"Whiskey"

Ten Acre Run is a mythical place in the desert for children, who believe in the miracles of the world. In the midst of hot sun and cracked mud, lay a haven of grassy fields, maple and oak trees, and flowers not blooming from the spines of cacti. It is a place for riding horses with smooth, shiny saddles smelling of leather oil and alfalfa, instead of riding like heathens with cinched horse blankets, bare feet rubbing the ribs of our beasts. The saddle horn silky and worn as I pull myself up, right leg floats over his rump gracefully, fluidly. I feel eyes on me watching in anticipation, as boots slide loosely into stirrups too big for my feet, reins gripped firm in my hands. Holding the bridle, Tara leans toward me whispering, “Don’t forget to lean in.” I nod, sitting proudly atop this fine muscular horse, she releases the bridle, I nudge him to go the heels of my boots digging into his side expecting him to break into a gallop But he rises in slow motion, hooves beating angrily into the heat of the air. My face rises up towards the sun, light blinds all thoughts from my head, all lessons learned vanish quietly, I am left with instinct and she is screaming for me to hold on. Feet hover out of the stirrups, hands grip the reins tighter and tighter my body dancing with gravity. twisting in the wind like a paper lantern. I make an imprint into the grass and dust, eyes snap open, as if waking from a nightmare to a sea of horsehair painting my face, swimming in my mouth, cutting my tongue like a thousand microscopic razors. Whiskey rolls over my body, his spine a bony axe dislocating my hip, then my shoulder trying desperately to get vertical. I am powerless to escape his swift hoof as it connects to the right side of my head ripping a portion of my ear from my head. Everything is dark now, silence is deafening, there is a pain I have never known, a throbbing inside my head, and the warmth of my blood strangely soothes me when it trickles down the side of my face. Aleathia Drehmer 2007