“Why am I so dumb, Hobo?” I asked the short, jetblack gelding. I knew he couldn’t answer me, but I knew he could understand. Just two days ago, I had failed my first seventh-grade math test spectacularly, lost patience entirely at an annoying girl who I thought was my friend, and I continued to struggle with the facts of growing up. Now, staring into the eyes of someone I knew I could trust, I spilled it all out. And through everything, the glossy black eyes of my one true friend took everything in. When I ended my period of ranting, my wet eyes met his, and he looked back like always, and winked. I threw my arms around his neck, and breathed in the smell of the horse. It was a smell that you learned to appreciate in my house, whether it was lingering in the car, collecting on my welcome mat, or biding its time on the bristles of one of the many brushes that scattered my floor. If you knew me personally, you’d know (and hopefully not be offended) that I’d switch a moment with you any time, for the presence of a horse. Right now, it was one of those times, a dewy Sunday morning, where the first signs of bitter fall were creeping in. You saw a lot of it inside the barn alone, the first burgundy stable blankets were being dusted off, the first-time riders all went out to buy expensive thermal jodhs, only to find out later that unless you were constantly visiting the barn during Snow Days and the likes (like me) you wouldn’t have any use for them. And the biggest preparation, the long-listed variety of shows, hunter paces, and fund-raisers that shared the season. But all of these things didn’t faze me at all; they were just minor details that added to the daily barn atmosphere. All I really cared about were the horses, and how I would spend time with them. To almost all but me, fall was an entirely different season. Me, I didn’t even know when the season began, and had no idea when it would disappear. He was running for me, and no one could ever stop us My train of thought slowly faded away, as I realized that my one thousand pounds of heaping affection was nosing around my coat pockets, looking for a tasty treat. “Oh, sorry, handsome, I forgot the carrots today!” I clapped a hand to my head in exasperation and reached over to stroke the gelding’s long, dark forehead. He nickered softly and closed his eyes, begging for more. All of my past was forgotten, as the love of my horse took over me like a second skin. Hobo snorted and shook his head, relieving himself of an itch. “Silly boy!” I laughed as he tried to nip my jacket. I glanced at my watch, it was still pretty early, and so I decided to take my horse out for a ride. “I know you’re not The Biscuit, old boy,” I told him briskly, throwing a saddle on his back. I knew it sounded like one of those corny lines from a Saddle Club movie, but it gave me a tingly sense of satisfaction. I knew my horse could run, I just didn’t know how to get him there. After checking that everything was on correctly, I placed a hand on the gelding’s sleek, black neck. “Let’s go,” I said, my voice barely holding back my excitement. I had waited all week to get on him and just run. I knew that through a week of hard exercise, dealing with refusals of rails, and helping out with beginner lessons, all I needed was to feel the sensation of a flat-out gallop. I slowly led Hobo out into the world; he followed obediently behind me, as if he had never done anything wrong in his entire life. I mounted up with ease, slipping my leather-clad feet into my stirrups, and gripping the reins tightly with both hands. I could see the faces of some of my friends, as they watched me with amusement. They too had their own horses to groom; and little girls to help. But not me; at this moment, it was me, Hobo, and a blank uncharted road in front of me. I suddenly thought about the pain I had suffered through this past week, the hellish realities of a horseless, thirteen-year-old girl’s life. A life that just didn’t sit well for me. So I made a decision, it was a rash one; I would almost call it an impulse. My decision was that I would leave it all behind. In a second all the harsh realities would look a lot smaller than they were now. In an instant, I urged Hobo forward with my legs, and like an orchestra, the symphony began. At first, the strides were steady, clean, show-ready. I leaned forward in the saddle, and let him break out into a full run. I am honest to say that my gelding was never War Admiral or Man o’ War, but if you had been watching me, you wouldn’t know the difference. As my thick, blond hair flew back in all directions, I suddenly remembered my math teacher, passing out my appalling grade, on that rainy Friday morning. Suddenly, like an accidental breeze, the moment had fallen behind, like a struggling horse on the last homestretch. Ha! I thought to myself, feeling like a new world had just begun. I felt Hobo’s powerful strides beneath me. They were not labored, nor were they showing any signs of reduction. He was running for me, and no one could ever stop us. The red-faced, demanding looks of that annoying girl I was holding a grudge against, suddenly were whipped from my mind, and went spiraling fast into the earth beneath me. Suddenly, the entire week was going with it, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . . I couldn’t stop myself
Horses
Morning of the Horses
A mysterious quietness filled the misty morning air as Sadie stepped into her slippers and tiptoed out to the garden. The cold morning air slipped beneath her flannel nightgown and made her shiver. Here in Toronto, Canada, the winter mornings were cold and Sadie disliked them. But she ignored the chilly weather and headed toward the back of her garden. When Sadie reached the tangling green vines that grew up and over the red brick wall that separated her garden from the alley, she glanced over her shoulder at her house to make sure that none of the family was watching. Soundlessly, Sadie heaved herself over the wall and hopped down into the alley below. And then there it was, the horse corral, which was surrounded by a number of elm trees. Sadie secretly visited these horses most mornings, and felt very sorry for them because they were not well taken care of. But two months ago, Sadie had decided to take care of the horses herself. She opened her knapsack and took out the oats, carrots, apples and sugar cubes that she had packed. Each and every horse had learned to trust Sadie, and all came trotting up to her anxiously. Sadie smiled at her friends, and stroked their velvet muzzles with happiness. This time of morning, misty and cool, with the horses, was Sadie’s time. Her favorite time. She loved to feed them and watch their tails whisk the air. The sun was rising and they galloped toward it, wild and free The man who owned the horses was unkind to them. He barely fed them a bucket of grain a day, and he never brushed their coats, manes and tails, rode them or hung out with them. And there he was, treating all people around him with kindness and leaving his poor horses out in the thunder and lightning, rain and snow. He didn’t deserve to own horses, thought Sadie. If you owned a horse, you should care for it. Once in a while, Sadie brought along her hairbrush to brush the horses with. The horses really seemed to enjoy being brushed, since their coats were so shabby and dusty. Her horses may be shabby and thin, hungry and old, but they still had a sort of young liveliness kept inside them. As Sadie was gently brushing the manes of the horses, she heard a whinnying call come from a gray stallion. All the other horses came jogging up to him. Seconds later, Sadie watched in amazement as each horse gracefully leapt over the fence! Then, from the bottom of her heart, Sadie knew that she must climb aboard. She skipped over to a buckskin mare and mounted up. All eight horses and Sadie ran down the alley, through the quiet, sleeping streets, and up over the hill at the end of the block. Sadie’s nightgown fluttered in the breeze along with the horses’ manes and tails. The sun was rising, and they galloped toward it, wild and free. Annakai Hayakawa Geshlider, 9San Francisco, California Mard Lessman, 12Faribault, Minnesota
The Foal
Hidden in the early morning Virginia gloom, I crept into the stable a few minutes before dawn, opening the door quickly to stop the sound of creaking hinges. My riding boots made a crunching sound with all of the hay underfoot, and I slowly walked past the five horses in the stable. Two horses, the ones we were currently training to sell, shied back a little, but the three horses my family owned leaned over the oaken half-doors. They nuzzled my warm cotton jacket like they expected me to hand out sugar lumps as I normally did. But today wasn’t a normal day. This whole week hadn’t been a normal week. When I reached the last stall, across from my brother’s white Welsh pony, it was empty. Nothing remained in there except for a bucket and a blanket draped over the door. Sinking to my knees in hay, I shut my eyes and slumped my head against the door. My hands clenched and unclenched uncontrollably as I thought, I failed you, Dory. I am so, so sorry. Six days ago, around this time, the horse who had virtually been my second mother had breathed her last breath. I breathed in, trying to stop the tears that were already burning at my eyes, but I couldn’t. The first salty tear hit my knees, making them feel cold in the morning air. I wept silently at first, then gave in to the huge gulps that stole the air from me. My nose started to run, so I wiped it on my warm, woolen nightshirt. “Honey, you really shouldn’t be out here” I glanced at the haystack behind me. It still bore the impression I had made, sleeping there six days ago. I had woken up to the anguished moans of Dory and had instantly rolled off of the haystack, screaming to anybody awake in the house. “Call Doctor Jennings!” But when the doctor had finally arrived, he announced it was too late for Dory. I had turned my green eyes into her deep black irises the whole time, petting her white-and-black head until the life drained out of her. Those eyes still haunted me, calm and full of love one moment, then like lifeless marbles the next. I could still see them when I closed my eyes. Dr. Jennings and my whole family told me it wasn’t my fault Dory had died. They said it was the tumor’s fault. But no matter how many reassurances they gave me, I knew it was my fault. I had been riding her since I was two, and she had helped me do so much, so many things. And when it really mattered, I couldn’t give back. And now we were going to Chincoteague Island in two hours, to get me a new pony, to replace her. A giant knot formed in my throat, a sensation that was all too familiar to me now. The pain would lessen, everyone said, but I didn’t believe them. Although sometimes I forgot about Dory the pain would always return, as fresh and sharp as mint tea. I heard the door of the stable creak open, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t be distracted by anything. Not now, when I was grieving for Dory, grieving when nobody else had tried. Soft footsteps arrived by me. I heard an intake of breath, and then my mother’s voice. “Honey, you really shouldn’t be out here,” she said. “You could get sick in this weather.” I glanced at her. “I don’t care about getting sick. I’m mourning Dory right now. Mourning how I couldn’t save her, and how we’re going to replace her in two hours.” Sure, I was sounding like a stubborn, spoiled teenager, but I really didn’t care about that. And anyway, at least I was acting my age. Mom sighed again. “Abby,” she told me firmly. “Dory wouldn’t want you to be like this. Sure, she would like you to remember her and mourn her, but you’re dedicating you whole life to depression.” She was sort of right, but I wasn’t going to tell her so. My fingers automatically went to the tuft of hair and picture in my pocket. “But everything reminds me of her,” I said softly. “Life reminds me of her. And the way everyone is acting, it’s like they didn’t even love her!” I knew they were the wrong words to say. I knew my family loved Dory. I paused, waiting to be reprimanded. Mom went quiet for a moment. “You know I loved her,” she said. “You’re just experiencing her death differently from the rest of us, since you two had a special bond.” “I loved her so much!” I cried, the lump in my throat tightening. “And I can’t touch her anymore. I can’t ride her anymore.” Mom sank down to her knees and hugged me to her chest, letting me sob into her shoulder and long red hair. “You can see her,” Mom said, “in the sky, in the stars hiding behind the clouds.” “What does that mean?” I asked, gulps stealing my breath away. “You know how many stars there are in the sky?” “Nobody does. It’s impossible to count.” “Then who’s saying that some of them can’t be ponies watching over their friends?” Mom stroked my russet hair. “Getting a new pony isn’t replacing her, Abby. No one can replace her, you know that.” I swallowed and looked up at her. “Mom,” I said, gathering all of my courage. “Thanks. I think I’m ready to go to Chincoteague Island. I’m ready to get a new pony.” “That’s the spirit!” Mom said, smiling. “Dory would like this too, I think.” I saw my white-and-black horse inside my head, butting me with her head, eyes smiling. “I think she would like it too,” I said. * * * As the car stopped in the parking lot of Chincoteague Island, I immediately got out and thudded into a person walking towards our
