We can’t go back to the barn. Not after we bolted, kicking the barn doors closed behind us. On lightened hooves, our manes waving, we clattered along the blacktop to the corn field, Darius the goat herding us from behind.
We can’t go back to the corn field, not after we toppled that scarecrow. The corn had been harvested early, on account of the drought. Not a single leaf left to chew. The scarecrow’s straw was tough and dry, but Darius the goat said it hit the spot.
We can’t go back to the school. Not after the custodian cornered us in the lunch room while we were hacking the fragrant juice dispenser. Lips twitching, we’d rummaged through the hallway lockers, the ones with promising smells—the crust of a sandwich here, a browning apple core there—when Darius, who’d traveled these halls before, led us to the grand sugar-scented room. Carrots had been on the menu that week, we all were sure. The apron-clad custodian burst from a closet, brandishing tongs. The cook appeared and fired up the oven. Outside, clutching forks, townspeople clustered at the windows. Nostrils wide, our flanks quivered. Darius cowered under a table. We gathered round him, hoping for an explanation, then pressing for a plan. He hung his head, a red mitten dangling from his shame-slicked maw. A rumble gathered in our midst, a moan, a wah-wah, a neigh. We pawed the ground, turned, reared up. The custodian leapt back to his hiding place. The cook joined Darius under the table, and we ran. “Wait,” Darius called.
“Traitor,” we shrieked and charged, through the hungry crowd and away.
“Can’t go back! Can’t go back!” We chanted and raced along Main Street. “To the City,” we cried and galloped on. Crossing the interstate at a trot, we envisioned the parks—lawns of lush grass, tender hedges, fountains spilling drink. There we’d forge new lives, find ways to blend in. Once arrived, we filled our bellies, and soon landed apartments and barista gigs. We still dreamed of our barn, but we remembered the goat who almost got us stewed. We sat for makeovers and auditions. Many, many auditions. We learned to type and to drive. We became punk rockers, feminists, cabaret stars. To this day, that red mitten—trembling, waving—spurs us on.
Katherine Gleason (she/her), the author of more than thirty nonfiction books, has published short fiction in the journals Bending Genres, Cheap Pop, Derelict Lit, Every Day Fiction, HAD, Jellyfish Review, Lonesome, The Woolf, and Tiny Molecules among others. Her play “The Toe Incident” won the Christopher Hewitt Award for Drama in 2020. She lives with a bossy tabby cat and is happy to serve her feline overlord.