HIGH PROMPT OF THE MONTH

I Never Wanted to Be a Horse

Because the game is always rigged

“Why are you here?”, I asked Buster, swallowing my irritation.

“Haven’t you heard? There’s an announcement at 11 p.m.”

If I knew that, would I have spent the last two hours cleaning these horse stall mats? I was convinced this was some kind of karmic punishment.

My mother worked at the Pizzeria, the last remaining restaurant in our town, and I helped after school. By that I mean I did all the jobs no one wanted to do. I could hear them snickering behind their masked faces.

Earlier today, a rat had exploded over the mat at the main door. Before the humans buggered off to one space rock or the other, some genius engineered the rats to eat radioactive waste. Now they were our burden.

Water was low, so I had to watch my usage of the pressure washer. I tried dirt, lavender beads, and charring the edges. Nothing got the stench out.

Now this. Everyone was going to come over to watch the program.

Buster sat at the counter, writing one formula after another on the back of our menus. He was always fixing problems that no one asked him to fix.

A small nudge and I could make it look like an accident.

I stole a slice of burned pizza and snuck away through the backdoor.

This was worse than my nightmares. I shouldn’t have underestimated them. If there’s one constant in life, it’s this — everyone always disappoints.

The descendants of Musk were getting bored on Mars. So they decided to host a series of games to be held at the end of this year. The team that won would be awarded more resources, almost doubling their current quota.

And more importantly, intergalactic fame.

Earth was left intact as a specimen. The propaganda messages said they wanted to preserve nature, which is why they were letting it recover. But I knew the truth. It was to be a destination for travel and entertainment.

I was to take part in the crème de la crème of events. A horse race.

The next few days were a blur, yet excruciatingly slow and painful. They had awarded us the greatest illusion of postmodern capitalism — choice.

Everyone voted yes unanimously. I could hear their screams of cheer all the way from my hiding spot. Next, they got busy planning our version of the games. Decorating the streets and preparing our young people for battle.

The whole town chipped in, emptying most of their life savings, and hired a record-shattering coach from Mars itself. He was flying down in a week.

I thought my life was bad before, but I’d give anything to go back to it now.

Coach Tony had us up every morning at 4. We ran laps till my legs buckled, and then I’d hear his hoarse voice in my ear, chilling the sweat on my nape.

“One more champ. You can do it. For the town!”

I wanted to yell and stomp my hooves. Safe Zone 1187 hardly qualified as a town. I didn’t want this, I never asked for this, I couldn’t even cast a vote!

My mother worked extra shifts, as we’d lost all our savings. Which delayed my clean-up time. She grew resentful as the night progressed and hurled creative insults at me when I showed up. Like I was the one to blame.

For her, it was me who wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t training hard enough, not valuing her sacrifices enough, or cleaning the mats well enough.

I would burn them if we had anything to replace them with.

“Do you know how hard it was for me? You wouldn’t have survived a day.”

Here we go again. It was bad for them, so we must suffer. Carry all our ancestors' share of expectations. Take it to the man and show them no mercy. Make every trouble worth it — a victory to soothe their wounds.

Finally, they had their chance.

Buster quickly became Coach Tony’s favorite. He was always around, sharing a plethora of facts and asking us all to remain positive in adversity.

“Chin up mate”, he told me after a back-breaking day of work.

That was when I snapped. Enough was enough. I was going to fight.

I started reaching practice an hour earlier. Instead of waiting for the next whistle, I jumped ahead by myself. The higher the obstacle, the better. If I fell, I picked myself up and started running, while they stared in disbelief.

Allowing myself to be fitted and primed for new insignia, I quickly became the town’s beacon of hope. And a petty part of me started to really enjoy it.

I was unequivocally beating Buster.

Every Sunday, we had dinners at the Pizzeria. Taking a cheat day from our carb-free diet, I surprisingly had fun with my team on our nights off. My mother was a changed woman. Serving us oven-fresh pizza with a smile.

We traded jokes, forgetting reality for a few hours at a time.

I even started seeing cleaning the horse stall mats as a feat of resilience. Those things never got sterile, but that didn’t mean I’d stop trying. I hung them out to dry every afternoon in the sun, with a face of satisfaction.

My dreams belonged in a distant past.

I live in a world with ample resources. Enough for us to not struggle every day. I am not a horse. I am nothing. No one expects anything from me.

I’m invisible, traveling the deserts and the mountains, seas, and skies.

I’ve read every book that ever existed, sitting in shades of giant trees, placed beside the clearest streams. I have no past, and nothing is holding me down.

“Coach Tony, I was just resting my eyes for a second.”

“I don’t care. 50 more laps for you.”

It had been six months of hell. I was working on a four-hour sleep schedule and pre-planned meals with supercharged grass. It still wasn’t enough.

Finally, I hit my stride in early November. I think it was the rush before the deadline, knowing how much was riding on it. And maybe another thing.

I had allowed myself to hope.

When December 25th arrived, it felt like I hadn’t breathed in a week. We were traveling to Planet X for the qualifiers. Numerous teary-eyed faces filled with pride bid us goodbye as we paraded down the town square.

It was my first time in an intergalactic shuttle. I saw beasts I’d never seen before. If this was food, our pizza couldn’t be placed in the same category.

The only thing I could identify were the mats. They made me smile.

During the opening ceremony, I had an out-of-body experience.

I’d only heard Beyoncé on Xtunes before, and the aerial display of drones mimicking doves made me weep. Was this every day for some people?

Coach Tony huddled us that night, Buster grinning at his side.

“Focus on the game, not on winning.”

“You’re running for the town, for yourself, and most importantly, for me.”

We saw the other horses at the welcome banquet. They were bigger, more muscular and their manes reflected light. I couldn’t stomach any of the lavish, never-ending trays of fare presented to us. I needed nerves of steel.

Ironically, a run would clear my head. So I snuck out.

That’s when I saw it, a folded banner on the ground, to be hung tomorrow.

“147th Winter Intergalactic Blood Olympic Games,” read its crimson center.

I bolted to find Buster. Not caring about putting our best presentation forward anymore, I crashed into multiple crew members within seconds. Flutes of Champagne clattered to the ground, falling on those same mats.

I found him locked in his room scribbling numbers, while the rest of the team celebrated, dancing the night away. They were drunk on expectations.

I dragged him into the hall and screamed.

“Why does it say the 147th? What’s blood? What is going on here?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just focus on winning.”

About the Prompt:

This is my entry for Smillew Rahcuef’s epic prompt: Coach Tony’s Prompt of the Month: Horse Stall Mats. We wanted weird, and I tried to deliver.

If you are inspired or curious, there are still two days to go. Tick Tock.

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