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I hadn’t seen my auntie in years, so when she suddenly invited me to dinner I didn’t know what to expect. What I didn’t expect was that she’d become a horse. I don’t mean to imply that she was fat. Though she had always been a bit on the tubby side. But, aside from the floral housedress and wide-rimmed glasses, she was distinctly equine. “So auntie, how’s Uncle Ernie?” She bucked, upending the bowl of gold-foil wrapped caramels. I’d forgotten Uncle Ernie had made a fortune in made-to-order prosthetics then blew it all on a waitress he’d met on a sales trip to Des Moines. “Mother sends her regards,” I lied. The two hadn’t spoken since the “incident” at grandmother’s funeral. She pawed at the carpet, then back-kicked her hooves through the glass front plate of the antique clock. This was going nowhere. I needed a new approach. Then I saw the saddle hung next to the door. . .  

All night we rode, to a tune of boastful braying. All night we rode, inside a teacup murdering the sun.