He's a sunken man with lips like the sliding edge of a razor, and, whenever he comes to the corrals to buy, horses kick at the fences and whinny. He always barters for the strongest and healthiest mares. He leaves leading skinny mules by a limp rope.
"He smells like dog meat," the child always says.
"Hush, now," the mother replies. Tellingly, she never tells the child not to say such horrid things.
The thin man carries a bag wherever he goes: a leather attaché case, black and battered. When he walks, the case dangles from his arm without swinging. He walks like he expects the world to part for him, and it does. When he sits for the bus, he clutches the case tightly to his chest and refuses to look anyone in the eye.
When the man left his case on the ground next to a park bench while he went for a drink, a group of dirty urchins dared each other to steal whatever was inside. Only one adventurous girl with more bruises than sense worked up the nerve to peek under the satchel flap. The man returned, waving his arms and shouting and toppling over from the alcohol in his belly.
"It's snakes," the girl later said.
The man curled up around the bag, his head on the bench. "I'm a good man," he sobbed to no one in particular. "I help people, I do. But I love it, too."
The few passers-by that remained clicked their tongues. They knew what he said was half true. Which half, though, they couldn't say.
"He smells like dog meat," the child always says.
"Hush, now," the mother replies. Tellingly, she never tells the child not to say such horrid things.
The thin man carries a bag wherever he goes: a leather attaché case, black and battered. When he walks, the case dangles from his arm without swinging. He walks like he expects the world to part for him, and it does. When he sits for the bus, he clutches the case tightly to his chest and refuses to look anyone in the eye.
When the man left his case on the ground next to a park bench while he went for a drink, a group of dirty urchins dared each other to steal whatever was inside. Only one adventurous girl with more bruises than sense worked up the nerve to peek under the satchel flap. The man returned, waving his arms and shouting and toppling over from the alcohol in his belly.
"It's snakes," the girl later said.
The man curled up around the bag, his head on the bench. "I'm a good man," he sobbed to no one in particular. "I help people, I do. But I love it, too."
The few passers-by that remained clicked their tongues. They knew what he said was half true. Which half, though, they couldn't say.
I got the idea for this story months ago while reading Midnight's Children, but I'm just now getting around to it. I've heard many artsy-type people say they hate drawing horses... and here I go writing a story that has horses right in the opening paragraph. Horse heads aren't particularly all that difficult to draw, but I did have a little trouble trying to recreate a horse's skull that didn't look like I was trying to rip of Georgia O'Keefe.
Not gonna lie - this is probably my favorite hand-drawn picture I've done in a while.
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