Straight Down the Strip

You wanted a race. Morning light hit the long hallway runner, drawing a straight ribbon of woven wool from one doorway to the next. At the far mark sat an old brass curtain ring, propped on edge against the baseboard. That was the finish line. I lowered my head and hit my stride. My hooves dug into the tight weave, kicking up small muffled thuds. I did not brake until my chest hit the brass ring flat on. It spun, chimed against the skirting board, and settled at my feet. The whole track belonged to me.