Straight From the Horse's Mouth

There are too many of them. And it is a sad horrific thing, to see those horses impaled on poles, mouths open in silent screams.

But they are beautiful, painted in lavender and mauve, gilded and with sparkling patinas. They glide as lightly as clouds, movements so smooth their rocking is seamless, as though they are one blur and not a continuous movement. 

If you asked them their stories, which no one ever does, they will tell you they were once princes and paupers and woodcutter's sons and frogs. Through misfortune or misdeed they have been subjected to their woebegone states, for who knows how long. 

They hear our stories too, ears forever pricked for the slightest noise, murmurs in a crowd, a lover's whisper when they have strayed from their spouse to the opposite side of a crowd, childrens' threats and jokes. They know more secrets than we may ever know. 

Yet they keep to themselves. If they make one sound, speak one word to expose a liar, a fraud, or to comfort a widow or an orphan, they will not be able to stop, and each scream they have ever quelled will be released. 

So they sit, frozen and stiff on metal bars, blinded by light, amidst the din, hoping for a day they may tell their own stories, through flesh mouths instead of wood. 

Hoping we will believe them. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay