Rough Draft Short Story

I had been training all fall and was getting ready to compete in my first Dressage show in the spring. I had almost memorized Training Test 1, the 20 meter circles still fresh in my mind. But right now, it was the middle of winter. This year was especially cold (thanks climate change) and I could see my breath in front of my face. It was only about 4pm, but the car thermometer read a chilly 30゜F. The sun was already starting to set, but a blanket of grey kept it from view. My trainer flipped on the arena lights and they turned on one by one.
After that lesson, I learned something new about horses. As the temperature dips, a horse’s tolerance for their rider goes down with it. I was riding a little Quarter Horse mare, a breed known for it’s

I got on, carefully letting my long Dressage whip lay against my thigh, out of the way. I had an interesting relationship with that whip. My mother’s friend bought it for me, remembering her youth watching me ride. The shiny black leather made me look so professional, matching my boots and my breeches. Looking in the mirror, I knew I’d come home with a blue ribbon in any show. But on the horse, the whip was something else. It got in the way, I struggled to focus on everything at once. Where my legs were resting, my posture, my shoulders, my hands, the length of the reigns. Everything worked together, but all had to be right to be successful. The whip was just another

My horse seemed to have calmed down, and all was going well. The sun had now set and the darkness outside told me that my lesson was almost over. My trainer had me canter one last circle. I was ready to call it a day, still a little on edge. But I did as I was told, and gave the cue to canter. That was unsuccessful, and before I could regroup to try again my trainer yelled, “Use your whip!” Oh, the dreaded whip. I gave the mare a tap on her shoulder, and received more than a canter transition. Once again, she bucked, even bigger than the last. I guess she figured it took more to get me off her back. If so, she was right. I flew through the air, landing hard on my shoulder. I sat there in the dirt, not crying yet. The mare raced around the arena. The tiny pony from the beginning of my lesson was no more. From the ground, I saw a giant beast galloping around in frantic circles. I wanted to run, but all I could do was sit there in the dirt, clutching my shoulder. My trainer helped me up and I told her I didn’t think it was broken, that I’d be back for my lesson on Sunday. Oh, was I wrong! Tears started to drip down my face as my mom helped me into the car. For the next few months, not only did I lose a functioning shoulder, I lost my trust. In my trainer, myself, and the most crushing, my