PonyTale
When I’m not working on the middle grade horse novels, I enjoy writing flash fiction - the complete opposite of a long-form novel. For me, there’s something about having only 750 words (or less) to write a complete story. I find it challenging and rewarding. Sometimes the work flows quickly, needing very little editing. Sometimes it takes me a while before I find the perfect words to convey exactly what wants to be put down on the page. I’m not a poet, but I assume flash fiction is similar in the tightness of the language used in a piece.
PonyTale is a piece I originally sent to a Writers Digest magazine contest. We were to start our 650 word piece with the sentence, “I’m going to disappoint you, but you already know that.” I didn’t receive any feedback on that contest, so I edited it and sent it off to the 2020 WOW! Women On Writing Flash Fiction Contest, where it was chosen as a Finalist for an anthology they were creating about animals. I loved writing about the feisty pony. The story is told from his point of view. I hope you enjoy it as well.
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“I'm going to disappoint you, but you already know that.” My snowy Welsh body canters forward, collected under your guidance. I feel you squeeze your child fingers on the right laced rein as you head me toward the first of eight colorful jumps set up in a modified figure-eight pattern around the outdoor show ring on this sunny Sunday morning. “Zoe, my determined young rider, how many times in the last year have you ridden me in these hunter pony classes hoping to win first place, or any place for that matter? If only you could trust me.”
To give you some hope that today’s horse show will be different from the other ones we’ve competed in, I sail over the first fence and land with a flip of my traditionally braided tail--the long, loose ends fanning out elegantly. Moving forward with the steady tempo of my three-beat gait, I then take the second and third fences, which are set up in a diagonal line across the middle of the ring, in the best jumping form I've got--the form that always earns me the judge's attention when we’re at shows. I canter out of the ring's corner with my neck neatly braided and nicely arched--a credit to my fine and pricey bloodlines--and head directly toward fences four and five that are in a straight line along the far side of the white, three-board, show ring fence.
“Zoe, I feel you relaxing a bit.” I jump fence four with my front legs tucked up under my cheeks and my topline arched in perfect form. “Is relaxing such a good idea? You know what happens when I feel you soften your seat and leg grip.”
I clear fence five with style and sophistication, landing gracefully on trim hooves as I canter on. Again, I feel you squeeze the right rein and press my right side behind the leather girth with the inside of your lower right leg to turn me toward fence six, which is at the other end of the show ring and where your grandparents stand watching you ride. This time I’ll be obedient in front of them and cut across the ring in a straight diagonal line for you. After all, they did buy me as your present for your 10th birthday last year.
“Look at how nicely I'm heading toward this sixth fence.” I keep a steady canter stride. “Why have you tensed up? Only three fences to go. Nothing to fear.”
I'm four strides away from jumping fence six . . . and then three strides . . . and then two strides . . . and then I leap over the fence in a big way. I flip my tail again and change to my left canter lead when you cue me. You head me down to the last two fences that are set up in a straight line along the other side of the show ring--the place where spectators sit on aluminum bleacher seats under the shade of three giant, gnarled box elder trees and are barely a rock toss away from the four rows of the now-shabby, white-painted stable barns built so many years ago on these rural showgrounds.
“Oh, this is fun!” I canter directly toward fence seven. “I forgot how much I enjoy being in the show ring with everybody watching us and . . . did you just relax your leg grip?” I’m amazed at how fast I can halt. One moment I'm moving forward ready to take off in front of the jump and within a split second, I can look like a carved marble statue.
You soar over my head and land in an ungraceful heap on the ground in front of the colorful jump while still holding onto my reins. I gently chew my snaffle bit while I wait for you to--once again--get up, brush yourself off, climb back on, and turn me around to ride back over the last jump. Every time I've pulled this marvelous stunt--and you never really know when I might choose to do it, do you--I always jump the fence I refused to the first time in the most perfect form I can master without any hesitation. Frustrating, isn’t it?
“Oh, Zoe, we were so close.” I stand still while you put the reins back over my head, lift your left paddock boot into the stirrup iron, and climb back up into the child-size, English saddle. “There's always next time.”
