Post by ♥: Angelic :♥ on Apr 18, 2006 20:30:31 GMT -5
its long, but not that long. i love the story, and im thinking aobut it getting published in a small book of a veriety of horse stories. here it goes.
My Uncle was a poacher. He killed my mother and Aunty Floe. I know it. Last year, as my Aunty said ‘the growing age of 11’ my Mumma was murdered. I cried all night and all day-as why the killer only killed her, and not me, as I was in the same room, in the ‘special’ bed, for where is sleep when I have nightmares. Back then, I thought I would never be able to love or live life again. When I had nightmares at Uncle Stan’s place, he would tell me to shut up or go back to sleep. I hated my uncle.
The police suspected no one of killing my mum and her sister-no hair, skin, blood or any other evidence was left. I tried to help, as I was a pretty smart kid, even though I was in a horrible state after the loss of them both. I figured a lot of stuff out, but they wouldn’t listen. “Mr. Officer, sir, person, I think I know what the murderer is like. He probably has no-“ I was cut off by the officer sneering “little lady, you’ve had a hard life right about know, so I’m going to let you off with a warning- don’t come near the crime scene or were going to have to tell you to leave”
He was mean and cruel to me-not the police officer, Uncle Stan .he yelled, got drunk, smoke and worst of all, because he killed poor animals, his house was full of animal fur, animal heads and animal bones. He didn’t live that far away from the beach, as he liked to hunt sea animals, so I regularly went down there to find the courage and sometimes to cry. I would let the crisp sea smells fill my nostrils and sometimes let the luke warm water spray it’s salty tang across my body, even if I was wearing jeans and a long sleeve top-I didn’t care-I loved the beach, I loved my beach. The beach had no name, and I had lots of memories. According to the will of Mumma, and to her house debit-we owned that small corner of the beach. No one really went there, so it was really peaceful. I put up a sign that said “Memory Beach” and I made it look pretty. I found shells and made sculptures and everything. I was always alone, until one Saturday morning.
On April 15th, an early Saturday morning came my way. I went to the beach, as I had a nightmare the night before. I thought I was alone, but as I walked down the beach track, I saw a figure. I groaned, hoping it wasn’t a tourist, but I realized as I came closer, it was to big, black and calm to be a tourist. It was a beautiful leppizan pony. I watched it walk slowly towards me, its ebon frame worked it over and its mane was sleek but uneven and scruffy. I wasn’t afraid, some how I lost all thought in my trance. I gazed into it’s eyes, big dark chocolate brown eyes, melting with beauty. I sighed and slowly edged forward. I stroked his maw lightly and cautiously. He seemed harmless. I figured he was a he from his body frame and everything. He was quite unique. His dappled malt color star under his hazel coloured fringe was quite beautiful. I admired his height and thick coat too. I decided I liked him; he would be my new best friend, if I ever saw him again.
I had to leave the stallion as it was lunchtime. I talked to the fellow though, he was just amazing. I made sure he stayed away from my side of the beach, as sometimes Uncle Stan went looking for me at the beach if I didn’t hear him calling, which was rare as he has the loudest voice.
The next morning I went looking for him again. Strangely enough, though I thought the pony would leave, I found him eating a few spreads of grass near the beach. I smiled as he noticed me-and remembered my face. “hello there!” I hugged him gently, he whinnied softly. I wanted to ride him, so I told him to wait. I still had a key to my old house, where Mumma had her old riding gear in the shed. She used to ride, and said I could too when I was older, and I was older then, but it was too late as she was gone.
As I strapped the saddle and a loose reign on, I noticed the equine stayed still, not moving, thinking about me riding him. I slowly made my way on. He seemed steady and was ready. As I said go, he took off in a slow trot. I buried my face in his brown coat, like Mumma used to tell me about, he seemed to like it. I asked around the council if any one owned him, no one listened, but no one replied, so I guessed he was mine to keep. I decided to give him a name. “come boy…….come Devion” the horse trotted to me. I smiled and patted him. I named him after my Mumma’s old horse. His name Was Devion. He looked a lot like the gentle creature of Mumma’s old horse I saw in some photo’s she showed me when I was young. I loved him dearly.
During the spring brake, I decided to take him to a shed. He seemed hungry a lot and tired sometimes, so I wanted to take care of him. Mrs. Wilson who owned a small farm area gladly took him in “he’s darling, isn’t he though?” she cooed over him and taught me how to give him a thorough grooming and how to set a stall.
I soon grew to learn all the basics of a horse in just a few weeks, and every day I would come to visit my horse. Sometimes little children who came for lessons rode Devion, I didn’t mind though. A lot of children loved him, and a few parents wanted to buy him for a fare amount of money from a cheque. I didn’t seem worried when that happened, because Mrs. Wilson always said “no thank-you, this isn’t my horse, its hers” she usually walked away and groomed more horses. One afternoon when I was mucking out the Devion’s stall, a lady and man came up to me. They kindly asked me to buy my horse for quite a lot of money, but I replied “no thank you” and continued to muck out the stall. They found where I lived, and tried calling, emailing and posting letters to me, as they wanted the horse so much. I replied to everything with a simple no thank you, but they wouldn’t take it. Soon Uncle Stan found out. “You own a horse?” his face was red, I knew he was angry. He grabbed my arm and shook it hard “you do not own a horse, and if you do, it would be the wall paper for your room” he laughed and dropped me to the ground. All night I thought about what would happen to my sweet horse if Uncle Stan got to him.
The next morning, I went to the stables. I saw Uncle Stan talking to Mrs. Wilson. He seemed angry, but dear Mrs. Wilson stayed calm and tried to walk away. Then he grabbed her like he grabbed me. She swung and started lashing out, he was a tall, strong man, so he dropped her. He spat the words out like poison as I watched from behind a stall quietly “that horse is to be given to me now, Jill doesn't own that piece of useless fat, or I will kill every one of these stupid ponies now!” I knew he would try. It seemed like a stupid threat, but he would do it.
Mrs. Wilson put up an argument, but he wouldn’t have it. He saw all the stalls and found the right one. Pulling the horse out with all his strength. Devion came toppling down, but Uncle Stan just kept pulling. ”NO!” I screamed, chasing after them, but he pushed me down. I cried and screamed for him to stop. But he still kept going. I sat in the filth of mud and watched him tie my dear Devion to the back of his truck and drive away.
I never forgave my uncle. I never forgave myself for letting him go. I cried for days, Uncle Stan came and yelled at me again.
A week or so later, I lay in my bed. Uncle Stan had seemed to clam down now. He came into my room and had a large plastic black bag “Jill, I have a present for you. I know how much you loved that horse, so…” he pulled out some horse fur. It was dark and ebon. I gasped “you didn’t” I screamed as he pulled out more, like hair, and hooves, all carved into sculptures.
I ran away that day, I kept part of Devion’s fur in a knapsack so I could remember him. I miss him so much. Mrs. Wilson had called the police on Stan. He was arrested, and found guilty or more than animal murder…..the murder of Aunty Floe and My mother. He was executed later on. I watched it in a crowd. I smiled and praised the lord for this, but it wouldn’t bring back mother. No one knows why Uncle Stan killed his own wife and sister in law, but some mysteries where never solved in life.
As I sit here, I have run to Mrs. Wilson’s house. She never had children, and she needed help. I loved listening and telling her stories about Devion, and she loved my company. I would never forget all those days with Devion. Since then, I never rode a horse since. I have dreams about my dear departed, dreams of my Mumma riding Devion through clouds-knowing her smiling upon me and watching me grow, and knowing she’ll always love me…
My Uncle was a poacher. He killed my mother and Aunty Floe. I know it. Last year, as my Aunty said ‘the growing age of 11’ my Mumma was murdered. I cried all night and all day-as why the killer only killed her, and not me, as I was in the same room, in the ‘special’ bed, for where is sleep when I have nightmares. Back then, I thought I would never be able to love or live life again. When I had nightmares at Uncle Stan’s place, he would tell me to shut up or go back to sleep. I hated my uncle.
The police suspected no one of killing my mum and her sister-no hair, skin, blood or any other evidence was left. I tried to help, as I was a pretty smart kid, even though I was in a horrible state after the loss of them both. I figured a lot of stuff out, but they wouldn’t listen. “Mr. Officer, sir, person, I think I know what the murderer is like. He probably has no-“ I was cut off by the officer sneering “little lady, you’ve had a hard life right about know, so I’m going to let you off with a warning- don’t come near the crime scene or were going to have to tell you to leave”
He was mean and cruel to me-not the police officer, Uncle Stan .he yelled, got drunk, smoke and worst of all, because he killed poor animals, his house was full of animal fur, animal heads and animal bones. He didn’t live that far away from the beach, as he liked to hunt sea animals, so I regularly went down there to find the courage and sometimes to cry. I would let the crisp sea smells fill my nostrils and sometimes let the luke warm water spray it’s salty tang across my body, even if I was wearing jeans and a long sleeve top-I didn’t care-I loved the beach, I loved my beach. The beach had no name, and I had lots of memories. According to the will of Mumma, and to her house debit-we owned that small corner of the beach. No one really went there, so it was really peaceful. I put up a sign that said “Memory Beach” and I made it look pretty. I found shells and made sculptures and everything. I was always alone, until one Saturday morning.
On April 15th, an early Saturday morning came my way. I went to the beach, as I had a nightmare the night before. I thought I was alone, but as I walked down the beach track, I saw a figure. I groaned, hoping it wasn’t a tourist, but I realized as I came closer, it was to big, black and calm to be a tourist. It was a beautiful leppizan pony. I watched it walk slowly towards me, its ebon frame worked it over and its mane was sleek but uneven and scruffy. I wasn’t afraid, some how I lost all thought in my trance. I gazed into it’s eyes, big dark chocolate brown eyes, melting with beauty. I sighed and slowly edged forward. I stroked his maw lightly and cautiously. He seemed harmless. I figured he was a he from his body frame and everything. He was quite unique. His dappled malt color star under his hazel coloured fringe was quite beautiful. I admired his height and thick coat too. I decided I liked him; he would be my new best friend, if I ever saw him again.
I had to leave the stallion as it was lunchtime. I talked to the fellow though, he was just amazing. I made sure he stayed away from my side of the beach, as sometimes Uncle Stan went looking for me at the beach if I didn’t hear him calling, which was rare as he has the loudest voice.
The next morning I went looking for him again. Strangely enough, though I thought the pony would leave, I found him eating a few spreads of grass near the beach. I smiled as he noticed me-and remembered my face. “hello there!” I hugged him gently, he whinnied softly. I wanted to ride him, so I told him to wait. I still had a key to my old house, where Mumma had her old riding gear in the shed. She used to ride, and said I could too when I was older, and I was older then, but it was too late as she was gone.
As I strapped the saddle and a loose reign on, I noticed the equine stayed still, not moving, thinking about me riding him. I slowly made my way on. He seemed steady and was ready. As I said go, he took off in a slow trot. I buried my face in his brown coat, like Mumma used to tell me about, he seemed to like it. I asked around the council if any one owned him, no one listened, but no one replied, so I guessed he was mine to keep. I decided to give him a name. “come boy…….come Devion” the horse trotted to me. I smiled and patted him. I named him after my Mumma’s old horse. His name Was Devion. He looked a lot like the gentle creature of Mumma’s old horse I saw in some photo’s she showed me when I was young. I loved him dearly.
During the spring brake, I decided to take him to a shed. He seemed hungry a lot and tired sometimes, so I wanted to take care of him. Mrs. Wilson who owned a small farm area gladly took him in “he’s darling, isn’t he though?” she cooed over him and taught me how to give him a thorough grooming and how to set a stall.
I soon grew to learn all the basics of a horse in just a few weeks, and every day I would come to visit my horse. Sometimes little children who came for lessons rode Devion, I didn’t mind though. A lot of children loved him, and a few parents wanted to buy him for a fare amount of money from a cheque. I didn’t seem worried when that happened, because Mrs. Wilson always said “no thank-you, this isn’t my horse, its hers” she usually walked away and groomed more horses. One afternoon when I was mucking out the Devion’s stall, a lady and man came up to me. They kindly asked me to buy my horse for quite a lot of money, but I replied “no thank you” and continued to muck out the stall. They found where I lived, and tried calling, emailing and posting letters to me, as they wanted the horse so much. I replied to everything with a simple no thank you, but they wouldn’t take it. Soon Uncle Stan found out. “You own a horse?” his face was red, I knew he was angry. He grabbed my arm and shook it hard “you do not own a horse, and if you do, it would be the wall paper for your room” he laughed and dropped me to the ground. All night I thought about what would happen to my sweet horse if Uncle Stan got to him.
The next morning, I went to the stables. I saw Uncle Stan talking to Mrs. Wilson. He seemed angry, but dear Mrs. Wilson stayed calm and tried to walk away. Then he grabbed her like he grabbed me. She swung and started lashing out, he was a tall, strong man, so he dropped her. He spat the words out like poison as I watched from behind a stall quietly “that horse is to be given to me now, Jill doesn't own that piece of useless fat, or I will kill every one of these stupid ponies now!” I knew he would try. It seemed like a stupid threat, but he would do it.
Mrs. Wilson put up an argument, but he wouldn’t have it. He saw all the stalls and found the right one. Pulling the horse out with all his strength. Devion came toppling down, but Uncle Stan just kept pulling. ”NO!” I screamed, chasing after them, but he pushed me down. I cried and screamed for him to stop. But he still kept going. I sat in the filth of mud and watched him tie my dear Devion to the back of his truck and drive away.
I never forgave my uncle. I never forgave myself for letting him go. I cried for days, Uncle Stan came and yelled at me again.
A week or so later, I lay in my bed. Uncle Stan had seemed to clam down now. He came into my room and had a large plastic black bag “Jill, I have a present for you. I know how much you loved that horse, so…” he pulled out some horse fur. It was dark and ebon. I gasped “you didn’t” I screamed as he pulled out more, like hair, and hooves, all carved into sculptures.
I ran away that day, I kept part of Devion’s fur in a knapsack so I could remember him. I miss him so much. Mrs. Wilson had called the police on Stan. He was arrested, and found guilty or more than animal murder…..the murder of Aunty Floe and My mother. He was executed later on. I watched it in a crowd. I smiled and praised the lord for this, but it wouldn’t bring back mother. No one knows why Uncle Stan killed his own wife and sister in law, but some mysteries where never solved in life.
As I sit here, I have run to Mrs. Wilson’s house. She never had children, and she needed help. I loved listening and telling her stories about Devion, and she loved my company. I would never forget all those days with Devion. Since then, I never rode a horse since. I have dreams about my dear departed, dreams of my Mumma riding Devion through clouds-knowing her smiling upon me and watching me grow, and knowing she’ll always love me…
