It was Saturday morning and I was pulling the calash across the main thoroughfare. The young master preferred the calash, it was fast and had a fold-away cover in case the rain stopped. He preferred me for much the same reason, I was responsive to the reigns and quick on slippery cobbles. “Oh the way Ginny maneuvers!” he would boast to the other young men, “I’d take her over any thoroughbred.” I feel much the same, for all a horse needs to be happy is a kind master.
Anyhow, it was morning, and we were crossing the road with the clock tower. Horses, carriages, and carts were weaving this way and that and a policeman stood in the middle, playing a song on his whistle while he danced. A white stallion was coming towards us, pulling a brougham. If the color of him had not been enough to get my attention, his high action and rolling eyes would have. “Is that not Miss Eloise’s carriage?” my master twisted in his seat, “She must have got a new horse. What a beauty.” I would have felt a twinge of envy, but in this case, he had my total agreement. We went about our business, darting through the narrow streets, ending our chores at the glover.
Instead of continuing onto the country roads, my master turned me back towards town. He must have noticed the flicking of my ears, for he raised his whip, “I know you would like to go for a ride, but I am curious about that horse. I promise not to call on Miss Eloise for too long.” As nothing is ever gained by arguing with someone holding a whip, I trotted back along the cobbled streets, where out of sheer disregard for my feelings, the sun burned through the haze.
We were greeted at the curb by Miss Eloise’s stablehand, a man who smelled more horse than human. “Och,” he tsked as he untacked me, “Only stall’s near Pleasant, which he ain’t. He been orf his feed.”
The stablehand led me to a pump, where he filled a bucket with water. After a drink and grooming, he led me to a box.
It wasn’t until I was settled, that I saw the white head in the stall next to me. “You!” Pleasant nickered, “You’re the one that doesn’t lift your legs. Do you think you shall fly about the town like Pegasus, pulling that ratty old cart.”
“It’s a calash,” I whinnied, “And my action is suited for city streets.”
He snorted, “Never seen a horse move like that.”
“And I have never seen one move like you,” my muzzle colored as I said it, and I hoped that my ginger hair was enough to disguise it.
The groom returned before Pleasant could respond, leading me back out of the stall. “Well, if that doesn’t take the egg,” he paused in front of the stallion, “His nose is in the manger.” Pleasant had finally relaxed enough to eat.
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Cross Posted to 12 Short Stories
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I just noticed that Grammarly is now measuring tone, which is kinda cool. Grammarly says this short story has a "formal" tone. I was going for "old-timely," but I guess that's close enough. I really like Grammarly, but it does a couple of weird things. For one thing, it keeps telling me that I'm not doing any writing when I write almost daily usually with Grammarly turned on. The only time I turn Grammarly off is when I'm writing a lot of dialogue on my phone because it adds a space before my second ", which I then have to go back and delete. Then it adds it again and we start fighting, and I'm like, "Fine, be that way. I turn you off!"