Flash Fiction Friday: At the Races

This was my take on an exercise I had my students do a couple of weeks ago, where we were to write a story from one point of view, then rewrite from another. I've tweaked it some, but it remains what it was from the start, i.e., an exercise. But it's kind of fun so I thought I'd share it anyway.

 I'll get back to pretty pictures next week.

 

At the Track

1. The jockey’s story

 

Albert crouched on the back of Silver Streak, absurdly small atop the tall racehorse, muscles tensed and ready for the sound of the gun. Take it easy. Don’t let the horse feel any unease. Tension was okay, if it was the good kind, to give horse and rider a sharp edge. He found the perfect position, the riding crop poised, as if Silver would need any urging when the gun sounded and the gates opened. That horse knew how to run. Silver Streak loved to race.

 

Bang! The muscles of the powerful animal bunched under Albert. They burst through the gate like one creature, in the lead from the beginning. He used the whip, but it wasn’t necessary. Silver was up and away, hooves pounding the dirt, Albert guiding the big stallion a bit this way or that to block the other racers.

 

By the backstretch, only one horse was close enough to matter, but that one hung on like a limpet, nose at Silver’s withers. Dodge a bit right, and he kept pace. Don’t go left; that would leave an opening for the competition and risk being pinned by the fence.

 

The other horse—it had to be Black Sun;  none of the other horses could begin to keep up with Silver Streak—the other horse gained a few inches on the final curve, so close Albert could feel the heat of his breath on his right leg, or maybe just the heat that radiated from a thousand pounds of muscle firing at full bore.

 

They couldn’t lose. Too many people had too much money riding on this race. If they lost, a lot of people would lose big, and a few would win really big. Big enough that someone was sure to say he’d thrown the race, and then he’d be out of a job, if he didn’t turn up in the Bay wearing concrete overshoes.

 

No time to think about that. No time to think at all. Albert leaned over the horse’s neck, riding whip rising and falling in rhythm with Silver’s stride, and shouted, “Hi-ho, Silver, away!” What the hell, it worked for the Lone Ranger.

 

He moved with the horse, urging him on with every muscle in his own wiry body, and they hammered down the home stretch, faster and faster, until the dirt Silver kicked up was striking Black Sun and breaking his desire to catch up.

 

They crossed the finish line, winner by a length, and Albert pulled up, dropped back into the saddle to walk the horse through his cool-down to the winner’s circle, sitting very erect. He’d done it again, and no one could deny he was the greatest jockey in the country.

 

 

2. The horse’s story

 

Silver Streak shifted in the starting gate, feeling the trivial weight of the rider on his back, the noise of the crowd building until he itched with the urge to get away. His rider made sounds that helped him to wait, but waiting wasn’t what he wanted. Run, get away from this noise and the other horses that would crowd around him, get done and get away, back to the quiet barn.

 

Silver Streak pushed against the starting gate. When it gave way as the gun sounded, he was already in motion. The man on his back pulled this way and that on the reins, and Silver did what he had to do. Keep away from the other horses. Keep from being boxed in, because he hated to be crowded.

 

Why did the little man keep hitting him with that irritating little whip? He’d have tossed the annoyance off his back, but by now, Silver had one goal in mind: run away from that little prick, the black stallion that challenged him at every turn. His entire being focused on getting away. His head extended, nose forward, the route around the track so familiar that he needed no guidance, only the need to put distance between himself and the others.

 

When sensed the black drawing closer alongside, Silver fought the urge to bite and kick. Better to show what he was made of. He felt the rider shift farther up onto his shoulders, and stretched his stride just a little farther. A few lengths more and he’d be free of the pesky challenger, and a little more time beyond that and he could return to his stall, get a rub-down and a bucket of oats, be done with it all until the next time.

 

He streaked past the line, felt the rider pulling on the reins to tell him to slow, and dropped to a jog, then a walk.

 

He didn’t even look back at the other horses crossing the line and being steered away. They weren’t worth his attention, now that they were no longer crowding him. Soon the little man on his back would get off and let him go with the man who brought him oats. 

 

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I don't have any pictures of race horses, so how about this one?

Not a racehorse, not a jockey, not a racetrack.

 

Rebecca M. Douglass, 2025
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated.


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