3pipeproblem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
3pipeproblem) wrote2004-01-07 12:22 pm
3pipeproblem) wrote2004-01-07 12:22 pm
Day 5 (*facepalm*): Joy
I think I'll be writing all these ficlets today, so...well, I'm not complaining. Just sorry if it annoys anyone/everyone. And they'll probably be out of order, too.
Seabiscuit, Tom. If you know anything about horses you might not want to read it because I know absolutely nothing, except for that line about fetlocks in Miller's Crossing.
Fun trivia: I was originally going to write Hannibal Lecter for this. I am teh twisted.
The other trainer guided the horse out carefully, gingerly, always at least arm's length away. Tom imagined he could see a rope linking them, pulled taut under the strain. Ready to snap, and they both knew it. He nodded to the trainer, who looked awfully young--but then lots of people did these days, particularly when they could only stare wide-eyed at their own horse while hastily backing away. Tom had met a lot of those. He wished he hadn't, for the sake of the horses, but that was the way of the world, so he just shrugged and did what he could. Trusted that the horses could, too. Not shrug, of course, but keep on going.
He didn't open the gate right away, just leaned against the fence, dangling his arms over the crumbling wood. He didn't move except to follow the horse with his eyes. Tom loved how he could never take in everything about a horse at once; he had to wait, to give them both the time to study one another. He'd see the animal with the limited perspective of photographs, one quick flash at a time. The way it galloped, or whinnied, or accepted food from him with just a hint of suspicion.
Then, when he thought the time was right, he'd ease open the gate, taking measured, easy steps into the paddock. Tom would raise his head and, finally, look the horse in the eye.
Sometimes--only sometimes--it was like everything just fit together, fell perfectly into place. Like he'd been trying to remember a word and suddenly it had just clicked into place. He and the horse looked at one another, and they understood.
That was joy.
Seabiscuit, Tom. If you know anything about horses you might not want to read it because I know absolutely nothing, except for that line about fetlocks in Miller's Crossing.
Fun trivia: I was originally going to write Hannibal Lecter for this. I am teh twisted.
The other trainer guided the horse out carefully, gingerly, always at least arm's length away. Tom imagined he could see a rope linking them, pulled taut under the strain. Ready to snap, and they both knew it. He nodded to the trainer, who looked awfully young--but then lots of people did these days, particularly when they could only stare wide-eyed at their own horse while hastily backing away. Tom had met a lot of those. He wished he hadn't, for the sake of the horses, but that was the way of the world, so he just shrugged and did what he could. Trusted that the horses could, too. Not shrug, of course, but keep on going.
He didn't open the gate right away, just leaned against the fence, dangling his arms over the crumbling wood. He didn't move except to follow the horse with his eyes. Tom loved how he could never take in everything about a horse at once; he had to wait, to give them both the time to study one another. He'd see the animal with the limited perspective of photographs, one quick flash at a time. The way it galloped, or whinnied, or accepted food from him with just a hint of suspicion.
Then, when he thought the time was right, he'd ease open the gate, taking measured, easy steps into the paddock. Tom would raise his head and, finally, look the horse in the eye.
Sometimes--only sometimes--it was like everything just fit together, fell perfectly into place. Like he'd been trying to remember a word and suddenly it had just clicked into place. He and the horse looked at one another, and they understood.
That was joy.