• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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The Many Lives of Cynthia’s Pony

An anguished equine groan pierced into Pegasus. The stars flickered as if sound waves had rippled across the universe. Not for the last time, the effect of the spirit’s cry sent an electric charge through the constellations. A hoarse scream was heard in the heavens every time that matter changed its form. The living light that is, raised a metaphorical eyebrow as life and death switched partners. Back down the ladder, on Earth, the realisation dawned that it was time to begin again. The whinnying rasp of hoarseness before silence was a reminder of life’s folly. Fleeing its earthly flesh, the spirit released and joined with The One.

Upon the sodden meadow, the bay mare buckled and dropped. Cynthia was flung. Her femur cracked as the weight of her steed plunged down with gravity. In her tumble, she noticed the cause of her pony’s fright.

Since his difficult foaling, Gaudí had struggled with new sights, sudden noises, flashes of colour or any new mystery to his nerves. He’d developed a reputation for bolting at anything. Cynthia groaned as she saw what he’d seen. Below a gnarled bough, a flimsy shape, flapped and billowed. A bag was caught on the branches: Tescos Recyclable Plastic. Cynthia passed out in pain. Gaudí, her horse, was dead.

In the hospital, almost a century earlier, and hours from the crypt within the chapel of Carmen, the spirit (who in two generations hence, would belong to Cynthia), sifted through some of its past memories. Each sticky end, each grisly demise, summarised by being ridiculously spooked. He’d been forever cursed by this weak character flaw. After many lifetimes he was still unable to conquer his fears. As Gaudi, one of the surrealist group of artists in Barcelona, his latest death hit him as hard as the tram he’d failed to notice. He deserved to return as a donkey!


The Many Lives of Cynthia’s Pony

After the tram incident, the spirit swore to live his next human life as a soldier. Continuous professional development to gain up-to-date experience for working up the karmic rungs. Yet from the corner of his eye some distraction would always grab his heart.

He returned as a dog: a sight hound watching for a bird on the wing and not wary of the cliff top precipice. He ran and plummeted to the sea below. Next a rabbit, startled by a blade of grass, giving her predator a mortal advantage.

Eventually as a soldier in combat, he’d been learning resilience, until his army comrade’s mess-tin flashed in the sunlight. One second of irrational horror, then entrapment and the final moment. Ice pierced his soul as the land-mine blew and his life slipped away. A circuitous end - always leading to a new beginning.

Today he’d been a steady, gymkhana mare. What a safe plodding life, with Cynthia to feed and love him. Time and again he’d won and lost the privilege of being human. It took the biscuit. Extinguished nonsensically by a Tesco’s bag: recyclable.