Amelia Player

I stole my father’s pony. I had to get away, so I stole his pony. Rode it as far as I could take it. My neighbor’s ranch. He let me stay. Stay to work, herd the sheep on my father’s pony. I could sleep on his land, under the poplars, under the stars. A boy of nine, I relished the soft damp grass. My back could take it then. My back could take a lot then, until it couldn’t. So I stole my father’s pony.

My father was stone. He made sailors out of my kittens, and meals out of my chickens. I knew he was stone, my back new, my mother knew in her broken English, in her cold touch against the bruises. She never stole a pony. She couldn’t ride. But I could ride. I would not be stone. I would be flexible, free. Enjoy the stars in my eyes, and the dropping of leaves on my face. I would take comfort in the sheep, in my neighbor who wasn’t my father.

The leaves fell harder on my face. The ground became firm on my back. Summer was over and the grown farm hands returned. They had their own ponies, so I was out. My neighbor gave me ten dollars and sent me back; back to my cold ponyless mother, and my stone kittenless father.

My father stole my ten dollars, to compensate for his pony. He seemed happy to see me. His stone hands did not meet my back that night. We ate no chickens that night. He drowned no kittens that night. My mother served me milk that night. I relished the smooth cold white against my throat. My mother’s touch warmed against the mended skin. I would not steal my father’s pony again.

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Amelia Dutch Player is an aspiring writer. She is from the small mountain town of Durango, Colorado. She currently resides in Savannah, Georgia, and is in her third year at the Savannah College of Art and Design. She plans on getting her Bachelor of Fine Arts in Dramatic Writing. Her work explores intensive depths of feeling and strives to create an insightful reflection of our world at large.