The Flying Mustang

I seem to be remembering dreams more that don't involve death or watching people die through falling down an empty elevator shaft. Check out this dream I had last night. I'm turning it in for my next Creative Writing assignment.

I find myself lost in the foothills of some beautiful mountain in the western part of the country. The era is that of a romantic age when cowboys and natives both feuded and befriended each other. But I am a miner, a pan handler as I like to call it. And along the riverside, I struggle to carry my sack of things. The air had already grown warm with discomfort, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and some leather boots.

Without a sound, a young native atop a horse is before me. He wasn't there before but after a blink. He wore blacken hide in his tribe's design. I expected to find a headband on his person, but the expression on his face was that of a proud man who wouldn't stoop to such stereotypes. The horse he was on was a beautiful creature. Golden tan in coat, obviously from a pure bloodline that took generations to produce. The mane was as black as young man's hair. There was no saddle; just reins. He carried no baggage; it probably wasn't needed.

"Need help?" he asked in a soft but firm voice. I shook my head as I continued to struggle with the bag, which got heavier and immobilized upon the young native's appearance. He looked around at the sky with a coy smile. "You sure?" he asked again. "It's going to get cold soon."

And sure enough, as he had predicted, a cold wind rushed past my exposed body chilling me to the bone. I became immobilized much like the bag. Desperate for warmth, I tried to cover myself with what slack I was pulling the bag with only to find there was only enough to allow me to pull it along the ground. I would find no luck finding heat from my own possession.

From behind, the young native placed a hide jacket, blacken to match his own dress, on my person. The warmth was felt instantly. I stood and turned around to find the young man hadn't left his horse's back. With a nod that read for me to follow him, I walked towards him leaving my things behind. He reached out his hand, and I found myself behind him on the back of his beautiful horse. From this new vantage point, the creature was more beautiful than before; the golden tan capturing the light in ways that I never thought possible by a creature with such fine hair. Truly, this was a special creature.

And it was. No sooner had I secured my seat on the beat, I found myself riding at full sprint along the riverbank. And yet, at this speed, nothing moved. The jacket did not leave my body; the young native's long hair did not flap with the wind; the mane of the horse did no shift with every thrust of its body. The rush of the very air passing us was felt, and that was it. Looking ahead, I saw we were heading towards a large cliff face, the very wall of the river's beginning or end. But as we got closer, we started to lift.

The horse and both of us on it began to soar. The horse was still running at full sprint without any sign of fatigue. I looked to at the young native for some kind of explanation, but saw a pleasant smile of heavenly joy. His eyes drifted to me. There was no need to explain anything. Through his eyes, he told me to just take in what I saw. And what I saw was the most beautiful landscape this world could ever offer. Crags of rock formations forming natural bridges over white water rapids; golden mountain sides with forests so old their age matched their beauty from this distance; rich valleys the likes that no body could ever truly afford to purchase.

Sight after sight, I began to lose sense of where I was. I forgot about the young native. I forgot I was on a flying horse that had no wings and yet was able to run fast enough to fly. And as I did, the scenery started to change. The rapids were reduced to streams; the mountains lost their golden shine in the sun; the valleys became dark and uninviting.

And as quickly as the flight began, I found myself grounded. Stumbling into an empty concrete hallway and a tile flooring. I found myself in the modern era. I still had the same pair of jeans, but no longer was I wearing boots. Instead, I had a beat up pair of sneakers. In place of the hide jacket was an equally beat up blue-jean jacket covering a thin white shirt that was produced as an undershirt if not underwear. And on my back was a backpack full of things of which didn't concern me.

Picking myself off the floor, I walked towards the end of the hallway and was greeted by stares from the five customers in the gas station convenience store and the overweight clerk who look like he hasn't bathed in years. They were looking at me as if I had committed a murder in front of them.

As I left the gas station, a tow truck pulling in slightly damaged car into the garage. A mechanic came out whipping the oil off his hands with a rag as the truck came to a park.

"Another one?" the mechanic asked as the driver exited from the cab of the truck.

"Yeah," replied the driver as he pulled out a cigarette and lighter. "Same story, too."

"The flying Mustang?" The driver nodded as he lit his smoke and took a drag.

"Fifth one this month," he said exhaling a cloud of smoke that engulfed his head. All this I heard in passing as I walked down the gray and dark street that was lined with homes resembling shacks from a mining town about ready to go bankrupt. My own destination was home.

Upon my arrival, I opened a small closet that housed several non-descript piece of black clothing and a small gray baby bunny that found that area more homely than any other part of the house. For the rest of the day, I filmed the bunny on my old Hi-8 Camera fascinated by the fact that everything familiar to this little creature is still being explored as if it was brand new.