Writing inspired by the following SWC prompt:
Write a story or a poem which either begins or ends with the sound of galloping horses.
The Sound of Dystopia and Hope
by Connie Phlipot
The rumbling sound was coming from some distance, perhaps two or three kilometers. Antonia couldn’t tell if the noise was regressing or coming closer. She stood still and listened, carefully, hardly daring to breathe. The clumping continued at the same pace, the same intensity. It was the rhythmic pounding of horses hooves, not advancing nor retreating. Galloping in place on an equine treadmill. Or maybe they weren’t horses at all.
Antonia continued to walk, unconsciously adjusting her stride to match the beat of the hooves. The sound was becoming louder, but she could see no signs of horses or any humanity. If they were really horses, where did they live, what did they eat, did someone care for them? The surroundings were nearly barren: sand, rock and dried mud, cracked in places, patches of rust brown grasses thrusting out of the ground here and there like hairs in an adolescent beard. Except unlike a youthful chin, the ground held no promise of more growth. Instead, it suggested a continued withering away of life.
Antonia stopped again, savoring the sound. Unlike the meager ground, it promised something. Some life, people, hope of a civilization. She had left the refugee camp earlier that day to escape the hundreds of people, screaming, crying, laughing, talking. In her previous life, she’d valued her privacy, her own room, her quiet garden. When she could no longer bear the camp commotion, she packed up her few belongings and headed on toward the settlement rumored to have survived on the other side of the dry fields. Just walk straight, take plenty of water, she’d been advised. Don’t despair if the journey is hard and lonely. She was close to despair when she heard the hooves. Strange how she had escaped people and now longed for them. Or for anything alive: a marmot, a snake, a cockroach. Even if the sound was a recording of horses, there would be some human involvement. Right? A dark thought swept over her like a shadow. Maybe it was a hallucination, an aural oasis?
She had to keep moving to find out if the noise was real. Slowly, of course, to preserve her energy. She drank some water, nibbled on the small pack of student food she had bought just before the stores closed. The raisins were shriveled to the size of currants, the hazelnuts dusty and slightly rancid, but they gave her enough energy to keep walking.
The soil transformed from dirt to sand. A light breeze spun the fine grains in tiny whirlwinds along the ground. Yeehaw! The sound was definitely louder; she must be near. She squinted into the distance. Her view was obscured by drifting sand. Then the whirl wind stopped, revealing a circular structure a few hundred meters ahead. It was moving — not toward her or away, but around in circles. A carousel of wooden horses, the sound of their hooves emanating from a loudspeaker. The sight of something built solely for amusement filled her with a giddy joy and she ran toward it, squealing like a child. “Hello, hello,” she shouted. There was no answer. She grabbed the wooden mane of a white horse and jumped on its back, her head tipped back. Giddy-yap! Yeehaw! Ahead of her a yellowed horse shed flecks of golden paint. All was silent except for the rhythmic galloping. Dizzy after three rounds, she slid off the horse and jumped to the ground.
She spotted another structure — a booth — and then movement, a sign of life. Flies were teeming on what she first thought were mops. When she smelled the sweet familiar scent of burnt sugar, she realized they were spun sugar, cotton candy. Rather than disgust she felt happiness. If the cotton had not deteriorated, people must have been here recently. And the same with the carousel, it would have run out of power if abandoned for very long. To reassure herself, she stood still and listened. The sound had become fainter and fainter. Then it went silent. The white horse had stopped in front of her, its legs poised for the next step that it would never take; the brass rings no one would ever grasp, spun gently until they, too, were still. She looked again at the cotton candy sticks. The flies weren’t moving. They were dead and dropping off the sticks onto the ground. The cotton candy was gone.
She walked along, passing booths with dart boards, wheels of fortune and other remnants of games of chance; a miniature golf course; a roller coaster whose empty gondolas swayed in the dusty wind. It was a tiny park for the local townspeople’s entertainment. Certainly, the community was nearby. Of course, they wouldn’t be visiting an amusement park after the catastrophe. Maybe they were huddled in their homes, sheltering against another possible onslaught. Buoyed by these hopes, she continued along the road. No one. No intact buildings, only ruined stores, two-story houses with collapsed roofs, burnt gas stations.
She’d been walking a full day and was running out of water and food. There was no point to go further. She returned to the carousel and slept under the belly of the white horse. Tomorrow she’d return to the noisy refugee camp. To people and what remained of life.