wild horses.

[I haven’t thought of a title yet.]

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Grey and white save for the conifers that populate the forest dashing bits of green here and there, though the wind has tipped them westerly and the snow has fallen atop them, pushed the tips of every needle towards the earth, stretched out like ostrich necks, fearing more ice and wind.

That was the year that he abandoned the horses. Money was tight and paying for feed was a near impossible task each month. Two of them he slaughtered himself. Economical hardship had caused him to place regulations, laws and taboo on the back-burner. Nevermind the peculiarity of the slaughtering of the domestic animal, he thought, times are hard and I’ve a family to feed. So he slaughtered two of the horses much like he would have slaughtered the cattle if he hadn’t sold it off to pay mortgage for the winter. He put the roasts, the flank steaks, the ground horse meat, and all other cuts into the freezer, removing one of the many varieties the day before to allow it to thaw in the kitchen sink. At first he wasn’t thrilled to feed it to the family and the family was not thrilled to eat it, but after the arrival of the first butterfly steak on the plate and the movement of one hunk of flesh to the masticating jaws of his daughter it was decided that the meat was far more edible than expected; the opinions bordering on surprisingly good. The horse meat was sweet. He would have placed it someplace between beef and venison. He freed the other horses from the stable. There were three that confusedly ran off into the snowy conifers.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. The moose have retreated to the caves on the southern face of the mountain and he can see them pacing at the entrance; they are weary of the bears hibernating deeper into the tunnels, but more terrified of the gusts that threaten to drag them down by their antlers.

That was the year that he realized moving to the mountains, away from the city, in order to lead a life fueled by agricultural was a poor life decision. It wasn’t that he was a poor farmer, no, but he simply didn’t have the funds to withstand the maintenance on the barn, on the stable, on the tractor. And when he was faced with the worst winter he could have imagined he began to slip into desperation. So the family ate the horses. To save money for springtime finances he chopped away at the barn daily, barely fending off frostbite, in order to gather wood to burn in the fireplace. The thermostat runs at a lower temperature. While at night his daughter sleeps between he and Catherine, his wife. They moved the bed into the living room, right next to the fireplace. Catherine complained only to the dishes, never furthering the sickness of guilt that plagued her husband. The daughter, Madison Faye, spent some of the few hours of daylight in the yard making snow angels and praying to them, asking them for something to eat besides horse meat, a softer blanket, and a puppy. She was six years old and did not understand the severity of the situation.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. In the mornings the daughter would make three angels in the snow right outside of the window and the angels rose up from the frozen earth to speak with the father from time to time; they brought bad news of more snow and more ice.

That was the year that he chopped off the tip of his middle finger while sawing a plank from the barn door into thirds so that it could fit easily into the fireplace. He was wearing gloves when it happened, and as he saw the tip of his glove hit he ground and the blood spurt after it he nearly fainted. He stared blankly at the tip on the ground, could see a small white bone, before swooping down and picking it up. He moved quickly to the house, carrying the tip with his pinky and ring finger of his injured hand while trying to quell blood flow with his other hand. The blood stained the fresh powder snow and steam rose from each splatter. He burst through the doorway and fell to his knees, holding up his bleeding hand, the blood trickling down his wrist, soaking the dry portions of his wool covered hand. The look in his eyes said ‘doctor,’ and without putting a second thought into it his wife picked up the car keys, grabbed a jacket for herself and began dressing her daughter for the cold. Madison Faye’s eyes had filled with tears.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Darkness had settled and the light radius emitting from the house displays only the empty graves of angels.

That was the year that he realized living far away from the rest of civilization was a terrible mistake. His finger was well beyond repair when they made it to the hospital. The doctor did what he could, which was little more than apply a salve of sorts and bandage the wound. The combination of the two slowed and then stopped the bleeding. His wife had been awake through most of the night, sleeping here and there while her daughter napped in her lap.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. Where the blood was splattered from the saw-teeth that gnawed the bone there is fresh snow, hoof prints, foot prints, and from that corner of the property voices, shouting and the scrape-scraping of metal on metal are heard.

That was the year that he saw the horses he had freed clad in heavy armor and trotting alongside the car as it putted along the ice covered rode. He tried to warn his wife but she was convinced that the Vicodin the doctor had given him for pain had caused him to hallucinate. But there, where the darkness from the trees fell beside the road the three angels were dressed in war gear. The angels carried swords in their right hands, had shields strapped to their backs, had covered their hands in gauntlets, their feet in greaves, and their chests in sturdy, plate mail stained brown with dried blood. The horses moved just behind the car on its passenger side. The angels weary of being seen, being careful to stay in the blind spot, stayed hidden in the shroud of the trees. As the car neared an S-curve the angels picked up speed, dashed in front of the vehicle as it began to make its way around the first curve. The horses stopped fifteen yards in front of the car but Catherine could not stop the car in time. Her reaction time was off because she saw three winged creatures mounted atop armored beasts but that was the least of her problems. The road here was covered with a thick layer of ice and the brakes failed stop the car before it careened into the three horses. The angels, of course, spread their wings, and began their ascent to wherever it was they were off to next. But the car collided with the horses and the armor that covered their bodies damaged the car or punctured their skin and broke their bones. The car was heavily damaged by the size of the horses, by the strength of the alloys used in creating their armored plating. Catherine and Madison were fine, though they were momentarily unconscious, caused mostly by shock rather than the impact. The husband, he would never wake up again, though he would not die for many years.

It is at exactly the same moment that the hum of the radiator disappears and the wind that rattles the windows and whistles a vicious howl ceases to exist. The windows have fogged over and frozen, a stained glass window lacking in color but abundant with creamy swirls and spider web cracks. But there is one spot where the palm of his hand has been pressed against the glass and this spot delivers a tunnel vision view of the winter world outside. His daughter watched her mother moving boxes of their possessions to the moving truck, she no longer made snow angels for fear that they would get her mother next.