Equus

by Rhonda Parrish

  Praise for Equus

  “All the stories in this collection are good. Each author has a completely different take on where the animals live and how they behave. It makes the stories surprising and unique. If you like fantasy, magic, or horses, you’ll love this book.”

  —Journey of a Bookseller

  “This was a wonderfully eclectic anthology, with practically any stripe of fantasy a grown-up weird horse girl could want on offer between the covers.”

  —T.R. North, short story author

  Praise for the Magical Menageries series

  “Rhonda Parrish has assembled a stellar collection that runs the gamut of Urban Fantasy to Weird Fiction. Easily the most consistently satisfying anthology I’ve read in years.”

  —K.L. Young, Executive Editor, Strange Aeons Magazine

  “Poignant, diverse, and enthralling: this new volume in the Magical Menagerie series evokes the majesty of sirens, from the traditional deep sea variety of Greek mythology to those that entice sailors of deep space to ones who scan modern dating sites with wistful hopes for a good match. I could not stop reading.”

  —Beth Cato, author of The Clockwork Dagger

  “With fifteen talented writers and a subject that is both evocative and memorable, Rhonda Parrish’s new anthology, Scarecrow, is no straw man. Like any good scarecrow, this anthology is truly outstanding in its field. Don’t be scared to pick this up and give it a read.”

  —Steve Vernon, author of Tatterdemon

  EQUUS

  There’s always something magical about horses, isn’t there? Whether winged or at home in the water, mechanical or mythological, the equines that gallop through these pages span the fantasy spectrum. In one story a woman knits her way up to the stars and in another Loki’s descendant grapples with bizarre transformations while fighting for their life. A woman races on a unique horse to save herself from servitude, while a man rides a chariot through the stars to reclaim his self-worth. From steampunk-inspired stories and tales that brush up against horror to straight-up fantasy, one theme connects them all: freedom.

  Featuring nineteen fantastic stories of equines both real and imagined by J.G. Formato, Diana Hurlburt, Tamsin Showbrook, M.L.D. Curelas, Laura VanArendonk Baugh, V.F. LeSann, Dan Koboldt, J.J. Roth, Susan MacGregor, Pat Flewwelling, Angela Rega, Michael Leonberger, Sandra Wickham, Stephanie A. Cain, Cat McDonald, Andrew Bourelle, Chadwick Ginther, K.T. Ivanrest, and Jane Yolen.

  EQUUS

  an anthology

  Edited by Rhonda Parrish

  Rhonda Parrish’s Magical Menageries

  Volume Five

  World Weaver Press

  Copyright Notice

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of World Weaver Press.

  EQUUS

  Copyright © 2017 Rhonda Parrish

  All rights reserved.

  Published by World Weaver Press, LLC

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  www.WorldWeaverPress.com

  Cover layout and design by Jonathan C. Parrish

  Cover images used under license from Fotolia.com

  First edition: July 2016

  Also available in paperback - ISBN-13: 978-0998702209

  ASIN (mobi): B071Y44K9S

  B&N (ePub): 2940154355206

  Kobo (ePub): 1230001645453

  This anthology contains works of fiction; all characters and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Please respect the rights of the authors and the hard work they’ve put into writing and editing the stories of this anthology: Do not copy. Do not distribute. Do not post or share online. If you like this book and want to share it with a friend, please consider buying an additional copy.

  DEDICATION

  For Beth.

  EQUUS

  Introduction

  I’ve always loved books—they were a temporary escape, a source of freedom, for me for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, I primarily borrowed them from the library, but I also had a small, perpetually growing, personal collection. Most of them had been purchased second-hand from musty old shops with names like, “The Rabbit Hutch” or “Marshall’s Attic” but some rare few were purchased new from a Scholastic book fair at my school. And they were almost always softcovers. Hardcover books were an incredible luxury and I owned only a very few until recently.

  My first ever hardcover book was a copy of The Black Stallion by Walter Farley. It still have it. It is inscribed:

  Merry Xmas Rhonda

  Love Mom

  1984

  1984 means I was eight years old when I received it. Eight years old and crazy about horses. I never owned a horse—oddly enough they tend to be even more expensive than hardcover books—but from Kindergarten to grade three I spent every lunch hour and recess playing ‘Unicorns’ with my friend Linda, and every Friday I’d sleep over at her house and we’d ride her horses. Her real horses.

  A couple years later we moved and I made a new friend—Miranda. Miranda also had horses—Raven Chick and Mr. Tuxedo. We called them Raven and Tux (or Tuxy) for short, and I spent a lot of weekends at Miranda’s farm. Weekends that always included some horse time.

  While our mutual love of horses wasn’t the only thing that informed my friendships with Linda and Miranda, horses were one of the reasons we were friends. Horse people attract other horse people—even beyond childhood. To this day a great many of my best friends and favourite people are horse people.

  And of the horses themselves, what is the attraction?

  I can’t speak for anyone else but for me it’s a whole lot of things. Physically they are gorgeous, gorgeous creatures. They’ve great, dark, gentle eyes that might just be the origin of that whole ‘windows to the soul’ idea. And they are so strong, so clever, so amazingly intelligent—yet they let us ride on their backs. Their spirits are wild, and they are freedom made physical.

  There was a lot I wanted to escape from when I was younger, and what could possibly be a more romantic escape—more freeing—than galloping off into the sunset on the back of a horse?

  Given how often horses, books and imagination had provided an escape for me (separately as well as in different combinations with one another) how could I possibly resist the idea of making the final installment in the Magical Menageries anthology series about horses? I could not.

  And though horses are magical in their own right, I did grow up on a steady diet of pretending to be a unicorn, and watching Pegasus, Newton (and little Toot!) on the 1960s cartoon, “The Mighty Hercules”. Later I fell in love with The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle and… well, I’d best not start a list or this introduction could get a wee bit long. The point is, why limit the anthology to just horses when I could throw open the doors and include all kinds of equines?

  I didn’t have a good answer to that question either, which is why in this anthology you’ll find stories of horses, and unicorns, and flying horses, and Sleipnir, and demon horses, and… you get the idea.

  They are all here, waiting to gallop you away new worlds, new adventures with them. And the two things they all have in common is that they include an equine creature and an offer of freedom.

  When I was re-reading these stories during the production process the themes of escape and freedom came up again. And again. And again.

  I hadn’t consciously chosen freedom-themed stories for Equus, but as it turned out, that’s what I ended up with.

  And given my history with horses and escape, I couldn’t possibly be happier. Things worked out perfectly.
>
  ~ Rhonda

  Stars, Wings, and Knitting Things

  J.G. Formato

  I didn’t tell him the news until I’d placed the last raisin in my oatmeal. The wise and wrinkled happy face I’d created was quite encouraging. “Marcus,” I said, waiting for acknowledgement and eye contact. His eyes were still mostly contacting the Wall Street Journal, so I cleared my throat and dinged my spoon on his mug. Announcement style.

  He emerged from the paper and frowned at the ripples in his coffee. “Why’d you do that? I was reading.”

  “Were you?” I asked, genuinely curious. I always thought his morning paper was like an adult security blanket. But instead of making him feel safe and loved, it made him feel all grown-up and professional. Ready to join the Rat Race. Reading it for fun was a totally different story and not nearly as endearing.

  “Of course I was, Annie. Now, what were you going to say?”

  “I think the house is haunted.”

  “You think the house is haunted?

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I saw a ghost.” Why else would I think the house was haunted?

  “Where?”

  “In the backyard. It was kind of swooshing all around by the swing set.”

  “So, really, you think the backyard is haunted.” He looked very pleased with himself, like he scored a point or something. All those years of law school must have really paid off.

  “Okay, fair enough. If you want to pick nits, I think the backyard is haunted.”

  “What did it look like? Your ghost?”

  “It was white, of course. And shimmery. Oh, and it had wings.”

  “Like an angel?”

  “No, not like an angel. Angels don’t haunt people’s backyards.”

  “Of course.” He smacked his forehead—but in a smartassy way, not an oh, duh kind of way. “When did this even happen?”

  “Well, it was before you got home, but it was still pretty late. You had a lot of paperwork, huh? Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to look at the stars and relax—”

  “You were wandering around the backyard in your pajamas? What if somebody saw you?”

  “I wasn’t wandering around the backyard in my jammies. I looked out the window. It’s see-through, you know.”

  “Oh. Okay. So you saw it out the window?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The swooshing winged ghost?”

  “Yep.”

  “Annie, I’m pretty sure you were dreaming.” He glanced at his watch. He needed to leave in exactly seven minutes if he was going to get to work exactly fifteen minutes early.

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I knew you were going to say that, so I took your slippers from their spot by the bed, and I put them in the tub. They were still there this morning. Dream slippers would never come true.”

  “You did that? They got soaked when I turned on the water.” He groaned. “Why’d you do that?

  “Well, I had to prove I wasn’t dreaming. And besides, slippers are pretentious.”

  “Slippers are not pretentious. Slippers are useful. And why didn’t you just move something of your own?”

  “Because my stuff’s always lost.” I grinned at him. “But your stuff being moved—that’s an anomaly.”

  “Alright, babe.” The conversation ended abruptly before I could make him late for being early. “We’ll talk about it some more when I get home. Maybe get an alarm system or something. And try to eat something, you haven’t touched your breakfast,” he said in a fatherly tone with an equally fatherly kiss on the forehead. Gross.

  I’m not going to touch that breakfast. I hate oatmeal and raisins are withered souls. As soon as he leaves I’m having S’mores Pop-Tarts dipped in Nutella.

  It gets boring fast at home. There’s nobody to talk to, and I miss the smell of nail glue. And there’s way less colors here. Marcus and I decided on a monochromatic classy look for our home, but I think the rainbow polish wall at Top Nailz is much prettier. It’s shiny and busy. I probably shouldn’t have quit until I actually had a baby that I could stay-at-home-mother.

  We’re supposed to be making one, but I usually forget to try until it’s too late and I’m on my period already. It might be better off trying for an orphan. Or maybe I can stay-at-home-mother the ghost. Ghosts are usually lost souls, and that’s kind of like being an orphan.

  It (He?) (She?) was nowhere to be found in the yard that morning. That was to be expected, though, since it was daytime. I slipped onto the swing and tightened my hands around the thick chains. The swings were always my favorite in elementary school. They didn’t require a very high level of interaction and the motion added momentum to my imaginings. Eyes closed to the rising wind, I created my own reality. One where a shining Pegasus with powerful wings flew me far from this land, all the way back to where I belonged.

  No one was around, so I went for it. The running start, the pumping legs, the eyes screwed shut—I’d never forgotten the way. I could still lose myself on the swings.

  But not for long. Nausea kicks in way quicker at 30 than it does at 8.

  I jumped, landing ass-first on our professionally manicured grass. My eyes drifted back open, a little reluctantly, but they knew it need to be done.

  A lone white feather rested beside me, just left of my pinky. It caught and threw the sunlight like a grounded disco ball and glittered a greeting. It wanted me to pick it up.

  It looked like my diary feather. In fact, it was identical to the one I’ve used as a bookmark in all of my journals, ever since I was a little girl.

  It better not be my diary feather because that means Marcus has been reading all my business. On the swings. Which is not only rude, but weird.

  Clutching the feather, I ran back to the house and up the stairs, two at a time. My diary was still in its secret spot—the bottom of the magazine basket. It had seemed like a pretty good spot up until now. Marcus would never touch my Cosmos and Redbooks, let alone dig around in them.

  I heaved a loud and dramatic sigh of relief when I saw the familiar quill sprouting proudly from my journal. I opened the book to last night’s ramblings and pulled out my oldest, dearest possession. It looked just like the brand-new backyard feather.

  I think it’s not a ghost that visits the backyard.

  I think the not-a-ghost and I must go way back.

  When Marcus gets home, we do not “talk more about it” like he said we would. And I don’t show him backyard feather—he doesn’t even know about diary feather. It was party night, so we partied. But not very heartily. Because it is a Marcus-people party.

  At Marcus-people parties, we eat half-bites of tiny foods and we drink half-sips from tiny wine glasses. Sometimes I put out a pinky. It just seems like the right thing to do.

  At Annie-people parties, we eat Ruffles and French Onion dip and drink dark beers.

  Marcus-people parties are goal-oriented. We are there to network, to climb, to be so damn charming that they can’t help but raise Marc from his lowly status as a paralegal to that of attorney. Perhaps one day—even—dare we say it? Partner.

  Annie-people parties are Annie-people oriented. We are mostly there to get drunk, make fun of each other and watch Real Housewives.

  We don’t really go to Annie-people parties anymore.

  But I do get to watch Real Housewives. And tonight I made contact with the Alpha Wife. Marcus looked up from his mingling and eye-contacted me, telegraphing his hope and trepidation. Be nice. Be normal. Her husband owns the firm. His thoughts were really loud—and also really rude. When am I ever not nice and normal?

  Alpha Wife is lovely, even if her nails are a boring pink-and-white and her hair flips up like it’s the ’50s. Her name is Althea and she is a knitting enthusiast. So enthusiastic was she that I didn’t even have to be nice or normal. All I had to do was nod and admire her handiwork.

  Althea was pulling a blanket shaped like a mermaid tail out of a gigantic patchwork
bag, when Marcus and Gina moseyed over. Gina is the other overly qualified paralegal with ambitious fingers permanently crossed. She is lovely, too, even if her nails are too red and her skirt is so tight I could make out the pattern of lace on her underpants.

  “Now that is adorable,” Gina gushed. Then she turned to Marcus and punched him on the shoulder. “You need a big boy one to cuddle up in while you read over documents. I can just see you all curled up in bed, your fins waving.” She giggled throatily and grinned up at him. She smiled at me, too, inordinately pleased with her witty (not really that witty) banter.

  Never trust a big butt and smile! The immortal advice of Bel Biv DeVoe sprung immediately to mind.

  “What?” Marcus, Althea, and Gina exclaimed in unison. Marcus in horror, Gina in amusement, and Althea in utter confusion.

  I then realized that the lyrics to Poison had not only sprung to mind, but to mouth as well. I’d quite literally and loudly sang out my thoughts.

  “Nothing. Nothing.” I shook my head. “I was. Um. Listening to my best of the ‘90s mix tape earlier. You know, while I was, doing some…Pilates? So, like, that song’s been in my head all day. Anyway, what were we talking about? Knitting is so cool. Everyone needs a nice, toasty mermaid tail to slip their feet into.”

  Or their head.

  The journey home was like riding a glacier. Freezing cold and really slow. And also pretty hard. I don’t know if Marcus was more appalled by my lack of social prowess or my deep and secret love of early 90s hip hop, but I’m definitely feeling like feral child again. Like, I don’t even belong indoors, let alone parties like that.

  “Sorry,” I said, by way of a conversation starter.

  Hunch-shouldered, white-knuckled, road-rage silence.

  “Is it really that big of a deal?” I tried again. I mean, Annie-people would have just laughed. And I can’t imagine Marcus-people don’t have way more important things to think about than little old me singing to myself.