July 2009 Story Contest

Run For The Roses  by Ileire & Zanzibar         age 12

Info: Inspired by Eight Belles, runner-up, Kentucky Derby 134.
        Eight Belles: Grey 3-year-old filly
        Field: Other Thoroughbreds
 
The roses aren’t worth the price I paid.
I am Eight Belles, a Thoroughbred filly. Derby day remains a vivid imprint in my mind. T’was meant to be a day of glory and celebration; of mint juleps and fancy hats. Instead, I remember it as the day I lost it all:
Nineteen colts parade majestically about the paddock, ears pricked, expressions curious. People lean against the fence rails to watch us, critical eyes scanning our sleek forms.
A tall gray pulls on his lead, eager to run. Like him I am impatient. I gnaw worriedly at the bit.
“Easy filly,” says the groom as he reaches to stroke me. I relax.
The familiar bugle call begins. A man in the center of the paddock yells: “Riders up!”
The jockey, Gabriel Saez, perches lightly on my back and gathers the reins. We head toward the tunnel.
As we step onto the track we are greeted by a chorus of applause. The pony horses come to meet us. After a brief warm-up lap, we are led to the gates.
I load in the fifth stall. Colts are making a fuss, rearing and trying to back out. The starters get them in. An electric silence falls over the stands. This is it.
Some colts are fidgeting, champing their bits and frothing at their mouths. I am still. Every muscle is tensed. Every vein surges with adrenaline.
The bell sounds. The gate springs. We are off!
The colt to my left drifts over, bumping my flank.  I charge to the front, savouring those moments of running alone. But the glory is short-lived. The colts behind me are rushing up, a great wave threatening to swallow my lead. I cannot outrun them. They fly past.
We spin around the first turn. Dirt is flung in my face as I slip onto the fence. Four colts pin me there. It’s very uncomfortable. I feel their warm breath; watch their flaring nostrils. Their eyes shine with reckless determination. They are locked in a fierce duel; each fighting to thrust his nose in front. One has a slight lead. The others inch up on his flanks. I stay with them, a few lengths off the pace.
The thunder of approaching hooves drums in my ears. A bay glides past on the far outside, overtaking the leader. His smooth, powerful stride devours the track. None dare to challenge.
The backstretch curves into to the final turn. I ease off the rail as we come around. Three horses race-shoulder-to-shoulder ahead of me, blocking my path. The rein jerks left. I veer past the group. Open track lays before me. This is my chance.
I am the lioness, he is my prey. I stalk him, waiting to pounce.
I surge forward in the stretch, drawing even with his flank.  I switch leads, preparing to make my bid for the roses. Anticipation hangs in the humid air. Does a filly have what it takes to win the Derby? Suddenly he spurts away, accelerating with every stride.
Hands press into my neck, urging me on. The whip smacks down hard on my shoulder. I know what is being asked. I wanted to obey! I don’t have anything left.
The bay sweeps under the wire. The crowd explodes. I’m sure some of those cheers are for me.
Victory has eluded me, yet I am still pleased with the race. I had proven that I could run with the colts! I had placed second!
I had just past the finish. Saez was patting my neck, rewarding me for the performance. The quarter pole flashes by. I stumble. And am thrown to the dirt.
I am disoriented by the fall. Blurred figures come toward me. They place their hands on my neck, trying to restrain me. No! I struggle to my feet. But my fore-legs can’t support the weight. I collapse with an anguished whinny.
My ankles are destroyed. One is dislocated. The bone juts above the hoof. Blood pours from a deep wound. The other has snapped at the pastern joint. I no longer have control of their movements.
Someone grabs a syringe.  My eyes roll white with terror when I see it. They jab it in my neck. The needle’s steely bite delivers blissful relief from the agony as the drug takes effect. The voices fade. I slip into darkness. My breath grows slower, shallower.  I’m dying, the words flash through my mind, this is the end.
I was not afraid. I’d accomplished what I wanted: to show the world I had the courage of a true Thoroughbred. The fatal liquid soon spread, ceasing the rhythm of my great heart.
 
A new legend was written that tragic day: the tale of a game little filly who gave her life for Derby glory. She made the ultimate sacrifice. It wasn’t enough.