Weekly Creative Writing #10
The trot echoed down through the street in a mesmerizing sort of way. In fact, the children who lived there often tell their grandchildren about Mr. Montmorency’s peculiar horse, whose gaits always seemed to be completely random, un-patterned and unlike any other hack in the city. The cabby seemed to take pride in his equestrian anomaly, though, and the beast had always served him well. How could he complain? About the horse, that is.. there were plenty other things to complain about, for sure. His daughter, for instance. Down with a fever, the poor, sickly thing. It made him shiver a little just to think of her drawn little face, so stoic and never complaining, but obviously suffering. But ah! Here’s a gentleman wishing to go to the station. The portly little object in a plum suit hopped into the cab and they pulled away, through the crowded city streets, full of people. Sometimes he thought about how, if everyone’s paths through the city for the day were marked out, there would be so many interwoven paths that they would be indistinguishable. But they are not marked out, none of ours are, and their footsteps leave no apparent trace upon the cobblestones, though they will over generations and generations. Someday someone will walk upon these same stones and wonder how it was when the times we only know in monochrome were full of vibrant colors and sounds and smell and all of the dimensions that make our present so magical... but right now, Mr. Montmorency is only worried about finding another passenger, and this worry takes him straight to the edge of the city. He barely notices the photographer standing in an adjacent lot when he halts to pick up a middle-aged gentleman, but the photographer notices the colorful trap and captures the moment... forever. A tiny tranche, or slice, of the time that existed. But it’s hardly even a slice... it’s been sucked dry, devoid of all life and color and vividity. But it is all we have. Perhaps that is the only image of Mr. Montmorency and his equine friend that exists. Perhaps his income did not permit frivolities like photographs. Perhaps this chance shot is all that remains of a local legend, aside from the stories and memories of the now-elderly. Perhaps that’s how Mr. Montmorency himself would have preferred things to be.
For my amazing friend's wonderful counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, click here: http://thedancingladybug.blogspot.com
