Posts Tagged ‘plastic horses’

Ride Like the Wind

March 20, 2013

thirsty

She sat on the kitchen floor, playing with her plastic horses. She saddled up a mustang and rode across the squares of green tile, through the Indian badlands, around train robbers, and cattle rustlers. She rode fast, bent low, stopping to rest in the forest of chair legs under the kitchen table.

“Most men wouldn’t be caught dead washing dishes,” her mother teased the man at the sink. He was tall, a dishtowel over his shoulder, a cigarette in his mouth.

He laughed. “Most men wouldn’t do a lot of things I do.”

Her mother giggled, kissing him. The man’s hands came out of the water and landed on her mother’s bottom.

“Now look what you’ve done,” her mother said, smiling.

He crushed the cigarette. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” he said.

“Shhh,” her mother said, pointing.

The little girl jumped on her horse, dug in her heels, closed her eyes, and rode like the wind.

************************************

The Original Version:

Ride Like the Wind

She sat on the kitchen floor. A triangle of sunshine from the window spread across the linoleum making a paddock for her plastic horses. She lined them up side by side to feast on grain and hay. Her favorite was a brown mustang with a white mane and tale. She’d take him from the herd and ride across the squares of green tile, through the Indian badlands and around gangs of train robbers and cattle rustlers. She was brave and free, riding fast, bent low over her horse’s neck, the wind blowing her hair back from her face. They’d stop to rest only after reaching the forest of chair legs under the kitchen table. It was safe there. She had cover.

“I like watching you wash dishes,” her mother said to the man at the sink. The little girl peeked out from under the man’s shirt hanging on the back of the chair. He was tall, wearing his green work pants and a white undershirt. He had a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, and a cigarette in his mouth. He was up to his elbows in soap bubbles. “Most men wouldn’t be caught dead washing dishes,” her mother teased.

The man laughed and talked around his cigarette. “Most men wouldn’t do a lot of things I do.”

Her mother giggled, stood on tip toe and kissed the man’s cheek. His hands came out of the water and landed on her bottom.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she fussed, twisting around to look behind her at the wet spots on her jeans. She wasn’t mad though, she was smiling.

The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out in the ashtray. “I think we need to get you out of those wet clothes,” he whispered.

Her mother shushed him and pointed at the child.

The little girl ducked behind the cover of the man’s shirt.

Her horse whinnied, ready to ride again. She jumped on his back, dug her heels into his flanks, closed her eyes, and rode like the wind.

Friday Fictioneers’ (http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/) is hosted every week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. It’s a pretty awesome idea that goes like this: A weekly photograph is posted and the writer is challenged to create a 100-word story or poem inspired by the photo. Post your work on your blog and link it to the Friday Fictioneers’ post where comments and feedback are shared. Give it a shot! This week’s photograph is by Douglas McIlroy.

Advertisements