February Story Contest

Fate

By Illeire and Zipp Dunn Gettit

Age 13
 

She is tall,

Lithe as a dancer,

Steps to match.

She is black,

As death itself.

And as such,

Swift as fate.

It was the hand,

Of fate,

that in the end,

lead her off,

held her reins,

calmed her.

It was the hand,

Of fate,

that sprung the stalls,

that guided her,

that drove her

to the line;

giving herself

for victory

Fate, too,

ran with her

to meet the colt.

Let her run

'Til the amusement,

was over.

And then,

greedily,

it lamed the favourite.

Giddily,

claimed its winning ticket.

Grinning like a child.

Innocent,

in appearance

Down the stretch,

the branch cracked,

pulled up,

the hedge looming,

sirens screaming.

She went,

willingly, dazed.

Then she did,

as she was born,

ran her heart,

carried it,

to the line.

It stopped, then,

Fate was done here.

It stole,

silently,

from the room.

She was placed,

betwixt the flag,

and line,

pointed towards it,

forever running.

As she was bred.

As directed by fate.

 

Horrid poetry this , undeserving of that dreamlike black filly. Few things capture the divinity.

 

Ruffian, 1972-1975

Let no serf take your crown, for greatness is measured not by wealth, but by heart.