Even the Unicorns Will Die

02 Aug

Painting the picture with words

They called him the wordsmith, for he painted pictures within their minds by using words to draw the images they wanted to see.

“Make me a picture of happiness,” they’d ask, and he’d tell of golden evening skies, of flowers and laughing children and warm, loving homes. He’d tell of the crippled horse that could walk again, of watching him run through deep green pastures. He’d write of perfect horses doing perfect things in a perfect world, and they would feel happy and walk away, smiling to themselves.

But they’d be back in a few days and say, “Tell me about love,” and he’d write about that special horse, the one that always comes, that does whatever is asked, that leans his head over your shoulder and hugs you. They would feel love and smile and nod to themselves and walk away, thanking him for his words.

He’d write for them, for his readers, for they wanted to be sad and happy and feel love and pain and anger and all the thousands of emotions that humans create within their minds, but sometimes, late at night, when life was way to quiet, the wordsmith would look at his own mental pictures. He’d write about the real things he saw, about the real emotions he felt. For the most part, he’d keep those words to himself, never sharing his deepest thoughts, never letting others see those images that lay within his mind. 

When the readers wanted reality, he’d tell of the seizures, of the neglected, starving horses. He’d walk through the courtroom, let them hear the excuses, but he wouldn’t say anything about his tear soaked pillow, of the nightmares, of the anger that built up within him. He’d tell the readers about the slaughter of horses, but he’d never reveal the vivid horror of seeing the kill bolt strike time and time again, of the blood and screams and agony of trapped and murdered horses. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t bring himself to share the words.

He’d write scenes about the passing of a horse, of all the horse meant to those who loved him, of loving and tears and hope for an eternal Heaven, and he’d share it with his readers but in the dark hours he’d write of seeing the bleached skull of Death, of seeing the essence of life disappear in his hands. He’d cry endless tears at the thought of losing one more, one more perfect horse, but he’d never let his readers know the truth of his feelings.

Writing about the seizures

For they saw him as strong, in control, the master of a ship of horses and for most of them, he was as they pictured – the warrior gone to battle to save the lives of perfect horses. He’d rant of injustices, rave at ignorance, preach compassion to all living things and ask others to join him, to help in the fight to stop the slaughter, to end the abuse and neglect and to share their lives with the animals that walk upon our common earth. He’d create the mental images with his words, and place them before others and they would find truth in the images and understand and offer to help fight the battles.

One night he let his guard down and someone saw into the darkness of his mind. He was frightened and alone and fighting monsters when someone looked inside him and rushed to help. Someone fought with him and pushed the monsters away, picked him up and carried him to a safe place and said words that he had never heard before. “We are all fighting the same monsters, but no one wants to talk about it. These are the unspoken secrets, the worlds we want to share, but we’re too afraid to let others know.”

“Are you saying that others have the same nightmares?” the wordsmith asked.

“Not everyone, but enough of us. What you write makes us afraid. You make us hear the screams of the animals. You are not alone,” the voice said. “You think your readers don’t know what lies deep within you? They know, for at times you write too deeply. It spills out and mixes with those darkest secrets within us all. Your words paint the pictures of our nightmares. You wonder why we stay silent. It is because you have forced us to face that which we don’t want to see.”

“Then what I write is wrong!” he cried.

“No,” the voice said. “It is what we must hear, the pictures we must see, to make us know that all is not well. If wordsmiths like you don’t write, if we don’t see the pictures you paint, then even the unicorns will die.”

The wordsmith pulled the keyboard to him and began typing once again, except this time he let the darkness walk into the light. He wrote of his pain, he wrote of love, he wrote of horses as never before. I am not alone, he thought. He prayed that it would be so, that others would understand. He wanted to tell them what he really saw and, if they did have the same images, he wanted to know, needed to know, for his life depended on it and the lives of the horses depended on him.

“There was once a horse,” he wrote, and, as he started to type, the images painted themselves upon the screen of his computer.


Tags: , , , , , , , ,

7 responses to “Even the Unicorns Will Die

  1. Ruth

    August 6, 2011 at 7:15 am

    “It is just like man’s vanity and impertinence to call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dull perceptions. Heaven is by favor; if it were by merit your dog would go in and you would stay out. Of all the creatures ever made he (man) is the most detestable. Of the entire brood, he is the only one…that possesses malice. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual superiority to the other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot.”
    Mark Twain

  2. Pat

    August 3, 2011 at 4:57 pm

    You are not alone….

  3. Barbara Anne Dunn

    August 3, 2011 at 11:30 am

    You are not alone. In those moments of darkness, when the pain is too great and courage falters…just know that you have kindred spirits who share both your deep and abiding love for the horse, your despair and pain at Mankind’s inhumanity to God’s creatures and others of his kind, and who have untold respect for your courage and commitment to do whatever it takes to make a mark upon the world. Although you may not always be able to see how far your actions reach into the lives of others, nor how many horses live a better life because of you and your actions and words…the ripples go out across the lands of Earth from the pebbles you drop in the waters of Life. May you always be blessed…

  4. Sue

    August 3, 2011 at 5:54 am

    Jade, Blessed Be back at you! For all the living creatures, may they find their Jerry Finch or their Capt. Paul Watson or their Jane Goodall or their Dian Fossey.

    I heard the screams on the truck traveling to Mexico and rescued one starfish. It hardly made a dent, but it mattered to that starfish.
    I bought 3 acres of property upon which to put two rescues. We are happy. They need not worry that their human couldn’t sell her beach home two years ago and hoped the economy would get better, especially in a desirable place to live, like Florida. But, instead, its getting worse. And now I have a mortgage and property taxes and utility bills on more than one.
    The rich get richer while giving, caring, loving folks get poorer. So it goes…..

  5. Jade

    August 2, 2011 at 9:15 pm

    Our beloved wordsmith, you have never been alone. There are many of us who have seen people literally walk out of our lives because they didn’t like what we write about or the pictures we paint with our words made them uncomfortable, defensive, downright angry. They say they don’t have time to be involved with the horses and the various issues because they have REAL problems in their lives and their families – they can’t be bothered with what’s happening to “a bunch of horses” (or dogs, cats, wolves, calves, bears, chickens, whales, dolphins, birds, great apes, elephants, lions or tigers (OH MY!) because afterall…”THEY’RE JUST ANIMALS, FOR PETE’S SAKE!” When they don’t want to read my words, I try sharing other people’s words thinking they will hear someone else’s better than mine because maybe I’m not a good enough writer to really paint a realistic picture – if I was, they would want to join a cause, take up a pen and write a check, attend a protest and hold their candles and posters high…if I was a good enough writer to show them why 24 hrs a day my tears are ready to spill over and down my cheeks in an instant if I don’t hold myself tight in my mind when I’m trying to tell them that just a couple bucks would help – a lot less than they pay for an 18 pack of Budeweiser! And then a new day dawns and I sit back down at the keyboard, open my email with a prayer that something good has occurred while I was hiding out in other worlds during the night where animals communicate easily with me and make me laugh and tell me that they appreciate all my efforts…and that I’m really okay.

    Because of you and your words, and all the others who write about “what is!” – don’t pull punches – and hold one another in victory and in sorrow – I know I’m not alone – and neither are you! Blessed Be!

  6. sherriey miller

    August 2, 2011 at 8:43 pm

    no, dear wordsmith….you are not alone.
    not at all.
    and this i wish wasn’t true…..but it is.
    some of us know and have seen way too much to ever have a peaceful nites sleep again.
    hear me….you are not alone.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 8,400 other followers

%d bloggers like this: