The racetrack is filled to bursting with clamoring people. Heady aromas of buttery popcorn and sticky cotton candy fill the air. Rose and I stand apart from the other horses. They mill around like ants on an anthill. My mouth is as dry as a desert. This will be the last race I ride with Rose. She will be turning four soon and I want to retire her. Cheers and yells coming from the crowd are earsplitting. They sound like logs being ground up by a sawmill. The neighs of the horses mingle with the deafening noise, creating a cacophony. Finally, out of all the noise I hear a whistle. It’s the whistle for the horses to come to the starting gates. We line up. They smell distinctly musty, as if someone had not washed them in years, maybe centuries. Well, that’s how old the racetrack is. I pet Rose on her soft silky coat, calming her. It would not do to have her strength wasted before the race even starts. John Thompson, the jockey of another horse, Angel, whispers smugly to me, “Angel is too good for Rose. We’ll win!” I try to ignore him. He’s too crazy. His remark makes me even more nervous though. There are elephants in my stomach instead of butterflies. Why can’t the starting pistol fire? CRACK! The noise of the pistol firing nearly makes me leap out of the saddle. The gates spring open with surprising agility for something so old. Rose bolts forward as fast as lightning. I taste her rough mane in my mouth as I’m jolted onto her neck. I grip fiercely at the reins. “Come on, Rose! You can do it!” Angel is jostling us ferociously. My foot loses its grip on the stirrup. Wind rushes past me as my leg swings wildly in the air. It’s slowing Rose down! We’re way behind at the half-mile mark. My fumbling foot finally finds the swinging stirrup. Luckily, it slips in. We’ve got to do this! This is our last chance. We can’t let Angel win. The pounding of hooves is deafening. I hear the other jockeys yelling at their mounts to go faster. The wide home stretch is in front of me, perfectly straight and flat. My saddle is sticky with sweat. I grip fiercely at the reins. “Come on, Rose! You can do it!” The wind almost blows my words away, but not quite. I can feel Rose lengthening her strides. She must be going thirty miles an hour! The finish line is just feet ahead. Angel is neck-to-neck with us. I will Rose to win… She leaps across the finish line! The thought sinks into me. We won! By a nose. I inhale the fragrant scent of the roses on Rose’s back. They match her name. I hug the chilly golden cup. It is but a mere symbol of what I really feel. Rose’s thoughts seem to connect with mine as she rears up in exaltation. Hayley Jones, 10Portland, Oregon Indra Roving, 12Hope Valley, Rhode Island
Horses
Our Morning
I am looking forward to this. It is my first thought as my eyes snap open. I keep them open, waiting until my dark bedroom comes into focus, which it rapidly does. I anxiously search my sister’s face, and find it to be smooth and serene. She sleeps on beside me. Good. I want it that way. I did not set an alarm for fear of waking her. Besides, I do not need one. I have always been able to wake up early. I can’t sleep in, even though I’m almost thirteen, almost at a sleep-in age. My bedroom window, cracked open, tells me that it is a windy morning and still dark. I can smell the earthy autumn smell—drifting through the window with the breeze—that is caused by dead leaves rotting into the soil. It is between six and seven. I guess this, for I cannot risk turning on the lamp on my nightstand to look at my alarm clock. The main idea is not to wake anybody. Not that what I’m about to do is evil. Why does everyone associate the word “secretive” with dark, harmful deeds? I just need some time alone. Some time for me. For me, to be free of people for a little while is renewing. Then I can hop on the school bus feeling happy and industrious. Then, but first… I am looking forward to this. I slip out of bed, and I am silent as a shadow. My searching fingers find my dresser drawer—the bottom one. I feel the smooth brass handle, grooved with chiseled designs, and I pull. Into the drawer my hand dives. I search, I feel among the oceans of rumpled cloth. Then I find them. My fingers know the fabric of my riding pants—light and stretchy. I give a pull, then slide the drawer closed silently. A slightly tattered shirt I find in the next drawer up, wooly-warm socks in the drawer to the right. The sun is just tipping the horizon, lighting up the whole silent sky with amber sparks I am dressed in no time, for I know that there is someone waiting for me outside. And it isn’t a person, so I have to hurry. People can wait. Ponies can’t. My muffled feet glide with me down the hard floor of the hall, down the carpeted stairs. I slip into the garage, scraping the door shut behind me. I have awakened no one. I grope for my almost-new boots, and my chaps whose surfaces are worn slick from gripping a saddle so many times. I will lace them up outside. The leather chin strap of my riding helmet I have unconsciously wound around my fingers in my excitement. I step out the garage door and lace my boots, which are immediately drenched with dew. I have escaped. But I will come back. I have a life, and I appreciate it… most of the time. But it is nice to have a break once in a while. Right now. I climb the steep, grassy slope up to our barn. My timing is perfect—the sun is just tipping the horizon, lighting up the whole silent sky with amber sparks. My favorite time of day. New, and clean, and cool, and quiet. Evening is clean and cool, too, but opportunity is lacking. Everything is set in stone. But in the morning, everything is pliable and optimistic. Anything can happen. I can see my pony, Zorro, in his pasture. His black, dainty head is silhouetted against the lightening sky. He is beautiful. I hurry. Cresting the hill at last, I slowly enter our tack room at our barn. It is a sacred place—a haven that is dark and rich and quiet. It smells of the leather saddles we keep here, and the perpetual tick of the cheap old plastic clock—a tiny sound but magnified in the silence this room imposes—is soothing and permanent. I don’t believe that clock will ever stop. It is an absolute to me, something that cannot, will not, break down. I rouse myself—that clock can put one to sleep. I find Zorro’s bridle and hurriedly go to him. I climb his rough wooden fence carefully and we walk to meet each other. His thick, black forelock pulses with his stride. Oh, I am looking forward to this. He is my favorite part of today. When my class goes on a field trip our teacher always asks us, “What was your favorite part?” And we have to write a report on it. Zorro is my favorite part most any day. I can write reports about him until my hand falls off. We reach each other and I stroke his silky neck. Dirt crumbles off his back as I brush his body with my hand. He paces, circling around me, begging me to put on his bridle and get on. When his back is clean I pull the bridle over his ears. I fasten the straps that go around his nose and throat. Dusty my sister’s little white pony, comes over to investigate, but we ignore him. This is our time, our moment. I gather the reins over his neck in my palm. I hold them together with strands of long black mane. Zorro is piebald—black and white. His mane is black while his tail is white. He is still. I bounce a few times on the ground, gaining altitude. Then I push myself into the air and land with my stomach on his back. I swing my leg gently over his hindquarters and settle myself into position. Zorro is a pony. Soon he will be too small for me. But not today Not now. I am looking forward to this. I am riding him bareback. We walk to the gate, and I lean over to unlatch it. If Zorro were to spook or shift right now, bad things would happen for me. But he doesn’t. We go out the gate and I latch it
Seahorse
The wind blew against the trees, making them sway gently, their new leaves brushing each other lightly. The sweet sound of birdsong met my ears, along with the babbling of the stream and the gentle thu-thump of my horse’s hooves against the soft dirt track. It was a lovely day for a trail ride. The sun was shining, the cherry tree was in bloom, and everything was beautiful. My horse, too, was enjoying it. Her ears were pricked up, her trot was brisk, and the wind that ruffled her mane was keeping the flies away, too. She was an odd horse, to be sure. I had been there to witness her birth, and I was the first one to point out the oddest thing about her. “Look at her side!” I had whispered in astonishment. And there, as plain as day, was the word “sea.” She was paint (brown and white), so the spots were no surprise, but that one odd collection of spots on her left side… So we called her Seahorse. The first question people asked after we had told them about Seahorse’s word (as we referred to it) was “So, does she like water?” and the answer is “No, she loathes it with a passion.” And that’s right! I can’t even get her to cross the bridge over the stream! And whenever it rains, she’ll do anything to get inside. I live on a ranch, so there are a ton of horses and other animals around, but Seahorse is my favorite. I think it’s because I identify with her. You see, my name is Val. My mom says it stands for valor, but I always say it stands for Valerie. I’m not very brave. I’m scared of spiders, rats, crows, dogs, thunderstorms, and the dark. So, like Seahorse, I don’t really live up to my name. It was a lovely day for a trail ride The day was made even more bright and pretty by the promise of Becky’s arrival. She was my best friend and nothing at all like me. She was strong, confident, and didn’t have a name she had to live up to. She didn’t even look like me. She was tall, fair-skinned and had straight jet-black hair and green eyes. I was medium, tanned and had curly honey-blond hair and brown eyes. But we both loved horses, and that was enough! * * * The day had turned dark and oppressive by the afternoon. Thunder rumbled slightly in the distance and the sky was completely clouded over. I was watching out the window for the red pickup I knew would be coming into the driveway any second. When it did, I jumped up and ran down the stairs yelling, “Becky’s here! Becky’s here!” When I got outside I slowed down, and we gave each other high fives. We ran inside, laughing and talking. “So, what about our trail ride, Val?” asked Becky. I looked outside. “I dunno, Beck, Seahorse hates rain and Arthur hates loud noises.” Arthur was the horse Becky always rode when she came over to my house. “Oh we’ll be fine.” We checked with my mom and she said it would be OK as long as we came back if it started to rain. It only took us a few minutes to tack up and get our horses out on the trail. I could tell Arthur was getting nervous. His tail was swishing back and forth irritably and he kept starting at little noises. “Becky, let’s go back,” I said. “We’re fine! Quit worrying!” snapped Becky in her usual confident manner. It started to rain. “We need to turn back! We told Mom we’d go straight back if it started to rain!” I said, kind of desperately. “It isn’t raining, it’s sprinkling!” she shot back. In a few minutes the storm had broken loose. “Becky! We need to turn back!” I yelled over the roar of the storm. “Val!” I heard her over the thunderous noise. “I can’t control Arthur! He’s…” CRRACK! A huge thunderclap cut her off, and I heard the frightened scream of a horse and saw Arthur bolting off into the woods. Without thinking, I urged Seahorse onwards. In my mind, I knew that if Arthur reached the stream, he would jump it, and Becky would not be able to hold on. “You’re being unusually quiet,” I told her softly Seahorse came to a sliding halt when we reached the stream, which had now become a torrent. Sure enough, Arthur jumped the stream, and Becky fell into the raging water. Without thinking, I kicked Seahorse until she dove into the water. Make no mistake, I was terrified, but I reached out my hand and grabbed a handful of Becky’s shirt. I pulled her gasping and panting up onto Seahorse and urged her onto the shore. I dismounted from Seahorse and grabbed Arthur’s reins. The fact that he had lost his rider seemed to have puzzled him enough to stay put. And, besides, the rain was lessened by all of the trees. It took me a while to lead the horses back to the barn. Arthur kept startling at the thunder, and, after her heroic show of bravery, Seahorse did not want to cross the bridge. But I finally got back to the house, and, by the time I did, it was sprinkling again. “Whoever controls the weather around here should be put in a rubber room,” I murmured to myself as I helped Becky off and put the horses away. * * * Becky’s mom made a huge fuss over us and mine called the hospital (who said she would be fine with some rest and a warm blanket) and my dad made everyone hot chocolate. I sat down next to Becky, careful not to spill any of the hot drink I had in my hands. “You’re being unusually quiet,” I told her softly. She smiled slightly. “Well, part of it is aftershock, I mean, it
