A Black Mare
Grandpa slung her in a Western saddle at six months old, and baby clasped the reins. At twelve, braided for the barrel races, golden hair swayed past her waist. Silver spurs jangled on the heels of dusty boots. Mom sewed glittering suits for the queen competitions, where the young woman and her mare were rhinestone stars. What a horse. What a horse…thirty years. What a horse that black mare had been.
The woman aged and bought another, bred a likely mare, raised foals, but the arena’s gold had grayed.
The glass is thin, caulking stripped, and cold creeps in.
Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories.