jshghsdhn... SO FRUSTRATED... sgohsobagu
So, English is driving me mad.. I am over my word count already and I am tired. BUT.. this is my creative writing shit, and when Mrs Johnson read it she told me it was too confusing with all the different horses = but, i think it makes sense with the different ages - anyhow, could people please tell me whether it makes any sense, or whether it is just too confusing..
EIGHT - 18th June 1992
As the pound of her horses’ hooves resounded firmly under her, Sasha glanced back and saw only dust as it whirled and spiralled upwards blurring her vision, a familiar and comforting sight. She was eight and her parents had presented her with Dolly, her first pony, who to Sasha was perfection. She had a beautifully dark coat, a chocolate-coal colour that gleamed, regardless of the weather. Her tail and mane; flawless. Her docile nature combined with her equally compliant rhythm made her a rare find, and constituted to the extraordinary sensation that Sasha now experienced. The wind whipped through the locks of hair that escaped the confinements of her hat and trickled down in front of her eyes. Sasha didn’t need 20-20 vision when she was riding though, she knew exactly where she was and where she needed to go, and how to go there. The two were now rounding the last inning and for Dolly’s first time on the track she was doing well, very well. It may have been Dolly’s first time but for Sasha the racetrack was her other home. She knew how the ground responded to the thump of a horses’ leg. She knew how the horses struggled round the penultimate inning as they tired before that final exhilarating burst of energy. She knew the grounds-men and all the horses that were stabled there regularly. She knew which stall SeaBiscuit had stabled in for the 1938 Saratoga races, but most importantly, she knew she didn’t want to race.
TWELVE - 13th September 1996
Now she saw Prince, who’s name directly opposed to his manner. Prince was the feisty 7-year-old colt who had taught Sasha to jump. The two shared many disagreements, which had resulted in a broken arm and shattered kneecap. Still she rode him and controlled him and won on him. Sasha could see how her young green colt had shaped her into the rider she was. She was a lanky, blonde twelve year old. Her folders, which we’re emblazoned with the pretentious school emblem on the outside, were adorned with riding stickers, pictures and mottos on the inside that motivated her to get through her monotonous school day, paralleling her appearance and personality in all manner of ways (<-- this bit?? eh??). As she climbed off her rowdy yellow American school bus the vet climbed into her van, leaving with a trailer covered in sanitary blue plastic and a look on her face that every horse owner dreads and despairs over. Sasha quietly rounded the corner to Prince’s stable and paused, then as her eyes glazed over she placed her school bag carefully by her tack box, picked up the pitch fork and in her pristine-clean, dainty Mary-Jayne black patent school shoes, started to clean out the stable. Sasha didn’t like to pretend. She saw black from white and grey was never a colour she liked to use.
FIFTEEN - 2nd February 1999
The commentator’s voice burst into her ears in the way they pop when at a high altitude, ringing in an echo like fashion for long after the words had been said.
“Entering the arena we have Sasha Franks on her 6 year old, Calaco. Sasha is our youngest competitor at only 15 years old”
As she rode down the centre of the arena, halted and saluted her judges she waited for the rush of adrenaline and the butterflies in a multitude of colours to pass her by. As the bell rang, her unconditional and impulsive response took over and it was as if she was standing on the side line watching a part of her control the rest, becoming completely detached from the emotions raging inside of her and the buzz of the spectators as they held their breath in anticipation of each jump. She only focused on the technicalities of the course yet was clearly living off these external distractions albeit in a passive way. Her cognition may have been separated from body, but her somatic senses we’re in full gear. She felt Calaco sense her shift in weight as she looked at the first jump and then mind-blowing sensation as they approached. She slowly let the reins slip through her fingers, as if she was losing grip on a long cube of ice. Calaco sensed this slack on the reins, stuck his nose in the air, steadily increased his speed and then planted his back legs firmly into the sand. She gently lifted her seat out of the saddle, gathered her reins and waited, patiently. As they sailed over the 4ft jump Sasha whispered under her breath, ever so quietly “you and I, we we’re meant to fly”.
SEVENTEEN - 9th January 2001
She was 17 and running again, but this time, it wasn’t on the racecourse as she had been moments earlier. It was in a field, a field full of daisies. For a cold January afternoon the sun was high and the sky was blanketed in a layer of stratus clouds that cast intricate and intertwining shadows along the field. The rolling hills behind her, carpeted in a soft frost created a picturesque image and as Sasha neared them she contemplated climbing to the top with Copyright, and the two could stand there and look down on everything beneath them. They cantered, as if they we’re in slow motion, towards the base of the hill and although Sasha was hesitating she let Copyright take the lead and sensing this he took charge and confidently placed one leg in front of the other as they made their way. Now she was happier and she could feel her trusty horses’ sturdy legs grip the ground with each firm step and this time, this time they made it. They didn’t hit an uneven piece of terrain and Copyright didn’t lose his footing and stumble backwards, and Sasha didn’t lose control of her left stirrup as she attempted to calm her rearing mount.
SEVENTEEN - 14th February 2001
As these momentous events played out over again with varying endings in Sasha’s head, her parents stood on the other side of the glass, watching her chest move slowly up and down as the respirator pumped alongside her and her eyes flickered under the lids. A nurse entered, adjusted the thin plastic tubing running under Sasha’s nose, meticulously checked the chart by the end of her bed and then left. For a painstaking six weeks Joe and Emma had watched their youngest child lie motionless on a hospital bed. Copyright was long since dead. The canon bone in his left foreleg had been shattered beyond repair and he had broken 4 ribs, one of which punctured his lung, in the downward plummet the two had taken as they unwillingly descended the icy hill. Sasha had bruises round her neck and her left leg hung in a sling over her bed, as the stirrup had inversely bent her knee in her fall. She too had broken ribs, a result of Copyright rolling over her, and her partly bald scalp accentuated the long scar on her head, caused by a rock Sasha had hit on her tumble.
EIGHT - 18th June 1992
As the pound of her horses’ hooves resounded firmly under her, Sasha glanced back and saw only dust as it whirled and spiralled upwards blurring her vision, a familiar and comforting sight. She was eight and her parents had presented her with Dolly, her first pony, who to Sasha was perfection. She had a beautifully dark coat, a chocolate-coal colour that gleamed, regardless of the weather. Her tail and mane; flawless. Her docile nature combined with her equally compliant rhythm made her a rare find, and constituted to the extraordinary sensation that Sasha now experienced. The wind whipped through the locks of hair that escaped the confinements of her hat and trickled down in front of her eyes. Sasha didn’t need 20-20 vision when she was riding though, she knew exactly where she was and where she needed to go, and how to go there. The two were now rounding the last inning and for Dolly’s first time on the track she was doing well, very well. It may have been Dolly’s first time but for Sasha the racetrack was her other home. She knew how the ground responded to the thump of a horses’ leg. She knew how the horses struggled round the penultimate inning as they tired before that final exhilarating burst of energy. She knew the grounds-men and all the horses that were stabled there regularly. She knew which stall SeaBiscuit had stabled in for the 1938 Saratoga races, but most importantly, she knew she didn’t want to race.
TWELVE - 13th September 1996
Now she saw Prince, who’s name directly opposed to his manner. Prince was the feisty 7-year-old colt who had taught Sasha to jump. The two shared many disagreements, which had resulted in a broken arm and shattered kneecap. Still she rode him and controlled him and won on him. Sasha could see how her young green colt had shaped her into the rider she was. She was a lanky, blonde twelve year old. Her folders, which we’re emblazoned with the pretentious school emblem on the outside, were adorned with riding stickers, pictures and mottos on the inside that motivated her to get through her monotonous school day, paralleling her appearance and personality in all manner of ways (<-- this bit?? eh??). As she climbed off her rowdy yellow American school bus the vet climbed into her van, leaving with a trailer covered in sanitary blue plastic and a look on her face that every horse owner dreads and despairs over. Sasha quietly rounded the corner to Prince’s stable and paused, then as her eyes glazed over she placed her school bag carefully by her tack box, picked up the pitch fork and in her pristine-clean, dainty Mary-Jayne black patent school shoes, started to clean out the stable. Sasha didn’t like to pretend. She saw black from white and grey was never a colour she liked to use.
FIFTEEN - 2nd February 1999
The commentator’s voice burst into her ears in the way they pop when at a high altitude, ringing in an echo like fashion for long after the words had been said.
“Entering the arena we have Sasha Franks on her 6 year old, Calaco. Sasha is our youngest competitor at only 15 years old”
As she rode down the centre of the arena, halted and saluted her judges she waited for the rush of adrenaline and the butterflies in a multitude of colours to pass her by. As the bell rang, her unconditional and impulsive response took over and it was as if she was standing on the side line watching a part of her control the rest, becoming completely detached from the emotions raging inside of her and the buzz of the spectators as they held their breath in anticipation of each jump. She only focused on the technicalities of the course yet was clearly living off these external distractions albeit in a passive way. Her cognition may have been separated from body, but her somatic senses we’re in full gear. She felt Calaco sense her shift in weight as she looked at the first jump and then mind-blowing sensation as they approached. She slowly let the reins slip through her fingers, as if she was losing grip on a long cube of ice. Calaco sensed this slack on the reins, stuck his nose in the air, steadily increased his speed and then planted his back legs firmly into the sand. She gently lifted her seat out of the saddle, gathered her reins and waited, patiently. As they sailed over the 4ft jump Sasha whispered under her breath, ever so quietly “you and I, we we’re meant to fly”.
SEVENTEEN - 9th January 2001
She was 17 and running again, but this time, it wasn’t on the racecourse as she had been moments earlier. It was in a field, a field full of daisies. For a cold January afternoon the sun was high and the sky was blanketed in a layer of stratus clouds that cast intricate and intertwining shadows along the field. The rolling hills behind her, carpeted in a soft frost created a picturesque image and as Sasha neared them she contemplated climbing to the top with Copyright, and the two could stand there and look down on everything beneath them. They cantered, as if they we’re in slow motion, towards the base of the hill and although Sasha was hesitating she let Copyright take the lead and sensing this he took charge and confidently placed one leg in front of the other as they made their way. Now she was happier and she could feel her trusty horses’ sturdy legs grip the ground with each firm step and this time, this time they made it. They didn’t hit an uneven piece of terrain and Copyright didn’t lose his footing and stumble backwards, and Sasha didn’t lose control of her left stirrup as she attempted to calm her rearing mount.
SEVENTEEN - 14th February 2001
As these momentous events played out over again with varying endings in Sasha’s head, her parents stood on the other side of the glass, watching her chest move slowly up and down as the respirator pumped alongside her and her eyes flickered under the lids. A nurse entered, adjusted the thin plastic tubing running under Sasha’s nose, meticulously checked the chart by the end of her bed and then left. For a painstaking six weeks Joe and Emma had watched their youngest child lie motionless on a hospital bed. Copyright was long since dead. The canon bone in his left foreleg had been shattered beyond repair and he had broken 4 ribs, one of which punctured his lung, in the downward plummet the two had taken as they unwillingly descended the icy hill. Sasha had bruises round her neck and her left leg hung in a sling over her bed, as the stirrup had inversely bent her knee in her fall. She too had broken ribs, a result of Copyright rolling over her, and her partly bald scalp accentuated the long scar on her head, caused by a rock Sasha had hit on her tumble.