Rocking Horse

Click…clack…click.

The dark figure inches closer then takes a step back.

Clack…click…clack.

Another step forward, followed by another one backwards.

The steady movement of the old wooden horse is powered by a cracked open window, made necessary by the sticky summer heat. The parents opened it and the parents bought the worn rocking horse from a jumble sale that afternoon and the parents were seemingly unaware that it was a windy night.

Their child too was unaware, shivering in the corner of the room under the duvet. Shivering not because of the wind – again, it was a humid July evening – but because of it, the wind and the monster it was creating. The monster that lurked on the wall, taunting the child with its teasing movement.

The rocking horse was supposed to be a surprise, something that the child would discover when they woke up in the morning. Right now, it was indeed a surprise as it was tucked, out of sight, in the other corner of the room and its shadow, the only thing that seen by the four year old, is the monster.

Come morning light, it’d be a well-loved, and handmade old rocking horse with chipped and scratched, but still smooth, wood that sun and use had stained over the years. Until them, it’d be a mystery, a surprise slightly soured.

Click…clack…click.

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