Post by Donovan Youngblood on Dec 7, 2010 17:47:22 GMT -5
There's things that I can't leave alone
'Cause they won't leave me alone
What I want ain't what I need
Still I reach for the things I crave
You'd think because he'd been driving for several hours straight the night before, all the while making sure he wasn't as lost as he felt and his stallion wasn't getting antsy, would put some one straight to sleep. It didn't for long. As always, Donovan woke up with the sun. He groaned and tried going back to sleep, placing the pillow over his face to block out the light. It didn't work, his dark blue eyes stayed open. Sighing, he sat up and decided to go ahead and check on Hothead, his Selle Francais stallion. He quickly showered and dressed, throwing on some dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt. While he'd taught Hothead to show-jump, Donovan had yet to enter him into any contests and it was for a very selfish reason. There was no way he was going to wear that pretty-boy English suit shit. Just the thought of tight khaki riding pants made him shiver. He grabbed his truck's keys, running a hand through his hair in an effort to style the inevitably windblown-looking hair. It didn't do much, but at least it looked okay.
Climbing into his old black '78 Chevy, he started the knocking engine and headed towards the stables. Though the school would always be hell, it was school, the stables were a dream. Most of his life had been spent testing limits and experiencing everything he'd ever wanted too. Donovan hadn't ever thought he'd end up where he was right now, on the way to go meet a horse that meant more to him than most of his family. Hothead was the one reason Donovan was probably still alive. As a teenager, Donovan had gotten mixed up with the wrong sort, and he meant that literally. Even now, he wondered what he'd found so appealing about that life, was it the reckless abandon in which he'd had to live it? Or the appeal of danger? Either way, Donovan cranked up some old Rock n' Roll and lighted a cigarette. Dragging in a breath, he rolled down his window and marveled at the simple beauty of the land. Even with the radio station playing, he had an old song stuck in his head. He bopped his head to his imaginary beat rather than the one reverberating the black truck at the moment and muttered under his breath and around the cigarette, ' Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on, Livin' like a lover with a radar phone, Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp, Demolition woman, can I be your man?'
Turning into the stables, he killed the engine of his truck and stepped out. He smashed his cigarette in his ash-tray and closed his door. He wasn't crazy about setting the barn on fire. Walking down the hallway, he realized that there wasn't anyone here. Or at least, there didn't seem to be, and that was all right by him. He wasn't the greatest conversationalist in the world. Reaching Hothead's stall, he saw the stallion was already waiting for him. The Selle Francais's dark brown head was leaning over the stall door, peering at him. Donovan reached up a hand and stroked the stallion's blaze. For once, Hothead actually allowed the small display of affection. Then, he quickly began to prance excitedly. Donovan smiled and opened the door, careful to hurry inside before the powerful animal forced his way out. Hothead nipped Donovan's leather jacket and Donovan retaliated by softly flicking the stallion's barrel of a chest. Hothead snorted. Donovan grabbed the grooming supplies and chose a simple brush.
He slowly brushed Hothead, feeling for any bruise or knot traveing the day before might have given him. The stallion calmed, though his ears were strained forward, patiently signaling he was waiting. Donovan sighed and turned, depositing the brush and grabbing the light jumper's saddle. Hothead whinied lowly, and started prancing again.
Donovan had to grab the halter the stallion wore to keep him still as he tacked him up. He also had to flick the stallion's round belly, and the stallion snorted and let out the air he'd been holding. For a horse so eager to get going, Donovan wondered at the many ways Hothead chose to delay.
He opened the stall door and started down the hall. Hothead gingerly clomped along, his large nares flared to catch every scent. Donovan had to keep tugging him along every time the stallion got side-tracked. They did finally manage to make it to the jumping arena. Donovan had seen it earlier when he'd taken a tour by himself to scout every corner of his stalion's new home. He'd nearly started drooling. At his grandfather's ranch, he'd never had anything remotely this amazing. He was really looking forward to this first chance.
Sighing, Donovan tugged on Hothead's halter and tried turning the stallion around. However, soemthing had caught his attention. The teenage boy knew it had to be another rider entering the ring, but he didn't want to look up in case that encouraged conversation, he wanted to ride, not talk. Hothead refused to budge. Knowing that nothing short of kicking the stallion would make him move, Donovan, ever the anti-socialist, gave his stallion a dark deep-blue eyed stare.
Status: Done
Word Count: Nine Hundred and Eighteen
Lyrics: Kenny Chesney's Demon and Def Leppard's Pour some sugar on me.
Other: Nothing much, other than I'm a little rusty