Feeling a Little Horse

There are certain feelings, or maybe sensations, I get which evoke a specific sort of understanding. It’s sort of like the feeling is known to me already/has always been there in my head. It’s oddly intimate. I tried to get it down in writing, but I’m not sure I succeeded. Sill, I need something to post, and my other ideas are all still formative, so:

George sat on a chair in his breeze-block basement. In his hand he held a moderate length of aluminium tubing, on which lower end a thick cylinder of concrete was stuck. Not, you understand, in the manner of croquet mallet, but more in the shape of an immense party popper who’s squat nub (itself uncomfortably reminiscent of a distended nipple) had been elongated into a substantial handle. And just what such an item would be for, and what it might be a part of, was irrelevant, and seemed not to be a concern of the thing, as though it merely existed for its own sake.

George’s hand rested loosely about the metal, as he might hold his shaft when absently stroking himself to erection. His elbow cut into his knee for support, and the concrete bulb hung half a foot from the ground. As George sat, he applied the smallest fraction of impetus to the Thing, just enough for the concrete’s own momentum to collide it against the wall. As it kissed off the stone it sailed back an inch or so, and George’s wrist twitched microscopically, enough to carry it to its zenith, where it hung with exactly the potential to do it all again. The weight of it was comfortable, and deeply so, and there was a familiarity to the feel of it such that George understood the thing intimately, and knew the potential he felt at the apex of its swing. It had an inevitability, a certainty that it would collide again and again, each time exactly the same. The collisions were gentle, they felt almost soft, though both surfaces were as hard as rock. Each soft touch said that it could be so much more. George could feel the force of the device oozing from it. He thought it could probably cave someone’s head in like an egg if you swung it hard enough.

George bumped the concrete against the wall again. He thought about swinging the device harder, about what it could do. He felt the sudden urge to whirl it about with all its might, to make the stone about him explode with the force of it. He imagined the wall was a fat, repulsive woman. He imagined her body bursting apart as he connected the thing with her spilling belly. Globs of flesh vibrated as they arced through the air.

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