http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/horse-arabian-mare-egypt/

Theo sat in his father’s store at the edge of town. Wind knocked the saloon doors back and forth. Dust kicked up and gathered around the entrance. With a sigh, Theo stood and grabbed the broom from the back wall. Dirt couldn’t get into the guitars, or it would ruin their sound. So why did the guitar store have saloon doors that did absolutely nothing to dissuade the invasion of dirt?

With comprehensive disinterest, he pushed the stiff bristles around on the floor. A fair amount of dust made it back outside under the saloon doors, though much of that may have been chalked up to serendipity.

Task completed, Theo hoisted the broom up over his shoulder. He clunked through the saloon doors and onto the porch. The breeze pushed some of the dust back in, but moving air felt good as it ran over the spots of sweat on his exposed skin.

In recent years, the town had become the artisan hub of this part of the west. Main Street in Sun Damis was packed with art galleries, music stores, coffee shops, and more hand-carved wooden kitchen utensils than the population of the globe could ever reasonably expect to use before the sun exploded.

It was full today but not crowded. The rest of the hemisphere still clung to the last vestiges of warmth. The tourist numbers would remain light for at least another month. As other parts of the country cooled, the street would become uncomfortably full.

Theo turned and walked to the edge of the porch. The shop was at the end of Main Street. Across the way, one of the white gazebos marked the end of the town’s center. The road curled to the right and away to the north. That left the edge of the porch with a wonderful view of the scrubby desert west of town.

There was a flash of white. Theo spun the broom off his shoulder and dropped it against the side of the building. He leaned over the railing, straining his eyes to see. He hadn’t hallucinated. It was really there.

Ghost horses were remnants of old shaman rituals. They were called upon in times of great need, when supernatural speed or strength was required. The best shamans, the only ones who should have been fabricating the ghost horses from ethermatter, were capable of dissolving the stallions when their task was completed.

But as these things go, the ability to form the horses became commonplace. The talent needed to dismiss theme was in rarer supply. And the desert had become strewn with cast-offs, spirits left to roam and wander and persist as immortal creatures in the natural world.

Sightings were rare now. Most of the ghost horses were taken from the wild decades ago. From what he’d read about it, most were now heirlooms of the very wealthy. They were shown off like necklaces in a case.

And yet here was one, stomping around not fifty yards from the store.

Theo watched in rapt fascination. The ghost horse stomped around to kick up dirt. Then it dropped to the ground and rolled around. Theo had heard that elephants did this sort of cleaning ritual. He didn’t understand how getting more dirt on an animal made it cleaner, but then again he’d only been passable at biology in the first place.

Behind him, Theo heard someone plod up the porch. He turned around long enough to wave hello as a customer nodded back and entered the store. As soon as the saloon doors swung closed, he turned back.

The horse had clambered back to its feet. It shook its head and tail. All the activity had stirred up around it a picturesque halo of dust. And then it turned its head and dark eyes to him.

For a moment, much too brief, the ghost horse and Theo gazed at each other without moving and without sound. Theo couldn’t imagine what it was thinking, or what it was doing out there in the desert, rolling around in a world he couldn’t possibly understand.

He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he then decided to put himself in the horse’s shoes. So he momentarily imagined being a creature made of ethermatter, immortal and well past its expiration date. He’d always thought he should feel sorry for the ghost horses. They’d been created for a specific task, and it was long since completed.

But he imagined how he must look to the ghost horse. Standing on a porch in a store he couldn’t leave in a town for which he felt nothing.

A few weak chords filtered out through the entrance. Theo sighed as he knew the moment had ended. The ghost horse shook its head before trotting away to the North. He watched until it vanished behind the tall bushes.

He picked up the broom and made for the saloon doors and the man inside. He wondered if this defeated feeling could be cleaned off by rolling around in the dirt. Probably not. But maybe he’d give it a try, just in case.