The Race

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Chilled, sterile air filled the hotel room. The air conditioning was hardly necessary, and yet she left it on. Over her shoulder, she could see the harbor, and the tops of some palm trees through the gauzy sheer curtain. She sliced into the pink flesh of her steak. Being in Sydney felt good, even alone.

The television was inexplicably tuned to a sports channel. A horse race was in progress until it wasn't. A horse fell, then two more, calling over it, and finally a third stumbled and crashed down. The last seemed to have landed on its neck. She swallowed the unchewed meat in her mouth.  The camera left the track for brief moments to show the tears on the faces of wealthy women in brightly colored hats. One of them was an owner of the third horse. Why the tears? Crystal wondered. Were they for the animal? For the loss of a trophy? Jockeys soothed their charges, to no avail. All four were put down within minutes.

She pushed the plate of food away from her and left it to go cold. Taking up her evening bag and coat, she clicked the television off on her way to the door. Tom Burlinson's live concert awaited her in the Harbor. She heard the unbroadcast screams and cracking of bones for years to come.


Open the door...tell your best story with my workshops.

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