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How to fall off a horse A collection of English 409 pieces Kaye Maloney May 7, 2009

A note about my work In my portfolio, I have included a response to Rita Dove’s visit to Purdue, “Flash Dance,” “Lake Yaw,” and a short-short titled “How to fall off a horse.” Each piece posed its challenges during the revision process. With “Flash Dance,” I wanted to show the conflict between the father and son clearer. I also decided to put the story in the present and flash black to bring in the back story. I wanted to try blending the present and the past, because I thought it would add to the tension at the end of the story when the father comes to California to make amends with his son. I also tried to delete unnecessary dialogue and scenes, while keeping the stronger moments. In the situation with “Lake Yaw” I tried to incorporate the suggestions I received from workshop. Instead of making the story longer, I decided to take out the narrator’s friend, Ashley. I also tried to give a clearer description of the landscape and the narrator’s cottage. I also wanted to show that the narrator ran into consequences for her actions by getting in trouble for the bottle-rocket game and hiding out in the tree during the drug-bust. In writing the “How to fall off of a horse” story, the most difficult part was trying to give weight to the imagery and descriptions in such a short story. I had a hard time trying to make the story more complex. However, I did enjoy writing in the second person and making-up a way to fall off a horse. Thank you for everything this semester,

Kaye Maloney

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A Response to Rita Dove In my third year as an English major, this was the first year I entered my work in the Purdue Literary Awards. Taking a chance and turning in a few pieces I wrote was an accomplishment in itself because I’m not an assertive person when it comes to schoolwork. So, I was shocked to find that I earned a few awards. But, according to Rita Dove, it’s okay to take a bow once in a while for your work. Ms. Dove was the guest speaker at the awards ceremony, followed by her poetry reading. The points she made during her speech were about writing and the creative process, but the part that resonates with me is accepting praise for my work. I continue to write because I like it, not because I’m looking for compliments. Like any other profession, in writing complaints are more prominent than praises. In other words, the most important point I’ve taken from Ms. Dove’s speech is to be proud of being a writer and keep doing what I like to do. I also like that she said to have other passions in life besides writing, because otherwise I won’t have anything to say. Another part of the evening with Ms. Dove that I’d like to reflect on, is her poetry reading. She read work from her most recent book, which was comprised of poems about Beethoven. Her poems sounded good, but I had a really hard time finding a way to connect to them. I don’t play the piano and I don’t know much about Beethoven’s history. Which, this doesn’t matter too much because I can learn more about Beethoven and the piano on my own and through Ms. Dove’s work. However, the element that caused the greatest gap between me and her work is that she wrote the poems based on the male psyche. I praise Ms. Dove for the challenge she took on to write these poems, but it makes me wonder about my own work. I wonder what it takes to change characters and be convincing when I’m completely out of my

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element. Ms. Dove said to not be afraid to do this, but readers take gender into consideration sometimes.

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Flash Dance Standing in the jockey’s room, Aaron pulls on his white riding pants and knee-high boots. He wraps his bad wrist with sports tape and kisses the rosary his mother gave him on First Communion. Aaron has a tattoo on his forearm of a Celtic cross draped with a rosary similar to the one he owns, he rubs it and recites the Lord’s Prayer. Then, he tucks his red, curly hair under his helmet and digs a pair of gloves out of the locker. Today he is wearing royal blue silks with yellow triangles; representing his mount’s farm. He sits down on the bench to watch the television for updated odds. He’ll be riding a filly named Flash Dance, for the second time. She’s favored to win, with odds of 3 – 1. The first time he rode her, Flash Dance’s odds were 50 – 1. After being in California for three months, the opportunity to ride the filly came after weeks of doing chores for her trainer, Mike Shafer. It wasn’t until Aaron and Flash Dance won an Oak Tree Race, which qualified them for the Breeder’s Cup, that either of them was noticed. *

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“Don’t let her get caught in the middle of the pack, those other jockeys will box you in and not let you out,” Mike said, while they were standing in the paddock surrounded by spectators and journalists. “Stay on the rail or the outside.” “Alright. And when should I make my move?” Aaron asked. “Once you’re three-fourths of the way down the back stretch. Loosen the reins all the way and hold onto her mane, she’ll know what to do.” With the last minute advice, Mike helped Aaron onto the filly. She shook her head, making her muscular neck and shoulders twitch in the sunlight. Flash Dance is two years old and

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a pure, black Thoroughbred. She earned her name for her dance steps when jockeys mount to ride her. “It’s just me and you now, girl,” Aaron said patting her neck. Flash Dance trotted behind the rest of the field as they made their way through the tunnel and down to the starting gate. Flash Dance didn’t put up a fight while being led into the gate, but she pawed at the ground and grunted once confined to the tiny, padded space. At the sound of the buzzer, the gate flew open and Flash Dance went from zero to 40 in a few seconds. The next thing Aaron saw out of the corner of his eye was a filly to his left take a summersault and send the rider head first into the rail. Taking a deep breath, Aaron charged on, keeping up with the pack while the ambulance buzzed in the distance behind him. He could feel the filly’s body moving, her breath heavy with each step. She was pulling at the bit, and fighting Aaron for holding back, until they came down the back stretch into the final turn. A spot on the rail opened. “This is it girl,” Aaron whispered to himself under the pounding hooves. He dropped the reins and reached even farther forward, Flash Dance took off like a bullet. Before he knew it, Aaron was wedged in between the rail and the pack. He was neck in neck with the lead horse, then five lengths ahead of the pack. When Flash Dance rushed passed the finish line, he waved his crop in the air and smiled. The filly slowed down to a fast trot and stuck her head in the air with confidence. Filled with joy from his accomplishment, the only person Aaron had at the Santa Anita Racetrack to share the win with was Mike. During his time at the track, Aaron wished his father could have been there. He didn’t care that his father disapproved of Aaron’s chosen career, he

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just wanted his father to know that he was sorry for the terms he left home on a few months earlier. But since his Dad wouldn’t answer when he called, he never had the chance to apologize. Aaron doesn’t have any family members to share his joys and disappointments with. He’s an only child and his mother died in a car accident when he was a kid. Most of Aaron’s relatives have passed away or still live overseas, in Ireland. The summer Aaron was 10, his dad sent him to live with an aunt and uncle who live north of Dublin. They didn’t have children at the time, so Aaron played with the kids from surrounding farms. There was one boy, named John, who had a pony and a horse. John’s father was a respected horse trainer in Europe. He wasn’t home much, but John took the time to teach Aaron about horses. John’s gelding, Westin, was the first horse Aaron rode. Westin was an ex-race horse and loved to run. He had a black mane that brushed against Aaron’s face when they galloped through the pastures of the sheep farmers, hoping no one would notice them trespassing. When he came home at the end of the summer, Aaron asked his Dad for riding lessons. His Dad agreed, thinking it would be good for his son to pick up a hobby, despite his reservations. It was the first time Aaron had showed an interest in anything since his mother died and his father didn’t want to take that away from him. He figured Aaron would get tired of it and move on to the next activity, like he did with soccer, football, piano, and choir. But, it didn’t help that the barn Aaron rode at was near Arlington Park Racetrack. When he was done with lessons, Aaron would go over to the track and sneak in to watch the races. While watching those horses run, Aaron knew that’s what he wanted to do. He felt more confident on top of a horse than anywhere else in the world. But all of Aaron’s hopes of becoming a jockey with his father’s support ended after he fell off a four year old Arabian, while racing one of the other kids from the barn early in the 7

morning. They weren’t allowed to ride horses without a trainer or stable hand around, but did it anyway. Aaron broke his arm and collar bone which made his father worry that something worse could happen next time. From then on, Aaron’s Dad banned him from going near horses. Aaron didn’t care; he rode his bike to the barn. He did chores to pay for lessons and started learning as much as he could about the sport. When he was 17, he won some races at Arlington. That’s when his Dad stopped talking to him. “You’re going to kill yourself riding those animals,” he snarled when Aaron walked in the front door. He was sitting on the couch, with the news on. The sports highlights had just ended. “Most of them have only had a few riders on their backs.” “I guess you know about the races,” Aaron said, peering into his Dad’s eyes. “Well, I’m glad you know because maybe someday you’ll respect the fact that I’m living my dream and not feeling sorry for myself that my wife died.” “GET OUT!” *

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Tapping his foot on the ground, Aaron calls his Dad’s house in Chicago. After the getting the answering machine, Aaron stands up to walk to the paddock with Mike. The weather is good today, it didn’t rain and the track is dry. “How are you feeling?” Mike asks. “I’m fine.” “Well, I’m sure you’re not,” he laughs. “But, just remember that I’m proud of you, no matter what happens. I know your mom is smiling down from above, cheering you on.” “I’m sure she is,” Aaron says, tightening the chin strap on his helmet. His mom never missed a performance or a game, but Dad hardly came with her. 8

“And I’m sure if your Dad could be here, he would,” Mike said squeezing Aaron’s shoulder. “Yeah, maybe.” “Okay, now, the race. As you know, the condition of the track is good. The only horse you need to worry about out there is Captain Jack. He’s a fast finisher like Flash Dance; your only option to beat him is to make your move first.” “Alright.” With a leg up from Mike, Aaron and Flash Dance are trotting their way down the track to the starting gate for a race that will last less than two minutes. Flash Dance is loaded into the gate, while Aaron pats his tattoo one last time through his silks. At the sound of the buzzer, Flash Dance lunges forward, galloping with the rest of the field. Jockeys on both sides are swinging their whips at Aaron to intimidate him, but he’s focusing on the Captain in front. Coming down the back stretch, almost to the final turn, a spot is opening near the rail. Aaron guides Flash Dance into the narrow space. They’re next to the Captain, so close his jockey’s foot gets caught on Aaron’s. Aaron is trying to wiggle his leg free without success. The two horses are stuck together by their jockey’s stirrups. The announcer is screaming in excitement as the Captain and Flash Dance charge ahead of the pack together. With one last tug, Aaron’s leg is free from the other stirrup, and he drops the reins. Flash Dance rushes forward to win the race by a nose. Wiping the mud off of his face, the reporter on horseback comes alongside Aaron to ask him questions while he searches the crowd for Mike. Aaron spots him, and Mike gives a thumb up. After brushing off the reporter, Aaron hops down to give Flash Dance a good pat on the neck. 9

About a half hour later, Aaron and Mike have their picture taken with Flash Dance in the Winner’s Circle. Aaron savors the smell of the ruby red roses, the same as he did back at Arlington. As Flash Dance takes the ceremonial drink out of the trophy, Aaron notices a tall man wearing a gray suit off to the side of the crowd. He has graying red hair, and the same deep brown eyes that pushed Aaron out of the house. When the cameras stop flashing, Aaron walks over to his dad with his hand outstretched. His Dad looks him up and down, and then pats him on the back. “Congratulations Aaron,” he says, “you’ve done well.” Aaron moves closer and gives his father a hug, he whispers “I’m sorry” as warm tears start rolling down his face. “I’m sorry, too.” *

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Later that day, Aaron and his Dad had a chance to talk. His Dad explained that in the weeks leading up to the Breeder’s Cup, he saw an article that the local paper at home wrote about Aaron. The story didn’t have any mention of the family and Mike was quoted in the story saying how proud he was of Aaron. He also said there were other stories on the news about Mike and Aaron’s friendship. He felt guilty that he let his only son, at age 17, walk away from home. He knew that his wife wouldn’t have wanted there to be a falling out between him and Aaron. He also wanted Aaron to know that he was proud, too. “That’s when I decided I needed to come out here for the Breeder’s Cup. I knew I needed to support my son, even though this sport scares me and I can hardly stand to watch you ride a racehorse,” he said. “I love you Aaron and I’m going to support you no matter what you decide to do.” 10

For the next few years, Aaron’s father attended as many races as he could. He was there when Aaron lost, got injured, and won. When racing became too much for Aaron’s body to take, he reluctantly gave it up and moved back to the Chicago area. He started training horses at Arlington Park Racetrack and set out to find a horse to be the next Triple Crown Winner.

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Lake Yaw When I was two years old, my parents bought a small cottage on Lake Yaw in southern Indiana. The cottage was only a few hours from our home in Cincinnati; it was the first “luxury” purchase they made as a married couple. It was the place we retreated to in the summer time. At the end of the school year, my mom emptied our dresser drawers into suitcases and we spent the entire summer at the lake. We stayed so long, that my hair turned orange from the well water and we took swimming lessons at the city pool. The cottage wasn’t anything special; it had two small bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a porch. There were home-made peach colored cabinets in the kitchen that opened when we pulled really hard. And, the walls were covered in dark brown paneling that made the inside of the cottage dark, even when all the windows were open and the sun was shining. The road leading to the cottage was gravel and backed up to a heavily wooded state park. There were only about ten houses on it; four of them were summer cottages like ours and the rest were regular houses that people lived in year-round. The road was at the top of hill that leads down to the bay. This part of the bay was narrow; it got wider closer to the main lake. Our cottage was the beginning of the road, wedged in between an over-grown field of weeds that my brother and I launched fireworks from, and the Radkey’s house. Emil Radkey was short and had a huge beer belly. He was missing half of his front teeth, that I’m pretty sure never saw a dentist, and his clothes were always covered in dirt and grease. Emil and his son, Emil Junior, were into re-building and fixing anything with an engine. Their yard was cluttered with go-karts, cars, lawn mowers, speedboats, and even an airplane at one time. Everything sat there and rusted, and I don’t think Emil finished anything except the airplane. According to one of the neighbors my mom still keeps in touch with, Emil actually flies that airplane from the county airport. I’m not 12

so sure I’d trust anything that Emil touched; he spent half of his time yelling at Junior instead of working. We knew, because their driveway was right next to ours. My mom would get upset when I’d be playing with my brother in the front yard and they’d be using foul language. “JUNIOR!!!!!!” “What Dad?” “What is your problem? Are you so stupid you can’t get the right fucking wrench?” “Sorry, Dad. Is this the right one?” “Yes, god damn-it. Why couldn’t you get that right the first time? Quit making so many mistakes so the neighbors don’t think I’m a son-of-a-bitch!” “Fuck you Dad! Fix your fucking speedboat yourself.” “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Oh, right, go run inside to your Mommy! See if I care!” Well, I guess all of Emil’s screaming and yelling eventually motivated Junior to move out of the house. Only, it couldn’t have been that bad because he moved into the house across the bay, which was like moving across the street. Or, it might have been all he could afford. The house looked like an old barn someone turned into a house. It had two floors, a rounded roof and large, square doorframes in the front and the back. The shutters were yellow, to complement the drab, chipping, gray siding. The grass was overgrown and full of weeds. The only interesting part of the yard, was the giant willow tree to the left of the house. Junior lived there by himself, with his pit-bull named Rex. The best part about the house was that it was close enough to talk to people across the way. My brother and I thought it was hilarious when Emil would scream at Junior from his yard. We’d sit on the porch and roar in laughter as we ate our favorite snack, homemade popcorn with 13

butter. They fought about Junior’s pregnant girlfriend, his crappy job at the Ford dealership, and how he’d never be able to get out of this town. One time, Emil accused Junior of breaking his lawn mower. That was as interesting fight that ended with Emil and the mower in the lake. As entertaining as the Radkey’s were in the summer, we looked forward to the Fourth of July even more. Every year, Dad would take us to the fireworks store. My Dad would buy big fireworks to shoot off and he let us pick out a few small ones. My brother and I would always get the economy size package of bottle rockets. We’d line up empty beer bottles and aim them across the bay at Junior’s house when he wasn’t home. Then we’d see how many times we could hit his house. It was 1 point if your rocket landed in the water, 5 if it landed in the yard, 100 if it hit the house, and 300 if it landed on the roof. It was our favorite activity, second to going for rides on dad’s speedboat. Although we enjoyed the bottle rockets, we had to put an end to the game the summer I turned nine. One evening while we were playing, we didn’t know that Junior was home. His truck wasn’t in the driveway, so we assumed he had gone somewhere. Well, Junior didn’t know that we were playing the game and he walked out the door right as my brother launched a rocket. It was a perfect shot at the front door, the flaming firework missed Junior’s head by a few inches. He started screaming at us and my Dad came out side to see what was going on. We each got a spanking, or a cherry butt as my brother called it, and had to sit through one of Dad’s talks about being nice to people. He explained that we shouldn’t shoot fireworks at people. He also took away our bee-bee gun and the Super Nintendo. A few weeks after the bottle rocket incident, my brother and I were playing with our puppy in the front yard when our neighbor, Jack Porter, stopped by to talk to our parents. Mr. Porter was tall and had dark brown hair, with a bushy mustache. He always had clean clothes on 14

and kept his yard neat. I didn’t know anything about him, except that he was a cop and lived alone. The only time I saw Mr. Porter, was when he was mowing the lawn or planting flowers. We weren’t sure what he came to talk to my parents about, but after dinner my Mom told us we couldn’t play ghosts in the graveyard with the neighbor kids that night. She said we had to stay inside. Confused and angered by this news, we kept asking why when Mom made us take baths. Giving up on arguing, we decided to watch a movie in the bedroom until it was time to go to sleep. “Why do you think we have to stay inside?” I asked my brother. “I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with what Mr. Porter came to talk about. Just be quiet and watch the movie,” he said. “I don’t want to, I want to go outside and play. Come on, Jake, let’s go find something to do,” I said. “No.” “Why not?” “Cause I don’t want to.” “You’re a chicken.” “Am not.” “You’re afraid to get in trouble.” “Shut-up.” Jake gave in to my dare to go outside and play. We left the movie on and snuck on the window. We walked down the road, and crossed the bridge to the other side of the bay. We were cutting through Junior’s yard, when we noticed his truck coming down the road. Worried about

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getting caught, we climbed in the willow tree to hide. Once Junior went inside, we were about to climb down the tree when he turned on the light in his room. He sat down on his bed and took out a bunch of bags of white powder. We didn’t know what he was doing, but we were curious why he was separating the powder and putting it into bags. Our attention shifted when we noticed there was something moving in the water – the faint outline of a pontoon boat coming down the bay. The pontoon boat stopped at the dock in front of the next cottage over. We looked back in the window to see the light was off. The next thing we knew, a bunch of men dressed in black with guns and S.W.A.T. written in white letters on their backs were making their way across the yard. Jake started to make a noise and I covered his mouth with my hand. The men hid themselves all around the house, near doors and in bushes. Then they broke down the door and yelled “POLICE!” We watched as lights turned on and the house filled with smoke, I was holding Jake’s arm so tight, he still has scars from my fingernails. “EMIL RADKEY, THIS IS THE POLICE! WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST!!” screamed a voice from inside. But there was no response. Emil must have heard the men outside, and fled. When he snuck out of the house, he left Rex behind to suffer the fate of the tear gas. Knowing that Junior had to be somewhere nearby, the men inside were furious. Some searched the house and the yard, while the rest climbed back onto the Sweetwater and headed down the bay. During the commotion, one of the officers shined a flashlight up the tree to discover our feet dangling from the branches. The officers helped us down and asked lots of questions about who we were and what we saw. They asked us over and over again what happened. Finally, they

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took us home to our parents, who were fuming to find that we snuck out. After all the yelling and screaming, our parents let us go to bed with our punishment pending. The next day, my parents talked to Jake and me during breakfast. They said Mr. Porter wanted us to stay inside because he had to arrest Junior for selling drugs. Junior was caught at his friend’s house down the road. They also told us that we would be going home for the rest of the summer and there was a possibility we’d be selling the cottage. Jake and me just stared down at our pancakes.

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How to fall off a horse One day, you’re going to finally find the perfect horse to ride on a long trip across Montana, North Dakota, and Idaho. It’s going to be a hearty horse, probably an American Quarter horse or a mustang. They have strong hind quarters that are good for sprinting and climbing mountains. Your horse will also be a gelding because mares tend to have high strung personalities that don’t fare well when there are 60 foot cliffs, muddy paths, and a pecking order among the herd. Also, the horse is going to be a bay and you’re going to name it Guinness, after the deep brown color of your favorite beer. For the trip, you’re going to bring a few friends with. Probably a guide, who thinks he’s a cowboy and your best friend from high school, who thought the trip would be a good bonding experience. And of course, you have to bring your friends from the equestrian team to see who will show off the most. Plus, there will be a few other people you’ve never met before, like a Christian couple from Indiana and a group of girl scouts trying to earn a badge. After you arrive at a ranch somewhere in North Dakota, where you’re going to leave the car, you’ll pack the supplies. You’ll need to bring a change of clothes, food, duct tape, rope, a tent, and a sleeping bag. Most importantly, you’re going to need a rain jacket and a water proof bag to put the toilet paper in for safe keeping. Once everyone has saddled their horses and packed their lunches, you’ll use a real bathroom for the last time for a few weeks and think about the shower you took the night before. You know, out on the trail, your only hope for a bath is to brave the freezing water in the mountain streams. Then, you’ll stuff yourself into a pair of chaps to protect your inner thighs from saddle sores. Next, you’ll adjust your stirrups and mount Guinness.

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The guide will move to the head of the herd to lead the way, while your friend from high school fumbles around with her camera to document the adventure. After she takes a bunch of pictures of you and Guinness standing in the padlock next to the barn, it will finally be time to go. Guinness will gallop effortlessly across the pasture in the direction of the mountains and you’ll feel small under the large sky. As you get closer to the climb, the herd will form a line after the guide informs you to be careful of bee-hives in the ground. You’ll wonder if he’s lying and listen really hard for the soothing buzz of a bee-hive. While you’re worrying about bees, the guide will lead you through the trees with overgrown branches. You’ll get hit in the face with leaves wet from the rain storm the night before. The water will drip down your neck and branches will scrape against the top of your cowboy hat. Some of the branches will be low enough that you’ll have to duck and some will smack you in the face because the rider in front will let go before making sure you had a hold of it. This will continue for a few hours as the herd heads up the mountain, in hopes of reaching the other side before night fall. You’re going to get tired of the scratches on your forearms from the over-grown brush. Your butt is going to start to hurt and you’re going to want to cry every time Guinness trots to catch up to the horse in front. While you’re wishing you didn’t come on this trip, there’s going to be a big branch. When you reach to lift it up, your arm will get stuck the in fork. Guinness will keep climbing, even though you tell him “whoa” and pull back on the reins. Before you know it, Guinness won’t be underneath you and you’ll fall to the ground, landing on your butt. The equestrian team friend behind you will laugh hysterically as you admire the blood dripping down your arm.

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You’ll stand up, embarrassed and yell at Guinness to stop. He’ll look at you with an “I’m sorry” look on his face. The mountain-side will be too steep for you to re-mount, so you’ll have to walk the rest of the way to the top.

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