Art & Fiction Contest Winners

Congratulations to the winners of our equine art and fiction contests!
The NWHS staff would like to congratulate all of this year's contest entrants. Don't forget to enter the NWHS Senior Horse Essay Contest, Deadline Sept. 30th, 2008.

Adult category winners

ART:

"Dylan and Cadence" by Kathleen Kresa

View more of Kathleen's artwork at http://www.kkmurals.com/

FICTION:

The Little Pinto
by Janet Lee

It was a clear spring day in Oregon. She was recovering from eight months of chemotherapy for uterine cancer and hadn’t been out of her apartment for several days. Janna Kenler wanted to do something that would be revitalizing, so she drove to the part of town where there was open land. As always, she was uplifted by the pristine beauty of lush green fields with fences, barns and best of all, many kinds of horses.

She especially noticed one large property with a “GARAGE SALE” sign. Near the pasture, which held two horses, there was a house with tables of merchandise in the front yard. The garage sale wasn’t of much interest to her, but what caught her attention was that one of the horses, a piebald pinto, was near the fence with its head up high and facing toward the sale. She knew that most horses would be in the pasture farthest away from human activity. “So here is a friendly one,” she thought. Not having had horses for many years, she was thrilled at the possibility of being near one and stroking its coat. She decided to go in and pretend to be looking at the sale and see how close she could get.

Because they were separated by a fence, her only hope of patting him was to be on her best behavior and persuade him to come up to her. She didn’t want to frighten him away, so she walked slowly among the tables and watched him from the corner of her eye. After sneaking around for fifteen minutes, she walked to the fence that was several feet from where he was standing. Her gaze went to his hip as she moved closer, and then stopped. Her eyes left his hip and traveled into the pasture then back to his hip, out to the pasture and again to his hip. He turned and looked directly at her. Then her eyes rested on his shoulder, and he moved up to within three feet of the fence. She went to the fence that was closest to him and looked on with a relaxed smile. It was the smile of someone who was putting her best self forward.

She decided that now was the time. With soft eyes on his shoulder, she murmured in her sweetest voice, “If you come closer I’ve got a scratch that will feel good to you,” and extended her hand. He walked up to the sagging wire fence and put himself within her easy reach. He leaned his body into her knuckles as she vigorously scratched his ears, neck and shoulder.

Janna was delighted to stand there and let him enjoy her touch, but then he did something that she could not have expected. He stepped closer, dropped his forehead even with her abdomen, and pressed inward. She stood motionless and was awestruck. He was making contact with the part of her that had been badly injured by cancer. If she touched him, he moved his head away, but when her hands were straight at her side he brought his head back to her abdomen and kept it there.

She thought this was an extraordinary gesture. She tried to understand why he turned away from her rubbing, but moved closer when she didn’t touch him. She realized that he was a horse who took more pleasure in giving than receiving. When he moved his head away, that was instructing her to be still. As his head was against her she sensed the mighty potential of his physical power and at the same time, a pressure so gently precise that it didn’t even push her off balance.

Janna had been deeply disheartened by the effects of her cancer treatments. People frowned when they noticed the brown circles under her eyes, wobbly steps and scarf that couldn’t entirely cover her bald head. She felt their pity, confusion and fear. They seemed to turn away from her, and now this dear heart moved close and in the horse language of touch was saying, “I want to be near you.”

At the time it happened she didn’t really understand what the pinto was doing, but later that day she knew it was the touch of compassion; not only for her physical illness but also the many emotional disappointments. “Miracles don’t always happen like a flash of lightning,” she thought with misty eyes and a quivering chin, “sometimes they have a brown forelock and are quite gentle.”

After she left, Janna cherished the memory of looking down at the horse’s beautiful coat and feeling his head against a part of her body that was desperately in need of healing. In that moment she was reminded of the noble generosity of horses, and why she was a better person for knowing them. As she drove home she felt a deep sense of peace that she would be able to draw upon for many days to come. And it was all because of the little pinto who gave so much more than he received.

Honorable Mentions, Adult
Art: Jeannie Yovetich Burham, Jay Olson
Fiction: Cynthia Williams, Jim Bottoms

Youth category winners

ART:

"Sierra"

by Bridgette Lewis

FICTION:
Beneath Me
by Kyllian Genzmer

Beneath me,
My horse prances.
Beneath me,
He is collected.
Beneath me
Are four legs moving effortlessly.
Beneath me,
A dance is in motion.
Beneath me,
A passage is in play.
Beneath me,
A beating heart races.
Beneath me,
Is a love too big to hold.


Honorable Mentions, Youth
Art: Kyllian Genzmer, Dessa Sandelin
Fiction: Sarah Gregory

Child Winners

ART:

"Buddies"

by Emma Pust

FICTION:
Windsong
by Rayn Joy Norton

I am Windsong. I was born on the shifting sands of the Arabian desert to our Chieftain’s best stallion, Desert Prince, and to the mare White Sky. The Chieftain gave me as a gift to his only daughter, Desert Song. She gave me my name. At first, I was scared of her. Soon, though, I came to trust her. She tended to my needs herself and comforted me when I was scared. Her gentle, flowing voice helped to calm me down, and her brown hands ran skillfully over my golden-bay coat as she rubbed me down with rags as soft as a hare’s fur. She slept with me at night, using her own blanket to cover me from the cool night air. She let me drink before she did, letting me drink cool, clear water from her own goatskin.

As I grew, my mother taught me things I would need to know to be a wise horse. She taught me the scent of a desert snake, whose bite is deadly, and how to find water in the driest places. Desert Song taught me to be gentle and to accept a rider. My training began when I stopped nursing and began eating grasses and dates. I had been frolicking near my mother when Desert Song came toward me. I was used to her, so I went up to her and snuffled her hair. Without warning, she pulled from behind her back a long, thin snake. It was over my head and across my nose before I had time to notice. It pulled down on my nose and curled around my neck. I whirled, the whites of my eyes showing in fear. I rubbed against everything to try to get the snake off, but it was coiled tight. My small hooves were everywhere, tangling and coming undone in trying to free myself of the snake. Then I slowly became aware of the fact that this thing around my head could not be a snake. It had a slightly bark-scented smell. It was not biting me like a snake would. I could not feel scales against my skin like a snake would have. Yet perhaps this was some new type of snake, one my mother had not yet told me about. I looked at Desert Song. She was holding one end of the snake in her hands. I snorted at her, so confused at what was happening to me. Suddenly, again without warning, she pulled at the snake. It tightened around my head and tugged me. I resisted it, planting my feet and refusing to budge. I called to my mother, pleading to her to help me, but she looked up at me with calm eyes and then continued to drink at the water trough, unconcerned as I was lead away.

Soon I learned that this strange snake was called a halter and the part that Desert Song held was the rope. At first, I hated the restraint of the halter and rope around my head. I fought it, rearing and bucking and snapping at the rope nearest to the halter. Then Desert Song patiently taught me to accept the rope, scratching my ears and giving me sweet dates when I behaved. Always her hands were there, petting me and rubbing me when I was unsure. Gradually I learned that the rope was not a restraint, but rather a guide to help me know where to go. Gently, she taught me to accept weight on my back, filling grain sacks with sand and resting them on my back, weighing me down. At first I snorted and sidestepped, but I did not buck. Desert Song ran her hand along my neck. Soon, I calmed down and allowed myself to be led, walking, in a circle. The weight was slowly increased. I was gaited at trot and canter. As time passed, I was taught to turn on command, to halt and change pace, using pressures on the rope around my head as a signal.

The wet season came and went two times. One day I was sleeping on the warm sand when I heard Desert Song coming. I had come to recognize different footsteps. The Chieftain had a firm, solid walk that was never a run. A horse boy had a quick, hurried trot. Desert Song’s footsteps were the quick, dancing sound of bare feet. That is what I heard now. I sensed a change in their rhythm, like something important was going to happen. I sprang to my feet and went over to my friend. I tossed my head, my mane waving in the wind. Desert Song held up the rope. Unhesitating, I lowered my head and slipped my muzzle into the halter. Then I noticed something different: Desert Song carried no sand-filled bags, only a colorful blanket. She laid this on my back and smoothed it. I gave a shiver. She led me to a small sand dune. What was happening? As lightly as a shadow, Desert Song swung onto my back! I shook and half reared. Then, I stood so still I could have been a statue. I turned my head to look at Desert Song, who looked scared yet thrilled at the same time. I felt her heels touch my sides, first lightly, then firmly, in a commanding way. Then I realized it; there was no pressing on my rope, nothing holding me back. Only the wide desert stood before me. I tossed my head up, dancing in place with uncertainty, and then sped across the desert like a hawk flies across the sky! My hooves beat the sand; Desert Song clung to my back, rocking with me as I sped over the vast expanses of sand. My hooves beat out a song, a song that sung of the sand, the wind, and the rain. It told of ancient Arabia, when the horses ran free over the plain. I was fire, wind, and cloud. Was I earthbound? I could not tell.

Honorable Mentions, Youth
Art: Kaitlyn Schueler, Kaylie Jamieson
Fiction: Anna Cartee