Do a Google search. Random topic that pops into my mind: horses. Choose a photo out of the top results. I chose this one:
Who is this guy? Who owns him? Why is he looking at me like that?
Write for five minutes. Go.
They named him Ezekiel for religious reasons, but I never looked up what that meant. When their barn burned down they couldn’t afford to rebuild, and so Ezekiel went up for sale. I shouldn’t have bought him, really. He was too expensive and he wasn’t a stick of gum or a pack of breath mints, yet I bought him out of the same impulse: he was there, and I had to have him. Plus, I’d driven fifty miles out of the way down a bumpy dirt road following signs that said “Barn Sale.” I couldn’t leave empty handed. So I bought him and his trailer, as well. And I paid extra so that boy with the dirty boots would haul him to our property the same day. He smelled like hay and mildew and I tipped him twenty dollars just so he’d leave. But not before installing Ezekiel in the pool house, which was hardly outfitted as stables but empty and comfortable enough for a quadruped.
All because I had to know what a “Barn Sale” was.
“Better keep him away from the pool, though,” the boy said before leaving. “I don’t think horses swim.”
“Excellent advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
His eyebrows drew together in a way that made him look as back-country and hayseed as he could get. I kept waiting for him to call me Ma’am and tip his hat, or pick up a blade of grass and begin chewing. But he didn’t. He got in his truck and drove away. His radio played something aggressive and metallic and I watched him go in spite of myself, feeling inexplicably sad he hadn’t stayed.
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