bread into their faces.

“Moron!” Peter hissed.

“This is like someone trying to stuff food down your throat after you’ve just walked out of a restaurant,” Teresa said.

Mists were serene behind the man’s head.  The horses nibbled the hill’s grass, their contented disinterest resembling the clouds’ serenity.  They wandered back down the hill, leaving the man at the top. 

The man’s wife stroked a horse’s snout.  She had just fed the horse an apple.  She was sitting on her car’s driver’s seat, the car’s doors open. 

Stroking the horse’s snout, she glanced up at her husband.  The man’s fists were full of the bread that he couldn’t give away, his arms straight by his side.  The changing clouds behind his head emphasised his perplexed rigidity.  His wife’s eyes glistened as if silver had been placed into her pitying irises.  

“Let’s go,” Peter said.

The horses’ tails, flicking jerkily, resembled whips swatting away imaginary threats.

The man’s rejection got emphasised by summit serenity.

“Poor bastard,” Peter said.

Intention had overcome method as the key issue in Peter’s mind.

Teresa looked at him quickly.



BIO: Having a taste for the exotic, Kim has worked for aid agencies in three conflicts: Kosovo, Iraq and Palestine.  His stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Whiskey Island, Southerly, Island, Write From Wrong, Unlikely Stories, Full of Crow, Mudjob, Down in the Dirt, The Camel Saloon, Haggard & Halloo, Descant, Feathertale, The Red Fez, Red Ochre Lit, The sand Journal, The Houston Literary Review, Sleet and Negative Suck. 

Motivation:An experience where my attitude towards someone did an about-turn.

Click the pics to meet the members!

 

Editor: Pamela Tyree Griffin

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