Three stories

The man put the rug on its back. The young horse's flesh twitched, turning teeth to flanks, sweat forming on his shoulders. And from the veranda, shaded by the jacaranda tree that flourished there in the summer months, Alma could see the fear in her son's eyes. This is the moment when he will realise if he has wasted their money or spent it wisely on a good bloodline. Two years of waiting have come to this and he is aware; aware of the physical danger from the stallion and the emotional danger of losing any reputation he has gained through late-night whisky talk. Alma watched the horse. The legs of a thoroughbred, narrow enough to snap at the fetlock, tapering to elegant knees, his coat blacker than the sun-worn backs of the farm workers and as he sidestepped and pranced on light, unshod hooves through the sand, she let her eyes run over the lines of muscle and realised at three years old he was easily the biggest horse they'd had on the farm and when he filled, there would be more to come. Watching that balled-up power was a potent reminder of what she had lost.

Grantor

Department of English Language and Literature

Year dc:date.issued

2009

Author dc:creator

• Cranswick, Sally

• Creative Writing

Handle dc:identifier.uri

http://hdl.handle.net/11427/39356

OAI identifier oai:identifier

oai:open.uct.ac.za:11427/39356