The exercise:
Write about: the horse.
Spent some time this morning helping the guys put in fence posts around a part of the property that hasn't had anything growing in it (other than weeds) since shortly after I met Kat. There used to be apple trees there but Kat's parents pulled them out due to a combination of them not being worth the effort and so that they could scale back just enough to be able to do all the work themselves, with no need for hiring pickers every year.
Needless to say, in an area filling up with vineyards and very little land left unused, that corner of the property has attracted a fair amount of attention. But soon, likely by the end of the month, it won't be quite so empty as Kat's brother is bringing his family's horses down from Dawson Creek.
And before those two get here, we need to get that fence finished.
Mine:
"He seemed like a pretty good horse when I looked at him before the race..."
"Really? You're being serious right now, aren't you?"
"I checked all the things you told me to look out for! The feet, the walking stride, th-"
"Stop talking. Right now."
"You were putting big money on this one, you know I wouldn't cut corners!"
"Mate, you didn't just cut corners. You completely missed them! The bloody horse finished dead last!"
"I had no way of knowing that, I swear! Like I told you, he looked like... oh."
"Oh? Oh?"
"I... um... may have forgotten to replace the lenses in my glasses after they broke while I was getting ready for bed last night..."
3 comments:
Horses sound nice, though I don't believe they produce much that you could sell at the farmers' market... mare's milk, perhaps? Still, teaching the kids to ride from an early age can't hurt (well, unless they fall off) and it sounds like a good use of the land as well. But yes, you'll need good fences :)
Heh, your story today reminds me of a colleague of mine looking at a horse parading before the race and mistaking nerves and tension for "being a bit of a fighter". Needless to say, he lost his money. But I do like the punchline at the end, with a perfectly good reason for the mild disaster!
The horse
"It's horse, innit?" Sixticton's skinny thug was trying out a cockney accent, rather to the bemusement of the four teenagers he'd managed to gather around him. They were well dressed, if slightly conservatively, and one of them was carrying a Bible (though in fairness, another was carrying the Qu'ran, a third was carrying a rulebook for Dungeons&Dragons and the fourth had a copy of the Watchtower pushed inside "A brief history of time").
"What's horse?" asked Tobermory, the guy carrying the Bible. "Is that like skag?"
"Isn't skag Mary-Jane?" asked Jacqui, who was carrying the Qu'ran. Her ankle socks were pink, and one was higher than the other.
"No," said the thug with a hint of impatience. "This is horse, not Mary-bloody-Jane."
"Do you even know what Mary-Jane is?" It was Timothy, the guy with the Watchtower who was speaking now. "And if you do, do you have any?"
"Of course I know who she is," said the thug. The teenagers laughed at him as one.
"It," said Tobermory. "It's sand, isn't it?"
"She's a whore," said the thug, stamping a foot. "Look, I've got horse. Do you bloody want some or not?" He held out a little baggie containing blue powder. The teenagers stared at it.
"H should be white," said Jacqui. "We synthesized it in Chemistry last term."
"It can be brown," said Tobermory. "Depends what you cut it with, I suppose."
"That's been cut with Viagra," said Timothy, poking the bag with the tip of finger. "That's the only thing that's blue. They make the dye from Woad, you know."
"Yes," said the thug, a smile finally appearing on his face. "Horse. Viagra. Jeez, how can't you know that?"
"Horse is heroin," said Jacqui, slowly. "You shoot up with it. You haven't... you haven't been shooting up with this, have you?"
The look of horror on the thug's face was eloquent.
Crispin ran his palm up down Aurelia’s nose. The golden mare looked so soft, her large brown eyes so gentle.
“I remember she was the most beautiful thing I saw,” he said in a soft tone. “Yes you were, girl.”
The way Crispin petted her nose was something straight out of a movie. I had friends with horses back in California, but none of them ever showed their pets this much reverence.
“How old were you?” I asked.
He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was standing right next to him. “I was seven. My father saw how much I adored the royal and noble horses he cared for. It took my parents some time to save up the money to buy her. The fact that they found a young foal was the only reason I got to have her.”
Greg - ah, our dear skinny thug of Sixticton. I fear he may not be much longer for this world at the rate he's going!
Ivybennet - lovely sentiment conveyed here. Delivered with a deft touch.
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