Join our amazing community of book lovers and get the latest stories doing the rounds.

We respect your privacy and promise no spam. We’ll send you occasional writing tips and advice. You can unsubscribe at any time.

Flash Fiction

The Wooden Horse

Google+ Pinterest LinkedIn Tumblr

When I was a kid, Dad bought me a hobby horse. My uncle gave me a ten-gallon hat. Grandma surprised me with two six-shooters in a holster on Christmas day. Mom bought me cowboy boots three sizes too big.

“How cute,” they all said when they saw me dressed as a cowboy.

Hopping on my springy horse made me feel like a big man.  It gave me a rough, gritty identity even at six years old. In my little fantasy world, I rescued damsels and chased the bank robbers. I was as heroic as the Lone Ranger sitting atop his horse, Silver.

I couldn’t ride my hobby horse enough.  His name was Rusty, and I rode him along the dusty trails and canyons. I rode Rusty day and night, and even dreamed of riding him when I was sleeping.

Then one day, I fell off my horse and collapsed on the green shag carpet in the living room. Mom said that I was too tall to ride Rusty. Dad told me that I was too old to ride a wooden horse and to be an imaginary cowboy.

“You need to grow up, son,” he said.  “You’re fifteen-years-old.”

So, they gave my hobby horse to Cousin Alan who was four-years-old at the time and not a very good cowboy.

Years passed.  I moved on from the hobby horse. I left being a cowboy and wielding a six-shooter behind.

Life was never as fun, however.  I had a tedious job, made car and house payments, and did annoying chores like cutting the front lawn and putting together furniture from IKEA.

Then one day, I passed a saddle shop on my way to work.  Standing proudly out front was a large brown wooden horse.  I couldn’t help but think of Rusty, my old friend.  I felt a strong impulse to ride the wooden horse even though this one was ten feet high.

Something told me to go into the western store and work out a deal.  I knew that my wife would think I was crazy, and the neighbors might raise hell.

“This is highly unusual,” said the owner of the store. “No one’s ever wanted to buy him.”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it.”

The owner scratched his head and before I knew it, I offered him two thousand, and another five-hundred for a saddle and riding equipment.

Soon the wooden horse was in my backyard, all saddled up, with a large bale of hay.

It was my time to be the Lone Ranger again.






Mark Tulin (USA)

Mark Tulin is a former therapist who lives in California. Mark has two poetry books, Magical Yogis and Awkward Grace, available at The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories will be published in August of 2020. He’s been featured in Amethyst Review, Free Verse Revolution, among others. His blog is Crow On The Wire.


Write A Comment