This work is based on James Vandermeer’s exercise, as detailed in his fantastic book “Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction.” This exercise has several steps, but I’ve chosen to show the first and final steps only.

  1. The first step is to establish a topic (teeth, chairs, bus stops, whatever you want). Using that topic, gather materials written by others that somehow feel like they touch on the topic. These materials can be fiction, nonfiction, poetry, etc.

  2. Collage these sentences and passages together to create 2 or 3 paragraphs, keeping the original material virtually untouched.

  3. Take the collage and rewrite it, keeping the original tone of the material as best as you can, but smoothing out the transitions and tone.

  4. Lastly, rewrite the collage one more time to reflect your style, as well as the point of view of a character of your choosing or your creating. Change as many words as you see fit.

The Final Piece

From the window I saw horses, our horses. I was outside of Berlin, in winter, where light has no light and the sky often lacks heaven. The air, white like wet bread, crisp with a morning dew that had quickly been turned to frost. There was a vacant area outside of my window, our window, bitten by the teeth of winter. Suddenly ten horses appeared. I recognized one and thought how the filly, my filly Kris, was never still. She had no restraint, only violence. She showed flat ears, flared nostrils, clear eyes; living, overflowing muscle taking over her rightful space wherever she was.

I’ve only come to have horses recently, but I learned the best precept early, a golden rule of sorts: Never approach them in anger. Anger will blind judgment, skew movement, burn intention. Anger leads to regret, making people do things they wouldn’t do in her absence. Seeing my filly then, I said aloud: “When she bites my hands, she bites me hard. I feel the whole thing. Every single second…” My precious Rika, keeping her eyes on the horses, told me to go on. “I’m in her mouth. She bites, and I’m gone. Suddenly gone.” Where to, asks Rika. “Nowhere. Everywhere. I’m her. She’s me.”

I’ve been trying to think of my filly and her mother. The mother stood on the road one morning, showing no movement. My precious Rika and I sat behind her for nearly an hour, my car still on to keep the heat going, the seats smelling of our fresh sex. The horse stepped away in slow motion, never looking back at us. Rika was my caretaker turned lover turned everything. I asked her then: “Can you help her?,” to which she told me she didn’t know yet. “But you’ve seen horses like this before,” I said. Rika fired back: “I’ve seen horses that were hurt, yes. She doesn’t seem hurt.” I picked up the tempo: “And?”. “And it depends on the horse. It depends on what they want,” Rika replied. I told her horses don’t want things. Rika darted her eyes to me and replied coldly: “Dearest, that’s where you’re wrong.”

I still see my filly, strong, unchecked. She was never quiet. There was something in her that had no patience with stillness, with fences, with the ordinary world. My Rika and Kris had a lot more in common than I had with either of them. They deserve each other. Alone, in this shitty room, I tell myself that stupid horse is what I would be if I could.

Unordered Fragments

“On Horsemanship” — Xenophon

“The one best precept — the golden rule — in dealing with a horse is never to approach him in anger. Anger is so devoid of foresight that it will often force a man to do things which in a calmer mood he will repent.”


"My Friend Flicka" — Mary O'Hara

“The filly was never still. She was full of a violence that could not be contained, ears flat, nostrils flaring — all that living muscle tuned to something just beyond the fence line.”

“Ken stood at the fence watching her. She was never quiet. There was something in her that had no patience with stillness, with fences, with the ordinary world. He thought: she is what I would be if I could.”


"Horses" — Pablo Neruda (tr. Alastair Reid)

“From the window I saw the horses. / I was in Berlin, in winter. The light / had no light, the sky had no heaven. / The air was white like wet bread. / And from my window a vacant arena, / bitten by the teeth of winter. / Suddenly brought in were ten horses.”


"The Horse, the Wheel, and Language" — David W. Anthony

“The domestication of the horse changed the scale of human existence. Distances that had been measured in days became hours. The steppe, once a barrier, became a highway.”


"Equus" — Peter Shaffer

—”When Nugget here is biting my hands — biting me hard — I feel the whole thing!” Alan cried. “Every single second!”

—”Go on,” said Dysart quietly.

—”I’m in his mouth — he bites — and I’m gone. I’m just — gone.”

—”Where?”

—”Nowhere. Everywhere. I’m him. He’s me.”


"The Horse Whisperer" — Nicholas Evans

—”Can you help him?” she asked.

—Tom looked at the horse for a long time before he answered. “I don’t know yet.” —”But you’ve seen horses like this before.”

—”I’ve seen horses that were hurt, yes.”

—”And?”

—”And it depends on the horse. It depends on what he wants.”

—”Horses don’t want things.”

—”Ma’am,” he said, looking at her now, “that’s where you’re wrong.”


"Horse" — Maggie Nelson, from Bluets

“I have been trying to think of the horse. The horse that stood in the road one morning and would not move, and how we sat behind it for nearly an hour, the engine idling, waiting. And how when it finally stepped aside it did not look back.”