Page 75 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

For a few seconds I can’t breathe. My head rings from the impact. I hear Brought pull up beside me, Otis’ steel shoes crunching on the rocks. “Are you all right?” his deep voice sounds muffled and concerned. Another crunch as he jumps down.
I try to say something, but only get dirt in my mouth. Instead I shift my legs and manage to roll over with the help of Brought’s hand on my arm. “Careful,” he says. “Take it easy.”
Lying on my back, I wave him off, needing just a few seconds to breathe. “Good,” I manage. “I’m good.” I
“The friendliness and lovely ease of these
strangers is making me feel anxious to go back and find something that finally feels like home.“
spit out some dust and wipe at my face.
Brought looks up and I hear horse hooves. Leanne comes around the bush, with Fidget in tow, hold- ing him close by one rein. Leo is blowing and still hyped, dancing under her. Fidget looks calm and fresh and utterly unapologetic. “You break any- thing?” she asks me.
I wave my hand again, finally able to breathe and hop- ing that the squishy feeling at the back of my head is just my crushed helmet.
“I’m sorry,” Leanne says. “I should have seen the impala and realized that might happen. At least with this one.” She gives Fidget a quick glare as he nips at Leo’s shoulder. “Are you going to be able to ride back?” she asks.
I push myself into a sitting position and pull my legs up towards my chest, confirming that most things still work. The adrenaline has left me feeling shaky and I’m not ready to get up yet. “In a couple minutes.”
Brought crouches down again, touches what I’m sure are cracks on my helmet. “Nothing permanent.” He says, then, “Next time, maybe take it easy.”
“So, try a different breed of horse,” I laugh, and it comes out as shaky as I feel. I pick one of the bigger bits of rock out of my skin.
“Maybe try some ultras,” Leanne offers, and offers an apologetic smile. “They are a little safer than certain Arabians. Most of the time.”
“Yeah... do any of them involve impala running across the trail?”
“In South Africa, yes. But, the good news is you’ll be too tired to spook with so much enthusiasm. Al- though hallucinations are a serious possibility.”
I wipe more of the dirt off myself. “Maybe I stick to riding in the states. No impala.” At least there if I de- cided to almost kill myself my insurance would likely cover it.
“You’d still find Arabians,” she says. “They are the same wherever you find them.”
I take off my helmet and examine the spidering cracks spreading from the back of it. It isn’t the first time I’ve come off a horse. It won’t be the last. Some things you do over and over again and never change. And then some things you do. Fidget lowers his head to look at me, his pinkish nostrils fluttering as he sniffs my hair. His feathery breath on my forehead sends something warm down through my sore body. Some kind of resonance. “True,” I say. “I could find Arabians like this at home.”
“Texas?” Leanne asks.
Brought shakes his head and reaches down to help me up, “This time she means Iowa.”
Sprecher is an English and creative writing professor currently teach- ing in Northwest Arkansas, with an affinity for writing about exploring different places and times. She holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas and continues to research a WWII novel about the battle- ship Bismark. Her extra time is spent with her horse, Princess Ari. She has been published in The Greyhound Journal, Equus Maga- zine, and None of the Above (NOTA), and is forthcoming in Culterate.
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