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Description
With this picture, my horses have become a lot more real to me. Maybe it's this style - more realistic. I can imagine them fully, now, what they do every day, each workout.

Enjoy, peeps!

---

MAY PART II

When you’re riding a race, there is nothing but the race, nothing but the pounding of hooves against the turf and the rythmn of laboured breath as your steed’s sides heave. Your horse is you, and you are the horse. You must think like the horse, be the horse and the horses around you. You cannot afford to miss a single detail, not one. The track may look friendly and inviting, with its soft turf and green stretch, but it lies. Once those gates snap open and the horses are released, it’s a warzone, as tough and deadly as Stalingrad itself.

This was not untrodden earth. Three and a half centuries of racing have been played out here. The great Nijinsky, the brilliant Miesque, Brigadier Gerard, Mill Reef, Nashwan, King’s Best and more – all had set hoof on this turf. Now it was the turn of the Red&Sky double to show the world that the Classics were theirs. The gates clanged open.

Snake leapt out with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros, barrelling to the front and glaring at the leader. The straight track was too wide, where was the rail? It was all confusing and fast; Sam forced himself to concentrate on the stretch of grass Snake’s ears framed.

The bay colt’s hooves kicked up clods of earth, which fell into the path of Beretta, who flanked him from the other side, two horses away. Freddie clung to his back and hunkered down into his mane. His heart rattled at the bars of its mortal confines, yet his brain was calm. Composed. Maybe even confident. All thoughts of his family had been left at the gate.

‘Aaaand Eurasian Desert takes the lead, followed by Quetzalcoatl in second and just behind is Ravishing in third and Hot Spur’s fourth...and oh, here comes Green Ivy just look at him go!’ The commentator roared as the colt in question piled on the speed to come from sixth to first in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Eurasian Desert fell back to fourth, Beretta was in fifth, Hot Spur in sixth, the painted chestnut second and the crazy bay out in front. Tim Wong was muttering in Japanese to his horse, who ran with white eyes and foam coated chest.

The infamous Rowley Mile dip loomed ahead, and all was quiet on the Western Front, every horse jostled for position, switching faster than the commentator could report. Every jockey held his breath, hoping that their rhythm of strides would continue out the other side, powered forward by gravity and willpower. Like a wave, the field of seventeen sped down the slight decline.

Rett took a short, clumsy step, his head jerking up as the tempo broke. Freddie’s heart leapt into his mouth, feeling like it was twined around his tongue. He squeezed, and waved his whip, forcing Rett back into his striding. His horse’s mind worked, and combined information to determine whether to advance on the left or the right of Snake. Freddie knew Green Ivy would eventually tire – he was a short trip sprint horse, everyone could see that – so he was happy to let the horse choose.

Snake, meanwhile, had rolled out up the slight incline and was piling on the speed. Green Ivy, great as his acceleration was, had no chance. Muscle upon muscle worked in unison to snap his legs back and down and up and round, propelling the beast forward. The commentator’s voice gained in volume and pitch as the margin increased. Slowly he was pulling away, and there was the line, dead ahead!

With a lurch of acceleration, Beretta chose his target: to the left Eurasian Desert and Ravishing grappled, but the right was a clear shot, straight past Green Ivy and up next to Snake. The missile had his co-ordinates, and his target had no chance.

Wong asked for more of Green Ivy, battering his flank with his whip, but to little avail. Rett was advancing on his right, soaring with re-found speed. The crowd was a sea of noise. Rett inched his nose past, stretching out his neck; his back.
Snake galloped past the finish to the applause of thousands, Sam’s felt like it had been released from a boa constrictor’s grasp. Rett and the bay colt were still close, but the battle was already won. Green Ivy gave up and retired to third as they crossed the line.

The gallop out was flooded with pure relief. Sam and Freddie high-fived, their mounts wound like springs. That had been the single most exhilarating and scary thing they had ever done, and they had not expected to win like this. Even the most confident fans that still hyperventilated in the stands were surprised and awed. Snake and Rett walked side by side back towards the crowd, glorious in the bright sun.

Graham grabbed Snake’s bridle and offered an un-emotive ‘Well done’ to both of them. One of his minions took hold of Rett. Beneath his stern mask, the old trainer was elated. What was this, a first in Guinea’s history? He took his hat off and wiped his brow. These were the best horses he’d had in a long while, a long, long while. By Jove, were they good.

They’d thought it was bad before, but now the press swamped them. A trainer one-two was rare enough, not to mention an owner one-two. Perhaps they should be revelling in their achievement (Beretta certainly was), but all the two jockeys wanted to do was shake hands and tumble into the showers. Once in the stream of dirt and nerve cleansing water they could relax, stop their knees shaking; let the realisation sink in. They had done it. Sam had won the 2,000 guineas. Freddie was second.

But that wasn’t going to happen. After the onslaught of reporters, they were whisked past the camera flashes to the winner’s circle, where Graham ignored a smiling BBC presenter who waved at him frantically. The horse came first. Water arrived, shoved in front of his nose. The colt stared at it blankly for a moment. Sam jumped off and went to Snake's side to untack him. The horse side stepped as the girth slid over his back, but plunged his head into the bucket and drank deep. Sweat caked his sides.

Beretta ignored the water and studied the camera flashes, ears pricked. He pulled on the reins that the groom held, wanting to show off to the press. Rett squealed. ‘Hey boy, hush. C’mon, they don’t want to hear your moaning. You’ll get to show off later,' he murmured, and Rett finally drank. All the while Freddie’s hand stroked his neck, finger shaking with both nerves and relief. His saddle was balanced over his arm.

Some forewarning prompted Sam to turn around just as Eliza flung herself into a hug that trapped him. ‘OhmygodSamohmygod,’ she breathed. ‘Ohhh god.’ Then she pulled back and kissed him, on the lips, breaking away quickly and skipping to Snake’s side. She caught Freddie’s eye and he smiled with a knowing look as he turned to follow the short line of jockeys going to weigh in.

Still Sam stood in the same place and inadvertently he raised a hand to his lips. Oh my god indeed. He suddenly remembered the sweaty assortment of tack that was in his hands, and stared at it, scrabbling for what he should do next. The knowledge had escaped him, but it flooded back with a grunt from Graham. He strode off to the weighing room, an idiotic love struck grin on his face.

--

‘Father, mother,’ Freddie could barely keep the venom out of his voice.
‘Ah, Frederick, how lovely to see you. I must congratulate you on that placing – not the best we could have hoped for, but not unsurprising either,’ Freddie’s father said, holding out a glass of champagne. Freddie declined it, opting instead to look out of the window at the track. People still milled around the enclosure, chatting, cashing in bets, drinking. He heard his father sit down on the leather sofa.

His father was not a tall man, but it felt like it. He had greying black hair and dark eyes, and a brush moustache that furred his upper lip. He was dressed in a black suit, of course. His mother was long and graceful, but angular also, her harsh shoulders jutting beneath her blond hair, which was styled in a longer version of Marilyn Monroe’s. Her dress was blood red, like her lipstick. She studied him behind her champagne with icy eyes.

Richard and Charlotta De Vere reclined in luxury. Freddie stood, feeling awkward, as if he was in the headmaster's office at school. Memories of stiff collars, starched shirts and top hats still haunted him.

‘Mmm.’

‘Yes, father – not mmmm.’

‘Yes father.’

‘Say thank you, also.’

‘Thanks.’

A hand instantly went to the moustache, stroked it fondly. A silence filled up the space the words had left. ‘That chestnut and white horse is a good runner, isn’t he?’

‘Quetzalcoatl? Yes.’ He didn’t want to use Snake’s nickname with his parents, he felt like the horses should be as cut off as possible from his family’s knowledge.

‘Which one did you ride? Is that it?’ Charlotta’s gaze directed them to the tv on the wall, which played a slideshow of pictures from the race. This one showed Beretta on the outside of Green Ivy.

‘I rode the palomino, yes.’ She had not bothered to watch the race, then. Anger and confusion bubbled up, but he should have expected nothing more from her.

‘What do you call him?’

‘His name’s Beretta.’

She relaxed into the sofa. Her pregnancy showed in the swell of her belly, but still she sipped alcohol. Freddie was disgusted that she could have so little regard for her future son’s health. His phone buzzed in his jean’s pocket.

‘Freddie, where are you?’

Oh, merciful Graham, thank god. He told him where he was.

‘Get down here right away. Beretta has a fracture. ’

--

‘We’re taking him to hospital. Once the adrenaline wears out he'll feel it a lot more. We need to get him under and fixed up before he decides to flip out. The preliminal x-rays show he’s done something to his right pastern, but we'll need better equipment to determine what.’ The vet directed their attention to the pictures that shone on the screen.

The hospital stank of chemicals, mixed with the scents of horse - manure, straw, and hay. A new vet had returned with a few sheets of x-ray paper, which he stuck up on an intensifying screen. He greeted them, and said ‘As you can see, there's a medium fracture in his right pastern. You have a few options – we can see how he heals up on his own, or we can use stem cell therapy. He’ll need a lot of box rest and he'll never race again, I'm sorry to say. There’s also the option of euthanizing him, but that’s not necessary to worry about unless something goes wrong during recovery.’

They decided upon stem cells. Freddie, Eliza and Sam waited outside the operating room, watching the golden colt undergo the surgery that would save his life. Bone screws and pins were inserted into his leg, and it was put in a cast to help him recover.

He woke, dizzy and disorientated, in a strange stable with familiar people looking in on him. His leg hurt, and he snorted loudly, confused. A sling embraced his middle, he could swing slightly. He hated it, it was strange and weird, but the people he knew were there, and they were kind, so it must be all right. He accepted his new state.

Twenty six long, agonizing days later, with his story still in the headlines, he was put under once again so stem cells from his sternum could be injected into his bone. Surgeons ignored the Red&Sky team waiting outside as they bustled around the horse, muttering to each other and injecting with well practised calm. Radiographs, x-rays, stem cells, CT scans – it was a lot for one horse to take, but Beretta took it.

‘It should be healed up in about seventy five days; but he won’t be able to do anything. He’s staying here until he’s fit to go to the farm – you’re sending him to stud, right? We’ll be checking up on him regularly, don’t worry. He’s in the best hands.’

May was bittersweet.

---

Shown: Snake and Beretta

THIS MEANS VAIN INTELLIGENT GOLDEN BABIES! *flails*

Art & Characters (C) me
Ref from horsephotos.com

Description
With this picture, my horses have become a lot more real to me. Maybe it's this style - more realistic. I can imagine them fully, now, what they do every day, each workout.

Enjoy, peeps!

---

MAY PART II

When you’re riding a race, there is nothing but the race, nothing but the pounding of hooves against the turf and the rythmn of laboured breath as your steed’s sides heave. Your horse is you, and you are the horse. You must think like the horse, be the horse and the horses around you. You cannot afford to miss a single detail, not one. The track may look friendly and inviting, with its soft turf and green stretch, but it lies. Once those gates snap open and the horses are released, it’s a warzone, as tough and deadly as Stalingrad itself.

This was not untrodden earth. Three and a half centuries of racing have been played out here. The great Nijinsky, the brilliant Miesque, Brigadier Gerard, Mill Reef, Nashwan, King’s Best and more – all had set hoof on this turf. Now it was the turn of the Red&Sky double to show the world that the Classics were theirs. The gates clanged open.

Snake leapt out with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros, barrelling to the front and glaring at the leader. The straight track was too wide, where was the rail? It was all confusing and fast; Sam forced himself to concentrate on the stretch of grass Snake’s ears framed.

The bay colt’s hooves kicked up clods of earth, which fell into the path of Beretta, who flanked him from the other side, two horses away. Freddie clung to his back and hunkered down into his mane. His heart rattled at the bars of its mortal confines, yet his brain was calm. Composed. Maybe even confident. All thoughts of his family had been left at the gate.

‘Aaaand Eurasian Desert takes the lead, followed by Quetzalcoatl in second and just behind is Ravishing in third and Hot Spur’s fourth...and oh, here comes Green Ivy just look at him go!’ The commentator roared as the colt in question piled on the speed to come from sixth to first in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Eurasian Desert fell back to fourth, Beretta was in fifth, Hot Spur in sixth, the painted chestnut second and the crazy bay out in front. Tim Wong was muttering in Japanese to his horse, who ran with white eyes and foam coated chest.

The infamous Rowley Mile dip loomed ahead, and all was quiet on the Western Front, every horse jostled for position, switching faster than the commentator could report. Every jockey held his breath, hoping that their rhythm of strides would continue out the other side, powered forward by gravity and willpower. Like a wave, the field of seventeen sped down the slight decline.

Rett took a short, clumsy step, his head jerking up as the tempo broke. Freddie’s heart leapt into his mouth, feeling like it was twined around his tongue. He squeezed, and waved his whip, forcing Rett back into his striding. His horse’s mind worked, and combined information to determine whether to advance on the left or the right of Snake. Freddie knew Green Ivy would eventually tire – he was a short trip sprint horse, everyone could see that – so he was happy to let the horse choose.

Snake, meanwhile, had rolled out up the slight incline and was piling on the speed. Green Ivy, great as his acceleration was, had no chance. Muscle upon muscle worked in unison to snap his legs back and down and up and round, propelling the beast forward. The commentator’s voice gained in volume and pitch as the margin increased. Slowly he was pulling away, and there was the line, dead ahead!

With a lurch of acceleration, Beretta chose his target: to the left Eurasian Desert and Ravishing grappled, but the right was a clear shot, straight past Green Ivy and up next to Snake. The missile had his co-ordinates, and his target had no chance.

Wong asked for more of Green Ivy, battering his flank with his whip, but to little avail. Rett was advancing on his right, soaring with re-found speed. The crowd was a sea of noise. Rett inched his nose past, stretching out his neck; his back.
Snake galloped past the finish to the applause of thousands, Sam’s felt like it had been released from a boa constrictor’s grasp. Rett and the bay colt were still close, but the battle was already won. Green Ivy gave up and retired to third as they crossed the line.

The gallop out was flooded with pure relief. Sam and Freddie high-fived, their mounts wound like springs. That had been the single most exhilarating and scary thing they had ever done, and they had not expected to win like this. Even the most confident fans that still hyperventilated in the stands were surprised and awed. Snake and Rett walked side by side back towards the crowd, glorious in the bright sun.

Graham grabbed Snake’s bridle and offered an un-emotive ‘Well done’ to both of them. One of his minions took hold of Rett. Beneath his stern mask, the old trainer was elated. What was this, a first in Guinea’s history? He took his hat off and wiped his brow. These were the best horses he’d had in a long while, a long, long while. By Jove, were they good.

They’d thought it was bad before, but now the press swamped them. A trainer one-two was rare enough, not to mention an owner one-two. Perhaps they should be revelling in their achievement (Beretta certainly was), but all the two jockeys wanted to do was shake hands and tumble into the showers. Once in the stream of dirt and nerve cleansing water they could relax, stop their knees shaking; let the realisation sink in. They had done it. Sam had won the 2,000 guineas. Freddie was second.

But that wasn’t going to happen. After the onslaught of reporters, they were whisked past the camera flashes to the winner’s circle, where Graham ignored a smiling BBC presenter who waved at him frantically. The horse came first. Water arrived, shoved in front of his nose. The colt stared at it blankly for a moment. Sam jumped off and went to Snake's side to untack him. The horse side stepped as the girth slid over his back, but plunged his head into the bucket and drank deep. Sweat caked his sides.

Beretta ignored the water and studied the camera flashes, ears pricked. He pulled on the reins that the groom held, wanting to show off to the press. Rett squealed. ‘Hey boy, hush. C’mon, they don’t want to hear your moaning. You’ll get to show off later,' he murmured, and Rett finally drank. All the while Freddie’s hand stroked his neck, finger shaking with both nerves and relief. His saddle was balanced over his arm.

Some forewarning prompted Sam to turn around just as Eliza flung herself into a hug that trapped him. ‘OhmygodSamohmygod,’ she breathed. ‘Ohhh god.’ Then she pulled back and kissed him, on the lips, breaking away quickly and skipping to Snake’s side. She caught Freddie’s eye and he smiled with a knowing look as he turned to follow the short line of jockeys going to weigh in.

Still Sam stood in the same place and inadvertently he raised a hand to his lips. Oh my god indeed. He suddenly remembered the sweaty assortment of tack that was in his hands, and stared at it, scrabbling for what he should do next. The knowledge had escaped him, but it flooded back with a grunt from Graham. He strode off to the weighing room, an idiotic love struck grin on his face.

--

‘Father, mother,’ Freddie could barely keep the venom out of his voice.
‘Ah, Frederick, how lovely to see you. I must congratulate you on that placing – not the best we could have hoped for, but not unsurprising either,’ Freddie’s father said, holding out a glass of champagne. Freddie declined it, opting instead to look out of the window at the track. People still milled around the enclosure, chatting, cashing in bets, drinking. He heard his father sit down on the leather sofa.

His father was not a tall man, but it felt like it. He had greying black hair and dark eyes, and a brush moustache that furred his upper lip. He was dressed in a black suit, of course. His mother was long and graceful, but angular also, her harsh shoulders jutting beneath her blond hair, which was styled in a longer version of Marilyn Monroe’s. Her dress was blood red, like her lipstick. She studied him behind her champagne with icy eyes.

Richard and Charlotta De Vere reclined in luxury. Freddie stood, feeling awkward, as if he was in the headmaster's office at school. Memories of stiff collars, starched shirts and top hats still haunted him.

‘Mmm.’

‘Yes, father – not mmmm.’

‘Yes father.’

‘Say thank you, also.’

‘Thanks.’

A hand instantly went to the moustache, stroked it fondly. A silence filled up the space the words had left. ‘That chestnut and white horse is a good runner, isn’t he?’

‘Quetzalcoatl? Yes.’ He didn’t want to use Snake’s nickname with his parents, he felt like the horses should be as cut off as possible from his family’s knowledge.

‘Which one did you ride? Is that it?’ Charlotta’s gaze directed them to the tv on the wall, which played a slideshow of pictures from the race. This one showed Beretta on the outside of Green Ivy.

‘I rode the palomino, yes.’ She had not bothered to watch the race, then. Anger and confusion bubbled up, but he should have expected nothing more from her.

‘What do you call him?’

‘His name’s Beretta.’

She relaxed into the sofa. Her pregnancy showed in the swell of her belly, but still she sipped alcohol. Freddie was disgusted that she could have so little regard for her future son’s health. His phone buzzed in his jean’s pocket.

‘Freddie, where are you?’

Oh, merciful Graham, thank god. He told him where he was.

‘Get down here right away. Beretta has a fracture. ’

--

‘We’re taking him to hospital. Once the adrenaline wears out he'll feel it a lot more. We need to get him under and fixed up before he decides to flip out. The preliminal x-rays show he’s done something to his right pastern, but we'll need better equipment to determine what.’ The vet directed their attention to the pictures that shone on the screen.

The hospital stank of chemicals, mixed with the scents of horse - manure, straw, and hay. A new vet had returned with a few sheets of x-ray paper, which he stuck up on an intensifying screen. He greeted them, and said ‘As you can see, there's a medium fracture in his right pastern. You have a few options – we can see how he heals up on his own, or we can use stem cell therapy. He’ll need a lot of box rest and he'll never race again, I'm sorry to say. There’s also the option of euthanizing him, but that’s not necessary to worry about unless something goes wrong during recovery.’

They decided upon stem cells. Freddie, Eliza and Sam waited outside the operating room, watching the golden colt undergo the surgery that would save his life. Bone screws and pins were inserted into his leg, and it was put in a cast to help him recover.

He woke, dizzy and disorientated, in a strange stable with familiar people looking in on him. His leg hurt, and he snorted loudly, confused. A sling embraced his middle, he could swing slightly. He hated it, it was strange and weird, but the people he knew were there, and they were kind, so it must be all right. He accepted his new state.

Twenty six long, agonizing days later, with his story still in the headlines, he was put under once again so stem cells from his sternum could be injected into his bone. Surgeons ignored the Red&Sky team waiting outside as they bustled around the horse, muttering to each other and injecting with well practised calm. Radiographs, x-rays, stem cells, CT scans – it was a lot for one horse to take, but Beretta took it.

‘It should be healed up in about seventy five days; but he won’t be able to do anything. He’s staying here until he’s fit to go to the farm – you’re sending him to stud, right? We’ll be checking up on him regularly, don’t worry. He’s in the best hands.’

May was bittersweet.

---

Shown: Snake and Beretta

THIS MEANS VAIN INTELLIGENT GOLDEN BABIES! *flails*

Art & Characters (C) me
Ref from horsephotos.com