cubed

There is a cube sitting in the middle of a desert. It isn't very large-- probably about a square foot or so-- and made of shiny glass. The glass is thick and durable. A ring of displaced sand surrounds the cube, like maybe it fell from somewhere and plopped down with a muted thud, but who knows where it came from? There are mountains far, far in the background, the tops of trees at the foot of them. Maybe there's an oasis? Around the cube there are tiny desert weed seedlings, twigs flicking around in the wind that blows from the right, and the spray of sand on the cube is not harsh but it is constant and one side of the cube and its edges are starting to become scratched and dulled by all those tiny tiny flecks of rock.

Then there is a straight ladder. It stands perfectly balanced, weighted in the sand and supported by an unseen force. It is wood and carved, simply but prettily, and stained dark brown-- not painted, but stained. It's become dull and worn with time, so it looks antique, but it probably should be sanded and stained again. It stands a few yards from the cube like a Dali painting, thirteen rungs high, just standing and standing and bound and unmoving, unmovable.

A dark brown horse with a black mane runs past, far away with a trail of dust behind him, running, running, but blink! and he is next to the cube, standing to the right as an indirect protection from the wind and sand. The horse is calm and looks at the cube, curious but only mildly interested, yet it holds his focus. He watches the cube, the unpolished side having become smooth again, and stamps once.