Fifth Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2007)
Fiction
— Third Place
Mary Ellen Walsh has been writing poetry ever since she was a teenager. She is also an avid reader, her favorite poets being Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. She enjoys reading biographies, horror and critiques of other authors and poets.
The
Ponies of Nare
By Mary Ellen Walsh
Sarah didn't know how long it had been since the world had gone black
— she only knew that it had been sudden, like a heartbeat. The sun
had grown huge in the sky, a spinning ball with flames leaping from its
side, and then it split in two orbs like burning eyes. Burning eyes that
came crashing to earth with a sound so loud it could have split the world
in two. That's how it looked to Sarah. Of course, the sun hadn't really
exploded. If it had, they would all be dead. Sarah knew this, but what
had she seen then? Something had happened, and now the world was a murky
black, where only shapes could be seen if they moved.
Her husband Michael was gone. She didn't know where. At the moment of impact, she had lost sight of him. Their twins, Sarah Ana — who they called Ana — and their little boy, Gabriel, had been in their bedroom when it happened. Sarah wanted to keep them there for safety, because the real horror was just beginning.
That's because, ever since the blackness happened they came out. Groups of people in softly colored coats who rounded everyone up and took them away. And Sarah was running away from them, too, because she knew what they wanted: to start over, with children they could control, and anyone who was an adult (with the exception of the group members) they would kill. She knew this because she had overheard one of their leaders, Mr. Uriel, talking while she hid behind a tree on the street. They had taken Michael, and she feared that he was dead.
Did this group always exist? Were they always just underground, waiting for the chance to take over? Could they have caused whatever happened? She didn't understand a lot — just that Mr. Uriel must never find her, or her children. She didn't want them raised by this cold, unfeeling group. She would try to go somewhere with them, far away from this town, which was now deserted. What town had this been before? Hospitality Corners? Wasn't this her town, or did she just visit it sometimes? It was dark, true, and only outlines of shapes could be seen, but she should recognize some landmarks. But there were no people here now, and the houses had eyes, and the hedges' little thorny fingers, snag, snag you when you walked too close —
If only Michael were here. He could calm her, with his soft voice and laughing eyes. Michael had been the love of her life, and her clearest remaining memory. If he came to her, she would know how to fight —
A man called St. Peter, as Mr. Uriel called him, ran this group. Sarah constantly felt their presence, and she constantly heard their voices -- hurried, anxious voices. She heard them from all around her, above her, beside her. How could this be? And she was worried about the children: They couldn't stay in that room much longer, without food, and perhaps the air was running out, too.
She had to
leave their house to get food, and then she had to hide whenever she saw
them. Now she was blocks, maybe miles from her home. As she walked down
the
Dark street, she saw shapes — were they trees? Trees that, when it
was light, were bent over like hanging drapes, but now seemed threatening,
reaching out to touch her, but softly —
And whispering — Caress, Caress, or was that Celeste, Celeste?
Who was Celeste?
She was reminded
suddenly of a childhood story that had always frightened her. It was called
"The Ponies of Nare" and was written by an English man. She
couldn't remember his name. It was supposed to be a story for children
to enjoy, about ponies from a mythical place called "Nare."
They were beautiful, in shades of white, silver, gray and creamy brown.
They led children away from danger. But Sarah had always thought of them
as deceptively dangerous — they had too much power over humans. They
could lead children to danger, if they wanted. At seven years old Sarah
had dreamed of these ponies leading children to the sea to drown. She
had gotten this story mixed up with the Pied Piper tale — the original
tale hardly ever told to kids: How the Pied Piper had first saved the
children in the town from the plaque by leading the rats out of the city
with his music, and then when the town refused to pay him, he led the
children who trusted and adored him to their deaths in the sea.
