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Horses

Memories

Karen walked out into the blazing August sun. She smiled to see the horses grazing contentedly in the fields, swishing their tails at the bugs and stomping the ground occasionally, as if to remind strangers or newcomers that it was their grass to eat. She brushed a fly off her top and walked over to the water spigot. Her hand grasped the handle, turning it, and she dunked her face into the stream of water spilling down to get a drink. After quenching her own thirst, she wiped her mouth with her wrist and filled a nearby bucket to the brim with cold water. She turned the handle again, until the water came only in drops, and picked up the bucket. She carried it through the field, stopping at each horse and letting them have a drink. When she reached the bay near the peach tree, she took an extra minute to stay with the horse. It was her favorite horse, Calla, the most spirited filly of them all at Piping Greens. She cooed softly to the horse, then swung her long leg over Calla’s back. Karen tapped Calla with her bare feet and grabbed the horse’s coarse black mane. The filly began to trot, and the two went smoothly across the perimeter of the paddock. Karen’s hair flew back as the horse picked up speed. Her hair was a golden blond, contrasting beautifully with her brown eyes and tanned skin. How I loved to watch her ride, from my seat halfway up a peach tree How I loved to watch her ride, from my seat halfway up a peach tree. I grinned and grabbed a peach. As I bit into it, all of the luscious juice streamed into my mouth and filled my head with memories of my own horse, Bosa, who I had owned two—or was it three—years ago. She was an old mare, nineteen or so. She was an Appaloosa, a big brown Appaloosa with grayish-white spots on her rear and a long blaze on her nose. She looked rather like me, dark and freckled, with big brown eyes. We had more in common than looks, too. We both were very eager about getting our own way, and it made it quite a challenge to ride her. Yet it was those times when she threw me off or refused a jump that made me remember her so fondly. There was the time when we came to a bridge, and I urged her forward, but she stayed put. I urged again, and still she did not move. Finally, she took one quick step, then bucked me into the water. I could remember so clearly the look on Karen’s face when she pulled me out of the stream. It was a look of sheer bliss, laughter, joy, and any other words that would appear on a list of when a girl sees her sister in a stream with a riderless horse nearby. Then there was the time I rode her to a restaurant. I tied her up outside and went in. Nearly twenty minutes later the door opened and in marched Bosa, feeling competent and proud. I could almost swear she was grinning. The strongest memory, however, was the day we parted. It was early February, the first snow of the year. One of our best studs, Parker, had been put down, so the year had been financially bad. My father decided that we would have to sell our two leisure horses, Troy and Bosa. I had been heartbroken. Some stout man came in a big gray horse van. He took Troy. Then a woman came in a green horse van. It was a small stall, but the hay smelled fresh and the water was cold. I led Bosa in, kissed her neck and let the woman close the back and drive away, while tears rolled down my cheeks . . . I was suddenly awoken by Karen tapping my shoulder. I opened my eyes. A long stream of peach juice was streaming down my chin. I licked my lips and we laughed. Chappell Sargent, 10Charlestown, Massachusetts Hanna Kozlowski, 13Batesburg, South Carolina

A Crimson Glimmer

The air was cool, and leaves had departed from their shaky branches. Early October had come. Ansadore, the old chestnut mare, was rolling in the browning grass. She snorted, rolled over, and stood up. Not to say standing up didn’t take much effort, though. She was, indeed, very old and it took more than a mere push to rise to her feet. After the grunts of weariness, however, she did manage it and was standing on her sleek legs. Mary, tired after school, was just walking up the hill to the paddocks. Her light brown hair had been placed neatly into two braids that morning but was now in an absolute wreck, looking somewhat like a dead rat sitting atop her head. Her blue-green eyes were shielded off by round, silver-rimmed glasses which she ripped off so suddenly that they scraped her forehead. She hated the glasses. She was certain she could see perfectly fine without them, but her mother had insisted, and she never argued with her mother. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color She sighed dramatically as she approached Ansadore. “Oh, Any,” she called to the horse by nickname. “I hate it here! I want to move, run away! I want to ride you across the country and back, then fly to London, Rome, Paris!” She collapsed, caught up in her own drama. The horse stared back at her with large, understanding eyes. Mary stood up again. “I’m gonna go for a ride,” she said. She crawled under the wooden fence, dropped her book bag, and put her hands on Ansadore’s back. She pushed up and swung a leg over the horse’s back. Once on and balanced, she tapped the horse’s belly with her sneakers. The well-trained horse immediately took the signal and began trotting down the hill. Near the bottom, something flew up in front of them. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color. Ansadore spooked. She reared, whinnying, something she hadn’t done for over ten years. Mary slowly slid off the horse’s back and into the dirt, while Ansadore took off up the hill. Mary, shaking her head in discomfort, caught another glimpse of the crimson glimmer. It was far above her head for a moment, then swooped down into a shrub. Mary leaned forward to get a better glance. There, on a branch, was the object that had caused so much confusion. It was beautiful, Mary had thought. It was the crimson glimmer. It was . . . a butterfly. Chappell Sargent, 10Charlestown, Massachusetts Lainey Guddat, 11Kent, Washington

Baby

The wind burns my face as Willow and I bound over tree roots and the soft earth of the forest. The sun-dappled woodlands stretch invitingly before us. The majestic spread of leaves lies like a masterpiece, untouched by human or horse. Eagerly Willow gallops into it, causing the leaves to blow up like a bomb. The horse snorts delightedly. It is a crisp late-November morning in Lake Ariel, Pennsylvania. To our left glitters the frigid cobalt lake. The ducks, Jack and Sydney, patrol along the shoreline, making sure everything is under control. To the right is nothing, just the tangled mass of skeletal maples and dogwoods. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s worried voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn. Reluctantly and somewhat irritated now, I turn the horse back in the direction of Strawberry Grove. Willow is as deflated as I am as he heads back to the barn at a reluctant trot. The untamed wilderness turns into a well-worn path. Various footprints trample it. I think back to how many horses have galloped on these lands. Let’s see, there was Rosebud, Juno, Penelope, Pumpkin, Typhoon, and so many more. My parents have owned Strawberry Grove Farm since they were newlyweds of twenty. Now, nearly twenty-five years later, the strong stone walls of the barn and the old farmhouse on the hill are going strong. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn My mother stands at the hayloft window with her binoculars in hand, worried lines creased on her weathered forehead. My black bangs fly up when I sigh in exasperation. Ever since the accident, my mother has become increasingly more of a worrier than she ever was. It is irritating sometimes, but I simply remember what Dad has drilled me to tell myself, “She’s worried because she loves you.” “Dylan, please stay closer to the house where I can keep an eye on you. Or better yet, just ride in the paddock. Why don’t you get back into showing?” I sigh yet again and shut my eyes. I fight the urge to yell. “Mom, Willow and I know the woods like the back of our hands. Or hooves in Willow’s case,” I told her, cracking a grin. But Mom’s face remains stern and a little bit sad. I can tell she’s thinking about Georgina. The sight of Georgina’s pale face lying in the leaves with her cloud of dark hair lying eerily around her still haunts my mother. “Dylan, please. You’re my only daughter left. I don’t want to lose you too,” Mom tells me in a choked voice, and hurries back toward the house. Sighing in frustration, I untack Willow and let him loose with his pasture buddies, Comet, Tiny, Warrior, and Persia. The eldest horses, Pumpkin and Rosebud, recognizing me, nicker softly and lumber forward. I feel a surge of affection for the sweet horses, who are in their high twenties and the oldest horses at Strawberry Grove. But their chestnut coats still gleam a healthy shine and their brown eyes shine. My parents had bought them as a pair when they were a shade over four. We are old friends. “Hey, guys,” I greet them, pulling some fresh carrots out of my coat pockets. Greedily but daintily they nibble each one, grateful for the attention. Suddenly the horses prick their ears and the sound of the rattling trailer comes up the road. Dad’s back with the new horse. *          *          * All three of us, along with the yellow-and-chocolate labs, Banana and Ryley, gather around the roomy box stall that is now occupied with a gorgeous gray mare, dappled white and complemented by a black, gray, and white mane. Her name is Baby Blue, nicknamed Baby, and she is my newfound interest in the horse breed. Baby munches calmly on the hay, casting her three awed onlookers curious glances once in a while, but otherwise the move hasn’t affected her. “Dad, she’s gorgeous,” I breathe for about the millionth time. Since the moment my father backed the finely conformed Arabian mare out of the trailer, I knew she was something special. But how to find out . . . The afternoon swiftly flows into a milky pink twilight, the winter sky dotted with cotton-like clouds. The last of the procrastinating geese fly overhead, frantically fleeing from the frigid cold to the tropical south. In the warmth and coziness of the huge stone farmhouse, I can hardly concentrate on the dullness of my math homework. Baby occupies my mind now. Dreamily I sketch a horse head on the margin of my paper. She has a finely dished face and intelligent wide-set eyes. My mother is overlooking. “What interesting math homework. It’s changed quite a lot since I was in sixth grade,” Mom observes dryly. “Oh, um . . . I was just getting a head start on my art project,” I reply weakly. Mom just raises her eyebrows and continues with the dishes. “Dylan, if this horse is going to inhabit your mind, I’ll have to find another home for her,” Dad tells me from his nest of newspaper on the couch. “Oh, no, Dad, she won’t,” I vow hastily, and quickly flee back to my math homework. *          *          * A week later, now in the early stages of December, I am delighted to find at least a foot of snow draped dramatically over the earth like a blanket. The horses, even more enthused, frolic merrily about the paddocks. The dogs nip at each other playfully as they roam the property. The fat barn cat, Callie, lounges lazily in the snow, enjoying the weather at a calmer level. School, to my delight, is cancelled today, so I take the opportunity to finally get on Baby’s back. The gray mare leans against the sturdy box stall door, relishing the fact that she could hang her