Fact or Fiction? - 12

I had a lot of fun reading some of the comments. You guys really do get me!

Yesterday's story -

All true!

Of course, I used to write in school, for lessons, homework (350 word essay on concentration) but I didn't really write for 'fun' or enjoyment. I didn't share my stories in written format. I started writing around 1999. I started slowly at first...

Actually, no, I didn't. I threw myself right into the fray and started writing Deadlier Than The Male my first novel. It took two years and I learned a LOT. I taught myself how to edit my work, how to tighten it up, make it more presentable and that led to becoming an Editor.

Source

Since arriving on Steemit, I've never written so much as I do these days. I think I'm improving all the time and I'm thankful for you, my audience, for reading, enjoying, and commenting on my stories.

Most of my ‘realistic’ stories, either truth or fabricated come from some experience or another. I’ve either directly encountered such events or they have been recounted to me.

Not all the stories are nice and pleasant.

So, today's story - Truth or Fiction?

---

On the way to the stables one Sunday morning, we were held up on the last stretch of road before the turn for the stable entrance. My grandmother took me there every Sunday and she paid for my riding ‘lesson’ – the lesson being a couple of circuits around the local park.

Across the road from the entrance to the stables, was a large field that was used for some of the grazing necessary for the horses.

Police cars with their lights flashing made it difficult to pass and an officer waved people through in turn.

A gap in the fence caught my eye, even though it was partially obstructed by one of the police vehicles.

I craned my neck to see, because I was a nosy teenager and I wanted to know everything!

I wish I’d not seen that.

One of the ponies stood in the field facing the road. His head was down, ears back – not in the frightening, annoyed manner horses and ponies have, warning you to get out of their space, the ears on this pony were back in a dejected display of acceptance of fate.

I knew that pony, he was a lovely, lively fellow and privately owned, not one of the stable’s ponies, so I’d never had chance to ride him.

He didn’t look lovely and lively that misty morning. He looked done-for.

We passed the scene and went to the stables. I remember getting out of the car, distractedly accepting the money my grandmother handed to me and waved to her and my siblings as they drove off.

People stood in the stable yard, doing nothing. That in itself was unusual, the stable yard was always a hive of activity.

No ponies stood waiting to be saddled or unsaddled. No one walked across the yard with an urgent errand, a bag of feed or a couple of hay nets. Everything was surreal and strange.

Then I saw a couple of parents. The mother hugged the girl tight and the girl sobbed as if her heart would break.

My heart flip-flopped in that horrible way it does when realisation hits you that some dreadful news is not a joke at all, it’s true and your life will never be the same again. It feels like your heart plummets into your stomach and is so heavy that it must surely punch its way out of your gut. But you feel so damn-terrible about it that you don’t care if it does, because it would at least stop the pain of comprehension.

In the short time we were waiting to be allowed through the police road-bock, my gaze dropped lower on that pony. I saw why that poor dear pony looked so utterly miserable.

His right foreleg stood at an angle, just below the knee. His leg was broken and you know what that means for a valuable race-horse, let alone a pony that was ‘just a pet’.

A drunk-driver had miss-judged the road and slammed through the hedge of the field.

The pony was hit and he’d suffered a broken leg. I don’t remember how long he’d been there before anyone realised he was injured.

I remember a few things quite clearly.

The girl sobbing her heart out.

The stable yard in shocked silence.

The police lights on the road.

The pony’s leg broken and at such an unbelievable angle.

The fact that a drunk-driver had caused a beautiful, friendly, lively pony’s death.

And the pony’s name.

Danny.