by Erik Fuhrer


You love horses, their strong sinewed necks, how their throats rattle like a carburetor. So, I decide on a mythic proposal: Dead Horse Bay, in Brooklyn, NY, where I imagine there are monuments of bone and ancient footprints in which we can rest our heads as we gaze at the gauzy dark.

So you pack a dozen light bulbs and I remove the front door from its hinges, hang a vacancy sign from the mailbox. Immediately a small child nibbles its feet down the block and up our doorstep. A landlord in diapers, the child draws the drapes.

We leave on foot from Minnesota. Me with my door on my back. You with your lightbulbs hung around your neck. You’ve never looked more like a windmill. Eventually, we decide to stop walking. I don’t know where we are, but I plant the door here and we string your light bulbs up on the hook we nailed into the door when we first bought the house 30 years ago.

Now we live here. And every night I get on all fours and you feed me mushrooms as you pet my mane. On full moons, I whinny.



Erik Fuhrer is a Pushcart and Best Microfictions 2018 nominee. He holds an MFA from the University of Notre Dame. His prose has been published, or in Unbroken Journal, Microfiction Monday, Leopardskin and Limes, formercactus, and Pidgeonholes. He tweets @ErikFuhrer. More information can be found at



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