From The Davidian Odyssey

Editing a new manuscript. A taste is here:

David’s mother called to him from the other side of the Memory River, for he sat now on the hard rocks along the bank. Her hands were on her hips, and she had a look of consternation on her face. “Goddamn it, David Clarence. They’re going to medicate you. I just saw them flicking the air out of the syringes. And that’s just what you don’t want. You’ll be under their thumb forever and ever amen.”

He looked up at his mother slowly, too despondent to be concerned. Instead, he watched what had begun to come up behind her: ten or fifteen horses. They were emerging from a forest so dark its shadows seemed to come out in the form of a thick fog. The horses were grey like mice with black manes and tales. Some of them had faint zebra stripes marking their legs.

“What are those?” David asked pointing to the horses.

“Tarpans, David. Don’t you know that?”

“Tarpans?” he said, his arm still extended.

“Herman Goering’s primordial horses,” she waved dismissively at them, grimacing. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re going to medicate you.”

“I don’t care.” David looked down into the water. He watched a childhood birthday rush past, taking party hats, textured dining room wall paper, and a giant cake and its nine birthday candles with it.

“You will.”