Pony Mag short story contest!

M

Mid

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12 November 2006
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Ingerland
www.just-dreaming.webs.com
Any of the young H&Hers entering? I am
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The story can only be two thousand words long, which is hard for me because I ramble xD Here's the beginning:


“A terrier of a horse! A mutt… A mongrel!” Typical of Jamie. Just typical. No need for him to be so dramatic. I was in charge of this horse, and if he didn’t like him, he could just butt out.

“Well. I think he’s lovely.” I said pointedly, leaning over the half-door. “A real smart-looking pony.”

Before me stood a scraggy chestnut colt, the very colour of damp sand, with a coarse mane that fell right down to his chest. He wasn’t particularly tall, but rather broad, with great powerful shoulders, a rounded rump, and a whip of a tail. I’d had him shipped over, all the way from America. He was a crossbred, his sire a champion quarter horse, his dam a racer, but much as I hated to admit it, he wasn’t so impressive in the flesh. I was not going to let the stable lad know this, though.

“He’ll be a wonderful stallion,” I continued “He’s just a baby, hasn’t built up enough muscle yet.” I sighed. It had to work out, or I’d certainly be fired. Jamie sensed my annoyance, and relented a little.

“If you say so. What’re you gonna call him, anyways? His pa was Chippy something, right?” This was his attempt at being friendly.

“Chip of Charm.”

“Posh, eh? So what’s it gonna be? How about ‘Lauren’s non-existent Charms’?”

That groom was probably the most irritating person I’d ever met. “Actually, I’m going to call him Prove ‘em Wrong. Because that’s exactly what he’s going to do.” I was pretty pleased with this. Not only had I come up with a witty retort, but I’d also named the horse.

Sensing the conversation was over, Jamie shrugged, turned, and walked from the barn in that peculiar loping gait he had. Fell from a thoroughbred as a toddler, apparently, but I found it hard to believe a word he said. Smiling slightly, I turned back to Prove ‘em Wrong. This was my chance.

***

Six a.m. The sun, high in the sky already. Me, struggling though an overgrown hedge-row in an attempt to reach a naughty horse. This was, really, a typical morning for me. Catch Ginger, as Prove ‘em Wrong had been so lovingly nick-named, tack him up, and then go for a nice relaxing ride before school. It all sounded so simple, I wondered why I was so battered and bruised, and why we’d broken so many bridles.

Today, though, was Saturday, the first day of the summer holidays, and I had hours upon hours to work with the stubborn colt. Prove ‘em Wrong was born to be an international eventer. I just needed a bit more time.

He needed to know how to jump. He needed to know how to perform fancy dressage movements. He needed to be patient and honest and hardworking and brave. He lacked in all but the last. Thankfully, he didn’t know the meaning of fear.

Four years ago I’d seen Ginger advertised. Chestnut foal, he was described, confident. Out of champions. By Chip of Charm. Hopeful for cross country.

He wasn’t cheap. But then, you didn’t get a Chip foal for cheap. I’d judged him by parentage, which is never smart. I’d only seen him in the flesh once before paying… I’d thought it would all be perfect. What were the chances? The Boss wanted another horse for his top class stud, and he’d chosen me, Lauren, to buy for him. At the very same time, a foal was born, miles across the ocean, whose parents were my two biggest horsy heroes! His dam, Slim Chance, was winning races all over England, his sire excelling at roping competitions in the USA. Strength and speed combined. He’d surely take the eventing world by storm!

The colt should have been perfect. This was not the case. As Jamie had pointed out when my pupil was but a yearling, Ginger looked like a mutt. He’d become much heavier as he grew, and no amount of dieting could stop this. His head was small and broad, his mane, now combed through and pulled, still looked scruffy. He had small eyes, which could even be described as mean. He really was ugly, but for some strange reason, I’d become attached to the unattractive stallion, and determined to follow through with his namesake.
 
That's as much as I've written ^^ I'll do some more now and post it!

I just realised that I might be to old to submit it to pony =/ My birthday's this weekend. Oh well xD I won't worry about the word limit in that case
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Expect more soon
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And tell me if I write anything stupid!
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Next section:

At that very moment, as if my thoughts were out loud, I was cannoned by a large, chestnut creature. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, and with a yell I fell flat on the floor. I stayed there for a moment, face pressed in the dry grass, hoping against hope that none of the other people on the yard had seen. Eventually, I rolled over and clambered to my knees. Well. I’d found Ginger.

He was standing, staring at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. In a moment of foresight, I lunged for his mane, and just about managed to hold on while he scrabbled at the dusty earth. After a ten minute tussle the halter was over his head. He’d had it specially made. Normal head collars just didn’t seem to fit. Jamie, with his usual amount of humour, had pointed out that Ginger was a big-head, just like me. At that point, poor old Jamie had come in contact with a schooling whip. It was an accident. I swear. Anyway, I now had a firm hold on the animal that had been the cause of pretty much all the trouble I’d been in during the past four years, and half lead, half dragged him to the barn. This was not the textbook way to catch a horse. I’d rather have died then been seen doing it, but with Ginger, there wasn’t much of an option.

Ten minutes later, we were all set to go. Ginger wore his new bridle - A strange, American thing with no nose or brow band, and swirly bit rings, and reins made of rope – Again, custom made. It supposedly improved the appearance of his head, but I was inclined to disagree. In truth, I liked riding in the new bridle, but I intended to either replace the reins, or buy a decent pair of gloves as soon as possible! He wore a martingale too – With silver sparkly bits pinned on, courtesy of a certain stable lad. The poor old pony was also kitted out in suede brushing boots, a quilted numnah, and a German saddle that must have been worth thousands. Oh, how I loved working for someone that could afford all these luxuries!

I hopped aboard, and we walked slowly to the outdoor school. As soon as Ginger recognised the flashy plastic show jumps, he started to prance. He was a different horse when he behaved like this. Light and elegant and showy, making me feel as if I were riding air! I knew we must have looked awful, though. Me in tattered black jodhpurs and a body protector (VERY important!) with a muddy foot print on the back… But that didn’t spoil the mood in the least. I only dreaded actually trying to make him jump the things. He was like a whirlwind when jumping, perfectly happy to just charge through everything.
 
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