In which failure is celebrated, and my many creative fuck-ups are honorably discharged.

Today’s installment . . .

Here’s to the Story Killed By Not Having Any Idea How to Continue Writing a Story From the POV of a Despotic Horse With the Ability to Make Zombies

Incitatus pranced through the ruined streets of Rome, his hooves clopping occasionally, and making sharp squish-squish noises otherwise. The undead bothered him from time to time as he strutted, but they were, mostly, very soft. Easily crushed under the weight of a horse, like bruised peaches or rotting fish.

The jewels on his collar were clouded with smoke, the gold plating on his hooves spattered with the brown crust of gore, the silk of his saddlepad torn with the claws of the undead who had scrabbled to use him as a shield against their own. He liked his things better that way. Ruined. Ruins and chaos and tatters. Aesthetically pleasing.

Though he didn’t care so much for the dried blood on his coat. That was itchy.

He breathed in the smell of fire, the dust of fallen buildings, the strewn innards of the senators. Up the steps and inside the Curia Julia. Where he was meant to be; where he was supposed to be.  Leaving bloody hoofprints across the mosaic, so that this building of Caesar would not forget who conquered it.

Incitatus snorted at the emperor’s seat. Turned, kicked, sent it crashing into the wall. He’d have his bedding brought in by those changed by the virus, once he molded their minds to his bidding. Friends, Romans, countrymen: his new slaves and playthings. Puppets with thumbs. Thumbs were important to Rome, he’d gathered. Thumbs who could get him fine shaven cedar from the Levant, from Cyprus, from across the sea, where a horse didn’t make it far without selling his gonads to Neptune.

It would all be his.

Caligula was dead. The Senate was in shambles. And he, Incitatus, would stand in the emperor’s place.

 

 

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