Your Story #141

Prompt: Write a drabble—a short story of exactly 100 words—based on the photo prompt below. You can be funny, poignant, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line "Your Story 141."

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address will be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured, all submissions received before the entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules.

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of over 100 entries, WD editors chose the following seven finalists. Vote for your favorite using the comments section at the bottom of the page.

Hi, Mom:

I miss you. Here’s a pic of Soldier and me taken yesterday. Soldier is two hands taller than when you died.

I still remember your advice about what to do when a cowgirl falls. I try, but Soldier doesn’t cooperate.  He hasn’t made the adjustment from you to me. Yesterday, he allowed me to sit in the saddle. 

Daddy’s going to meetings again. He has a new sponsor—someone he met at an American Legion meeting. Maybe this time it’ll work. If not, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

I wish I could tell my friends about you.

Today's group arrives no different than the others: pinching their noses in disgust at my poop piles. (Uncouth degenerates who prefer a merry-go-round’s fake giddy-ups.) Except for her.

She's not like others— middle schoolers who agitate me then run to avoid my kick. (I’ve unapologetically struck two.) She studies my form with her hand, tracing my muscles like a kinesiologist counting fibers for accuracy.

I flare my nose and snort, redirecting her attention. She stands taller than the others in height and maturity. I wink at her; she smiles in return. (My equestrian recruiting’s complete.) Now to summon her teacher.

Her mother stares at the photograph. Memories cloud her mind with bittersweet happiness.

Her daughter loved that horse from the beginning.

When she sat on him, she felt brave and insurmountable. She could be anything she wanted. Do everything that set her heart afire. That horse filled a desolation, bringing fullness to an otherwise empty void.

Until the last moment of her life, when she was bucked off from a sudden scare. Her body—broken. Her soul—free.

For all the intense grief the picture brings, she cannot rid herself of the reminder. Of the sweet gratitude life brought her.  

For sale. Everything must go. A carnival broke down. Grampa returned with a full-size plastic horse. Named it Standing Still.

When Mom died, Marlena was four. Grandpa gave her his shiny horse wax. She finally smiled.

After grandpa passed, she renamed his horse “Brown.”

One night, winds broke our barn. Neighbors helped carry Brown outside. I fell asleep and Marlena snuck out to sit tall, like Mom, in Brown’s saddle.  Unblinking, her cheeks were wet.

“How’s Brown,” I asked.

“Okay.”

“At least he’s still standing.”

“Standing Still,” she glared, jumping down from Brown, running and laughing to make my breakfast.

“Sit quietly, dear,” Mrs. Hovenish called from beside the photographer.

Portia kept her face blank. Mrs. Hovenish didn’t know that before the car crash, before Portia was stuck in St. Matilda’s—where outings like this were rare—Mom and Dad used to take her Saturdays to the community riding center.  It wasn’t fancy, but she learned horseflesh and how to ride.

“We’re done, dear!”

Good.

The paddock gate was open, and beyond it lay a green field and freedom.

Let’s see how long it takes them to catch me.

Portia gave the spotted pony a dig in the flanks.  “Ya!”

Papa never named the horse—just Paint. He was top wrangler for the B&N Ranch, west of Llano, Texas—20 years breaking mustangs for Mr. Nichols. Paint was one of Papa’s mustangs, later given to him outright. Papa died. Heart attack. Mr. Nichols promised Mama we’d be cared for.

Paint knew only one rider. Papa warned me off of him. One day, I bridled Paint and climbed aboard. He pinned his ears, shifted, then, calm as a breeze, we trotted the yard. Mama rushed to the porch, apron to her mouth. I saw her tears. “Papa would be so proud.”

The horse knows he carries something precious. The girl knows she can kiss the sky and ride the wind. Moments later, the air grows loud and the shadows fall and the fields lay small and barren before them. The trail trips down into the ravine as the world tilts on its axis and grows too still.

“This one,” the woman says. Emotions and energy collide within her, a massive grief supernova. She touches her fingertip to the polaroid, tracing a line from the horse’s nose to her daughter’s face.

The framed photo now perches on the mantle in final remembrance.