[stylist] sharing a short story

Thu Jan 8 23:18:03 UTC 2015

Hi, Bonnie,

Reading this brought me a smile! I love that she finds therapy in working 
with and riding the horses. Sometimes doing something we love is the best 
therapy there is.

Mel

-----Original Message----- 
From: Bonnie Lannom via stylist
Sent: Thursday, January 08, 2015 4:58 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] sharing a short story

Happy New Year, fellow writers. It is a gloriously warm day here in
Wellington, NZ. A far cry from my Boston winters. I know I don't post much
something I plan to change with the New year. Smile Thought I would start
out by sharing a short story I wrote. It placed second in the Magnets and
Ladders fiction contest in the fall. Feedback welcome. Enjoy!

Bonnie Lannom

First Saturday In May

By Bonnie J. Lannom

Here at the Downs, the first Saturday in May is just that-the first Saturday
in May. If a storm hasn't knocked out the simulcast feed, one might be able
to watch and wager on that holy race at that other Downs, and the rednecks
might wear cleaner jeans and polish their scuffed cowboy boots. Other than
that, it is just another day on a dead end, dusty racetrack of broken down
horses and broken down dreams. And it is the only day of the year I call my
AA sponsor.

There is one exception-the First Saturday in May Stakes. What started as a
joke so long ago no one remembers its origins has become a tradition-a
chance for the Down's three year olds-no matter how bad they are to shine on
that one day on the calendar when everyone is aware of horse racing. No
claiming price the purse determined by that week's wager, different from
year to year and never enough.

I stood, smoking, outside the track kitchen wondering if it were too early
to call my sponsor and pondering my chances on Besse Smith the only mount I
had all weekend. The sky was cloudless the cool breeze deceptive. The heat
would roll in later smothering the plains. Be a good crowd for the Stakes I
thought maybe enough in the purse to pay the poor succor who wins barn fees
for the month.

"Char," I jumped. Even in a world where girls can win classic races, here,
where I was the Downs token female jock, I wasn't used to hearing my name--
just gal or girl and sometimes worse.

Mosen, a spare man of spare words in worn Levi's reeking of tobacco, sweat
and desperation stood before me.

"Hector didn't show up again. You wanna ride Stilton?"

No good morning, how are you? Drop dead you lazy sloth.

"What?" I flicked my ponytail over my shoulder feigning disinterest.

"You heard me," girl. You wanna ride Stilton in the Stakes?" Can't get hold
of Hector probably passed out in some cathouse south the Border again!

"Don't think I ain't seen you makin all google eyed at that horse every time
you come down my shed row. Ain't no other jock I'd trust up on him, so do
you want to ride him or not?"

Stilton, as dull brown as the dirt beneath my boots, with Silver Charm on
top and Unbridled Song on bottom, his papers said he should have gone
further than this place, but horses can't read and Stilton, well, He would
have been better as a birthday party pony ride. But there was something, a
spark flash of fire and intelligence behind that sleepy gaze a toss to the
noble head whenever I gave him a surreptitious scratch when passing his
stall as if to say. "I hate this hellhole as much as you. No one has ever
given me a chance. We were similar but different. I had had opportunities. I
was just drunk or high when they knocked and after awhile they walk away in
disgust.

"He's the favorite," Mosen said like I was some money rider caring more for
odds than any chance of a paycheck.  Favorite I couldn't remember the last
time I had thrown a leg over one. Had it ever been? Maybe that time at
Monmouth or Colonial Downs? I pretended to contemplate this offer as if I
had trainers knocking down my door.

"Sure," why not. I said yawning with fictitious boredom. Experience is the
only God I worship, and I had learned long ago not to get too excited about
anything knowing how quickly it could be snatched away.

"Ok," Mosen said legging me up on Stilton. You seen him run. Just ride him."

I picked up the reins. Stilton danced beneath me flicking an ear back, and I
leaned down whispering words only the big gelding could hear.

"It is our chance, big boy. My chance us together redemption rediscovery. I
knew a secret about Stilton something I doubted any one else knew or cared
about at the Downs. I doubted even Mosen knew. Another horse another track
another opportunity the same sire though worlds apart the same blood that
fueled the creature beneath me also fueled the odds on favorite in that
other race. "Good luck, Char. Mosen, in an uncharacteristic display of
affection, patted my leg as I swung Stilton into the post parade.

Here they sing "Don't Fence Me In" hundreds of off key voices as twelve-rag
tag horses file past the weathered grandstand to the rusting starting gate.
Me and the local rough handed riders and Mexicans.

The clang of the bell all juice high voltage and bright colors streaming out
on the track. Stilton broke well, settling into an easy gallop. I would let
the horses pass us. These other yahoos knew nothing about conserving their
mounts. Use them up early to get to the lead. It was someone's joke to make
this race the same distance as that other race. Most of these nags couldn't
go that distance and were usually at a walk by the wire. We were placed
sixth coming into the first turn-- tight between a big bay and chestnut. The
dust full in our faces surrounded by the curses of the other jocks and the
whack whack of their whips on tired flanks. I reached up pulling down
another pair of goggles. And there it was the opening on the rail. I
loosened the reins asking the question, and Stilton answered in the
affirmative surging forward past the rest of the field as we hit the
backstretch. The other jockeys having no respect what so ever for a girl
rider didn't even notice figuring me well back in the pack. Ok boy I
whispered I know you can I know we can. It was as if we were one. Heart,
spirit soul. Melded together one being all out alone on the lead the
pounding of four solid hooves on the track. This is what it is like flashed
through my mind squelching other memories of disappointments and broken
promises.

Stilton veered suddenly causing me to lose one iron. The chestnut, the same
one I had been beside earlier materialized out of nowhere-- coming fast,
stretched out for the final yards to the wire. I caught the eye of his
jockey, Alehandro, a young apprentice. I saw myself strong, determined
wanting something better reflected in his gaze.

"No," I screamed. I wouldn't have this victory snatched from me. Crouching
lower one foot dangling, stirrup flapping against Stilton's shoulder, I
urged us forward as if by sheer will I could increase the inches between us
and the chestnut.

We flashed past the wire our nemesis stuck to our side like a summer tic-the
crowd on its feet, screaming wildly.

I wasn't sure and judging from Alejandro's expression neither was he. We
circled our horses for what seemed an eternity while the stewards looked at
the photo.

. I barely heard the track announcer announce the fastest time in The Down's
track history as Stilton's lucky number flashed as the winner.

. I leapt from the saddle throwing my arms around Stilton's neck my tears
mixing with his sweat." Thank thank thank you.

"

No blanket of roses, no speeches. A quick snap from the track photographer
and back to the jocks room while the horses came out for the last race. The
jockey's lounge was empty-no congratulatory buckets of water squirts of
ketchup. What riders stuck around for the final race were probably pissed a
girl had won a sizeable paycheck. I didn't care.

I showered and changed into my jeans and t-shirt. I grabbed my truck keys
and cell phone from my locker. One missed call. My sponsor. I stuffed the
phone in my pocket. I might call her back one day. It was time. Time to move
on.

_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site
http://writers.nfb.org/
stylist mailing list
stylist at nfbnet.org
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for 
stylist:
http://nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/mel.finefrock%40gmail.com 