The Wooden Horse By Mark Tulin– Twist & Twain

Here’s another story about the hobby horse with a slightly different twist.

The Wooden Horse – Twist & Twain
— Read on www.twistandtwain.com/flash-fiction/the-wooden-horse/

The Wooden Horse
BY MARK TULIN (USA)  APRIL 19, 2020
 

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.