I drafted this story when I was single digits. Nine to be exact. Long before crack was a drug. Long LONG before there were crack children. So get that out of your head as you read.
I mean the true meaning of the word.
"To break without complete separation of parts"
At nine years old I didn't have the vocabulary to put this story to paper. If you thumb though my notes you will see "crack children" periodically scribbled on the margins. Every few years I would attempt to halter the story and tame it to paper.
It evaded all my attempts.
A rogue bronco I haven't been able to break. Worse than being tossed on my kester, this story begs to be written and then slams me to the ground and tattoos my back with its hooves, bites me then drags me merciouslly until I let go of the rope.
laying in the dirt thick blood oozing out my nose...muscles aching, soul crushed, ego dented...then the damn story trots past me with its neck arched and mane rippling in exquisite beauty. Its long tail flagging to the rhythmic music of its prancing hooves.
write me....write me....
I climb the fence today and scan the pasture. I whistle for it.
Like a freight train from the back the crack children comes at a thunderous gallop. Muscles rippling in the sun. It takes my breath away. The story has matured into a gorgeous mustang.
It sweeps past the fence at break neck speed, showering me with dirt chips as it accelerates past me. The motion causes my chest to rise and my heart to beat faster. I pop from the fence and walk unafraid into the grass.
I come empty handed. Older and wiser and ready to tame this story. I'm old enough finally to command the language to bow and bend to the musical rhythm that I write to.
I rise my hands and whistle for it again.
With a flip toss of its head it trots around me in a large circle. Each step it collects its self and soon is prancing in an exaggerated floating trot.
I gasp at the sheer beauty, and I feel my soul cave in and the emotions pour out. yes...I run and grab a handful of mane and pull myself onto the smooth sleek back.
I put pen to paper and write the title.
The ground hits my face with such a force I loose consciousness.
The painful bites to my back rouse me.
With a squeal it pivots and kicks out at my head. Hooves seeking to sever my head form my body. I duck safely away. The years of practice have saved me again.
Lurching to my feet I run and dive under the fence. I roll to a stop and shakily get to my feet.
It's at the fence, standing all squared up like a show pony.
"I will write you some day." I say.
It nods it's head then rears up and with a twist and a kick gallops off straight to the back fence. Without any effort at all it leaps the fence and disappears into the recess of my writers mind. Untamed and unbroken.