The Greater Gift
Sarah Gustin
Contest Winner
From the very first moment I saw her, I knew it must be fate. Her chocolate brown eyes and thick lashes were
nothing short of beautiful. Stunned, I extended a trembling hand and the mottled hide responded with a quiver. I
giggled, my eyes still disbelieving. Her soft, affectionate nuzzle tickled and caressed my cheek. I had enacted this a
thousand times on my wooden horse, but at that moment, reality was infinitely more satisfying. I called it the best
gift I had ever received.
The sawhorse was a gift from my parents three years before. Truthfully, it was not even a sawhorse, but a rough
hewn plank suspended over shaky beams in the barnyard shed. A crude horse head was sketched on one wall and
purple yarn served as mane and tail. Slivers were a constant threat and comfort was not high on the list of
attributes. Though not exactly realistic, it was a horse in my own mind, and I loved it. On the best days, I could
close my eyes and feel the non-existent wind tousling my hair as I rode through rolling valleys or the jungles of
Peru. I was "Sarah the Amazing", for how many people do you know who can do a cartwheel on their horse’s
back? It was here that my passion for books and writing first began, taking advantage of muted sunlight and the
full scope of my imagination.
As the years passed, the sawhorse gradually became a second-rate substitute for the real thing. My grandfather
raised horses, and they had become my new passion. When at his house, I would sneak away from the kitchen
table as stealthily and as often as possible to escape to the solitude of the barn. For hours on end, I would sit on a
hay bale and savour the faintly sweet mixture of sweat and freshly polished harness. Listening intently to the
lilting rhythm of their breaths, it became increasingly clear that my gnarled and lifeless platform simply would not
suffice.
I begged and pleaded zealously with my parents, all to no avail. Relentlessly I pursued the topic, unable to curtail my deep yearning despite the consistent "No". At the time I thought them cruel, heartless even, when they
ignored my imploring cries.
Then came my twelfth birthday. Confused by the sudden congregation of vehicles in our yard, I wondered why
my grandfather was there. He almost never came except on Saturdays. He smiled shyly at me and opened the trailer
door. There was the gift.
In those early months, Sue was my world, in every sense possible. She was my comfort, my confessional, my
friend. With the wind dancing frantically through my hair, I was wild, untamed, and free. There was nothing else
that mattered during those precious times.
Cobwebs devoured the shed.
Unfortunately, my zest soon waned. I found out that not everything in my imagination could spring to life so
easily. I sorely discovered that circus tricks are unbelievably more difficult on a moving animal, and not every
horse would stand still just because you told them to. Having Sue had become more of a chore than a luxury. She
grew fat from lack of exercise and her stall was cleaned out far less often than necessary. She became unruly and
difficult to handle. I grew increasingly more ashamed of my behaviour, but I made only minuscule attempts to
reverse it. My new-found freedom had more limitations than I had created in my mind.
Most of all, I missed my purple horse.
One day I gathered my courage and told my grandfather that it was not fair to Sue to stay with me. He was angry, I could tell, and I had prepared myself for that. More painful though, was the deep and ugly wound reflected in his
steel blue gaze. I turned away, unable to face his disappointment.
I cried the night they came to get her. I cried great, gasping sobs until there were no tears left to shed. I had lost a piece of my dream, and there was no second chance.
Dawn crept over the horizon, reaching hungrily for the distant corners of the shed. From the shadows arose a familiar, but neglected mass of slivers, spiders and scribbled thoughts. With a flourish, I swung my leg over the saddle and gently stroked the broad, massive neck of the beast. The last salty tear dripped off my cheek, and hung there, suspended in the air, against the purple yarn and fading stars. I closed my eyes and galloped briskly around the ring, encouraged by the crowd’s lively cheers. I smiled, suddenly wise and self assured. I realized that what I thought I had been lost forever, had actually been regained.
At breakfast, I thanked my parents for the sawhorse.
More creative
writing.
Want to see your work up here? Then send us an email with your essay, short story, poem, play or anything else you want others to read.
Winners list:
Aaron Pearcey: Poem - Homework Blues
Jenna Henderson: Poem - *Nsync Style
Kelly Flower: Untitled limerick
Beth Byrd: Poem - Is It Me?
Corey: Untitled poem
Kristine Millard: Short Story - The Mall
Eve Forster: Short Story - Bustle
Mistee: Short Story - Going Home
Brooklyn Soden: Four haikus about spring
Sarah Gustin: Short Story - The Greater Gift
