The Musing Equine
A collection of short tales
Thank you for reading! This is a preview for a collection of short stories focused around equines and equestrians.
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Contents
5. Chasing Hope
8. Explosive
10. Freak Show
12. Horses and Life
14. Mare Talk
15. Shades of Grey
16. The Black Horse
It's strange to wake up like this, like a cloud is hanging over me. No, that's not the right thing, not the wording I'm looking for. It's wrapped around me, moist and cloying and seeping into every last little crack in my defences. And my defences feel weak and fragile these days, the structure of my body crumbling at the roots, foundations faltering in my mind.
I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. But I've got to get up, got to throw off the covers and face the damp chill of the day with a smile and a greeting on my lips. Everyone expects it, so it's the appearance that I must give, what I've got to keep on going with. Then they won't ask me what's wrong and expect me to be all okay. I've got to be all okay.
But the blue curls deep into my soul, colouring my thoughts and slowing them down, feet dragging as if pulling each step through a pit of molasses. It is thick and I fight and struggle, growling and grumbling to myself as I force myself on and on and one to the next job and the next task, swearing colourfully when things go wrong. What does it matter, at this point? There's no one here to hear me.
I flip the radio on. Maybe those thoughts will fill my head instead.
Bad pop music. Just one great equaliser in the realm of sound and life itself. The stables are quiet with little noise other than the drip of rain from the gutters and the patter of droplets marring the concrete. Muck and grime stain the yard and I know that I'll only succeed in moving it around today if I try to sweep up all the loose scraps of straw. I hate how it ends up like this when I only swept the damn thing the night before, the morning before and so on and so on. It's a never-ending cycle and not one that I enjoy either.
Not that mucking out is enjoyable in particular, but the rhythm of it is soothing to a frazzled mind. First, the droppings are removed and then comes the wet straw. It's always in the same place these days, so that's become a super quick job and the very speed of it is satisfying.
Oh, I forgot. I do that a lot when my head's like this. Before I start mucking out, I do the water bucket and pop in new hay for her. It keeps her occupied and I feel that those are the quickest to do first rather than rushing to complete at the end. It also helps that I ready hay, straw and water outside the stable the night before, just so it's even quicker. That'll change, but I like my routine. Routine is good.
So, the hay and water go in. Droppings and wet straw are removed. I fluff up the bed and make a nice base with what's left and only then do I add fresh straw on top. Hm. I stand back to survey it. A bit thin. I'll have to add more later, maybe it's all been going into my banks, though I hardly mind having nice, big ones to make sure she doesn't get cast in the night. The price of straw is a small price to pay.
Going back out into the rain dampens my mood further and I grumble a curse not for fair ears as I hustle down to the muck heap. As much as the routine helps, it cannot soothe every last bit of worry from my mind.
But what worry is there? There is nothing, nothing seated in the rational, at least. This worry is irrational and it burrows its way into every last corner of my heart like a worm seeking sustenance, deeper and deeper for the hidden fruit. Tipping the barrow over when I'm nearly at the muck heap seems just like that last straw and I hurl a swear to the wind, flinging my hands up as if that's going to do any good. It doesn't even make me feel better.
Best to get things all over and done with on a blue day like this. It's just not going very well at all.
Taking the mare out is slow and steady. I think maybe she's as tired as I am, weariness in her stride. She had a lot of work the last couple of days and I can't fault her for it. It's hard work stretching out onto circles, large and small. So she deserves a rest for it too.
But when I unclip the lead rope and slide the head collar free, she doesn't meander off as she usually does, but nuzzles me, clearly anticipating food. Perhaps she knows me too well, for a carrot has indeed snuck itself into my pocket, a splash of orange on an otherwise dull and grey and ragged landscape of a day.
She crunches it up and the sound has life and vitality in it, the snap of teeth breaking the treat in half enough to make even my ears prick up. She doesn't have blue days, not like me, but perhaps it could be said that she has off days, just like any other person or any other horse. We cannot fault ourselves for something that simply comes naturally to our natures, whether equine or human.
Head down, the grey mare noses at my hands, searching for carrots. There are none left, but I still can't help but smile at the sheer tenacity of her. She's sweet when she's trying to mug me, though not too aggressive. I wouldn't tolerate that. But sometimes it's as if she knows that I need her close and, for that, I am glad.
Together we stand looking down the length of the field, the wind picking up raindrops to flick into my eyes. I tell her she has a day off today. I don't think she understands, but she nudges my shoulder regardless. Sighing, I lean into her and she braces all four legs for my weight, supporting me, lifting me up.
It doesn't fix things, but it helps.
Just a little.
Thank you for reading! This is a preview for a collection of short stories focused around equines and equestrians.
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You don't know how much longer you have left. You don't know for how long you've been, grazing and living the life a horse should live. I suppose that's for the best, but I still can't justify how this can be, so cruelly, cut short.
You're fine. You're definitely fine. Okay, the white parts of your coat are occasionally caked in mud and your feathers are often rather brown, but we can't really be complaining about that now, can we? The black patches are usually nice and crisp and you can be rugged up. There's not really all that grooming to be done when its rude to strip the natural oils from your coat. So, you don't take much care, pottering and trotting quite happily about your field with your little bay buddy.
But there's no date, no time and no certainty as to when she will let you go. They call it going over the rainbow bridge, but it's more of a rickety, creaky death bridge for you, because it is well before your time. Do you think you can face that bridge, shake your head and say “oh no, not for me!"? Would that be okay? Could you do that for us?
I'm not sure that would be wisest for you. That'd probably bring about a second bullet or another injection, all designed to stop your heart and dull the life from your eyes. There is no kind of dying that is any way to go.
Or maybe it's not such a bad thing, for you to go on her command and to have a full stomach and a warm stable and a happy life leading up to your final moments. You've never been sick or sorry, a good horse with a “leg in each corner", as they say. You've not known harm or strife or shortage of good grass and hay. You have been well-kept, I can't deny that. I suppose you can't say what may or may not happen to a horse past the age of twenty, but you seem well. I asked her too, your owner, and she said you were in good health.
So why would she ever want you put to sleep? Why would she want you to close your eyes for the last time? And why would she want to see your body taken away from the home that you've known the longest. Of course, it will happen one day, whether we want it to or not, but it doesn't have to be soon. It doesn't have to be now.
She says she doesn't want the hassle, but I'm struggling to believe her, your owner. You did it for years beforehand, so why now is the horse that gave you so many years of pleasure such a bother, a tumour to be removed or a vice to be culled? He has done nothing wrong, your piebald cob. He's not the fanciest of horses or the most expensive, but you would be hard pressed to find one as loyal and sweet as him.
You'll miss him if you do it. I know you will.
I've got to think that. I can't just think that you're a heartless bastard that would put down your horse of a lifetime. Or, more accurately, the horse that you said you'd have “shot" with a completely straight face and rational on your lips. No health issues, oh no, but it's too much hassle to look after a horse, too much stress on the yard. Whereas I would not deny that there was stress on the yard at that time, I can see light at the end of the tunnel. But I wager you're caught up in too toxic a relationship to see the truth of the matter, if my guess is even accurate at all here.
I don't know. I am not you.
All I know is that it cut deep to let my boy go and he was only going to a new, very wonderful home. I could put myself in the position you're in and think, “well, he really was too much hassle and I could have put him down". And, I suppose, I could've done that. I can't imagine a vet agreeing to put such a healthy horse down, but there must be someone out there that would do it, if you think you have the possibility of ending his life in an entirely legal manner. I wouldn't consider a vet very ethical at all if they put a healthy and happy animal down, but that's how it goes. I won't be using your vet – ever.
But, no. I would never put a horse down unless it was their time to go and I am happy to see my grey lad thriving in his new home. Seeing him broken on the ground, never again to wake up? That'll rip me apart at the end of my sweet mare's life, but we have many years before we come to that. At least, I hope so. You can never tell, can you? That's why you have to make every day count as if it is going to be your last.
You don't do that, not for your horse, your pride and joy, your boy. He's given you his life and had no choice in the matter. Now, it's time for you to stand up tall and do right by him, let him live out the rest of his days peacefully and contentedly with good grass and company. It's time that you pay him back just a little of what he's given you, in his kind eye and soft ear, tipped towards you as you hustle through the chores.
He's done so very much for you, but you just don't see him like that, do you? Everyone says you adore your animals, but I'm struggling to understand how you could let this run through your mind if this is true? Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps you're right. We'll probably never know. He'll never know.
You owe him his retirement.
But it doesn't look like he's going to get it.
Thank you for reading! This is a preview for a collection of short stories focused around equines and equestrians.
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Do you know how to fly?
No, of course not, that would be crazy. There are some furs and sentient beings in this world that have experienced flight in one manner or another, I'm sure you've seen them. However, I would be one to claim that they have never been able to spread their wings or stretch their legs like the wild ones, our feral animals.
Wild, of course, is an operative word. I can say that. She will not kick me for calling her wild, not if she doesn't hear. You may say that it's funny for a chestnut horse anthro to tack up and ride a chestnut horse feral, though it's common enough for anthros to treat non-intelligent animals as pets or companions.
Other furs say that we were too similar and that it makes them uncomfortable. Is that really any of their concern? Horses are horses and it does not mean that I am doing any more with the equine, even if we are divisions of the same species. I only reply that at least we are colour co-ordinated in coat and her with brown leather tack, I with a tan jacket that I hoped offset my coat. The cute stable hand was not at the yard today, however, so I suppose my meagre fashion sense was wasted on any other than Blaze. She sneezed on my jacket so I'll count that one as approval.
I smile as I brush a curry comb over her coat, removing stiff flakes of mud from her coat. Rhythm, stroke, rhythm, stroke, rhythm, on and on. There is no need to halt the motion until the grooming is complete and I love to utilise my perfectionism. Have you ever groomed a horse? It's one of the most relaxing things you can do, riding aside, of course. Nothing compares to riding, I challenge you to present me with something, anything, better. To this day, I'm not even sure that anything can compare. Sex? Yeah. Get real.
Tacked up in our yard best, we ride out alone as we often do, trusted enough to keep to the main paths with some modicum of sense. We have the ability to be sensible but it was so easy to throw caution to the hills as we worked our way up the farm tracks to wilder country. A friend of ours tending a farm waves as we edge off the beaten track, a pleasant bay equine with a white blaze and kind eyes – Shy, he went by. A brief interlude for conversation bolsters my spirits and I feel better in myself as we track uphill. Walkers rarely ventured up such steep tracks so, in the grass and wind of the hillside, we could be as alone as alone can be in this world. As much as I enjoy conversation, it is at this point that I crave solitude.
Blaze huffs as we climb higher, wind tearing at her mane as if it sought to rip it clean away. She's a real one for cross country and I can feel her tension beneath me, even as I want to stop to admire the view. From here, we can see the fields and farmland stretching down to the forestry and, beyond event that, the estuary with a curl of water at low tide. It's more dramatic with tide in – now there is miles and miles of damp sand, not even glistening under this Autumn sun. It would be disappointing if I did not have other things to occupy me.
My chestnut beauty fidgets, stomping a hoof and playing with the bit. I'm one of few that actually take her out beyond the yard so I'm sure she appreciates the chance to stretch her legs and kick up her hooves. She does so like her flying bucks, though she's yet to dump me – not for lack of trying. I smile and flip her mane back over to the right side of her neck, ignoring the tangle of worry in my stomach. It is not there for any reason, it is simply there as it always is, an irrefutable presence. But that is not for me to think about right now. With the stretch of undulating track before us, I touch my heels to her side and we're off.
Galloping with greater pace than we ever have – at least in my mind – I can finally forget the drama. I can forget the turmoil and I can forget the way I ache inside. Blaze's hooves drum out a beat over packed sand and dirt and she snorts, throwing in a reckless buck for good measure. The pain is gone, a distant memory, somewhere at our heels. It cannot claim me up here. Clinging on to her mane with one paw, I laugh, the sound lost on the wind. Up here, no one can hear me. And that's just the way I like it!
The world is wild and this is simply my reminder. Crisp Autumn air, the sun above, clouds scudding by. It will rain later but who fucking cares right now? Who cares what you think of me? Does it matter if my phone rings? I'm giddy and I know that, if it does dare ring and disturb my peace I will fling it down the hill to smash upon the turf and rocks. This day is mine!
Call it riding: I call it freedom. Blaze sets her eyes on a ditch and tosses her head. I don't have the heart or will to stop her – I want to clear it as much as she does, feel that moment of suspension as we fly. Her hooves kick off the ground and we're sailing forward, me curling over her neck in the classic jumping position because, in typical Blaze fashion, she has leapt two feet higher than she actually needs to.
And then we're down and her nose points towards the foot of the hill, a winding track away through the trees, yet I know it is there, waiting for me. My heart sinks but I heed her weariness and realise that an hour of hard riding has already passed. The mare is getting on in years and, though she loves her work, she misses her warm stable and the charm of the field more. The freedom she has in her daily life is something that I only have with her and she will never understand.
I sigh and slump forward, letting the weight of what could be the world or more or less fall back upon my shoulders. It seems that I escape from it for less and less time these days. If I had it my way, I would stay up on the hillside and disappear into the mountains with this mare forever if only to keep the anxiety at bay. My everyday curse and my greatest obstacle does not like to be ignored, so I must flee and borrow the freedom she boasts whenever allowed.
The problem with borrowing freedom is that you have to return it after a time.
Thank you for reading! This is a preview for a collection of short stories focused around equines and equestrians.
Kindle (US): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09DZYJ8LX
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To read more, check out the links for the full collection of sixteen short stories!
Thank you for reading!
This is a collection of short, mini tales written by Arian Mabe, also known by Amethyst Mare.
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