commonplace log I - by Andre - curl.projects

I was born and bred to run, and when I came of age, I was purchased by an aristocrat and moved into her stable. There, I was well taken care of - well-fed and fed-well. I was given the freedom to roam around and nibble on grass, on this side and the other side of the fence. Once or twice a year, I was taken out to a show. My master would walk me around in circles and guide me to hop over small obstacles. A small audience, comprised solely of my master’s friends, would erupt into polite applause and congratulate her on her fine taste. I was given a blue ribbon, a red apple, a rub on the shoulder, and then returned to my stable. All this while, I dreamed of racing. I waited for the day I’d be taken out to a dangerously winding track, not to chase after blue ribbons but to feel the thunder of hooves, dirt tossed in the air, and a gleaming medal. In my first job, I was a prized racehorse. Now, without a job, I stand on an open plain—no end in sight, no sign of safety. Yet, my hooves st

I was born and bred to run, and when I came of age, I was purchased by an aristocrat and moved into her stable. There, I was well taken care of - well-fed and fed-well. I was given the freedom to roam around and nibble on grass, on this side and the other side of the fence. Once or twice a year, I was taken out to a show. My master would walk me around in circles and guide me to hop over small obstacles. A small audience, comprised solely of my master’s friends, would erupt into polite applause and congratulate her on her fine taste. I was given a blue ribbon, a red apple, a rub on the shoulde