Flash fiction by Mario Senzale

The bay

The whole town was at the tracks. Men, women, children, dogs. The rules were simple. The more you bet, the better the horse. A thousand dollars bought you a thoroughbred. A hundred dollars bought you a nag. Ten dollars bought you the bay. Legs bent. Coat dull. Every wrinkle counted years of slog. The man on him, thin, sun-darkened, old.

The rich came in bright cars. They bet thousands on stallions. The poor came on foot. They pooled their coins. Ten bucks. 

The mayor spoke. Said every man risked what he could afford. Fair. Maybe this would be the day. The people clapped. The gun went off.

The fine horses broke like arrows. Rising dust. The bay dragged slowly. Broken trot. Children laughed. A man shouted to pull him off. The jockey hit him. Once. Then another. Then three more. The whip cracked across his face. It caught one eye. Blood.

The bay screamed. He reared. Struck the man on his back. Tried to throw him off. Tried to throw the world off. Blood ran from his eye in thick lines. He ran. Full-speed gallop. Every step a hammer. Every breath fire. The crowd went mute. The bay passed one horse. Then another. Then three more. The rich stood pale. The jockey crouched.  

The favorite stayed ahead, foaming. The bay surged. Fury given legs. His neck stretched long. His hooves barely touched ground. 

The referee raised his pistol for the finish. The shot cracked.

The mayor spoke about justice. About fairness. The jockey stayed beside the bay, watching the blood soak into the earth. The bay kept moving. Running on his side in the dirt. Hooves churning dust, neck stretched forward, one good eye fixed ahead. Another shot.