I think mine was probably Twenty Gallant Horses, or Thoroughbred Breeding and Nicking Patterns.

I was (more than I am now), extremely pedantic on the subject of equines, read far more fact than fiction or fictionalized accounts, and would on occasion get into knock-down drag-out brawls as a result.

Hmm. Went to Amazon to look for Tweny Gallant Horses. Three used copies, all ex-library. The "good" copy is $78. The "very good," $177.

Beverly, go bid on this.

[link]

Also, check out [link] which has a copy for as low (!) as $40.00.

Never, ever use Amazon as your sole source for a used book.

No, Betsy is smart about this.(And of course, bunches of other things, too.)

Thanks, Betsy! I have it marked and I'm "watching" it. We'll see how the bidding goes.

I never use Amazon as the only resource. But it's useful for getting a ballpark price, an ISBN, and if I'm lucky, a synopsis and some reader feedback. I should probably be ashamed of how I use Amazon's resources cavalierly, and then so seldom purchase from them.

But Amazon's "ballpark price" is really, really high. You'd be better off using Half's ballpark price.

Yeah. Much more reasonable.

Half is my second stop, then ABE and alibris, then powells. Then ebay. By then I've figured out if it's the one I read when I was eleven or just the one I could never find, and do I reeeeeally want it enough to give it sparse shelf space. If so, and if I can find it at ebay I mark it and sit on it till 3 minutes before the end of the auction, and then I post my max bid and cross my fingers.

I'm a cheap old biddy when I'm buying. But when it's imaginary money I'm proflilgate.

You know, you don't usually talk about hunters height -- so much as what weight they are up to carrying-- a horse that is up to carrying 200 lbs is going to be different than one that you'd use to carry 130 lbs.

I hope no one minds. A new short story. I'm not sure what to call it. Any and all comments, suggestions, etc. etc. appreciated. ***

She starts shakily, as usual, too early, too little sleep, too many drinks the night before. Not enough smokes in the world, she thinks as she grinds the last butt into the tarry road, shaking her heel as she grinds, trying to kill something, or drive it into the earth. "All the way to hell, Mama," she mutters as she lights the next, eyes narrowed. "All the way to hell." She takes a deep drag and looks around, tries to focus her eyes on the extra-physical presence of the place.

Monday afternoon quiet, the air, storm-thick, presses her toward the ground, urges her to join the earth, the dune and grass and dead things. She leans against her car, pretty red thing, too expensive and not worth the money. But, she thinks as she strokes it lightly, work-roughened fingers gliding over satin paint, worth it to me, a symbol of freedom, a thorn in Mama's ass.

Another deep breath, deep from the sternum, centering her, here, ass warmed by the car, faint wind kissing the backs of her arms, rippling the hairs on the front, teasing the undersides of her breasts through the fabric of her t-shirt, making the ragged strands of her faded denim shorts skip-touch against her thighs, before passing on to rattle the dry grasses beyond; water and sand darker where they meet, where the ocean strokes herself against the sand, water paling to sky the color of water, water the color of sky, dunes only a little paler, a little less blue, rippling away from the water, shading into dun, spattered with black where bits of sea wrack lie, caught on the ridges and dips and on into white where the grasses stand and rattle in the wind up to oozing black pavement, where she stands against the car, ass warmed. She breathes out and her shoulders drop. She's here. She drops the cigarette and grinds it out, almost gently.

She locks the car carefully, pockets the keys, makes her way to the water's edge, slipping her shoes off before checking her watch, counting the seconds under her breath as they tick, tick, tick, set for Greenwich Mean, perfectly timed, and then she steps. Water, sand, foot, air. And again. And again. This is the 97th day. If it doesn't work this time, she will go back to her tiny, weather-blasted "vacation" trailer, fusty rug and the smell of dead fish, mark off the day on the calendar with a big black X, and then she'll try again tomorrow. One day it will work and she'll keep trying until it does or the divorce money runs out.

She steps as lightly as possible, breathing in with each lift of right foot, breathing out with each lift of left, feeling the sand suck away, the lick of the ocean against the arch of her foot. And step. And breathe with the wind, feel it blow through as well as around, feel it lick her ribcage, tickle her heart and lungs. Breathe with the movement of the surf, feel it turn, turn, and stop, right there, the moment, the cusp, the edge of time and space; ocean, air and land; that moment when the tide turns, feel it. And suddenly she's dropped, through the crust of earth and water, driven into turquoise depths like a lightning bolt slammed down by Zeus's mighty hand.

She can't breathe, but it doesn't seem to matter. The water is light; swirling around her in dizzying ribbons of varied turquoise and gold shading to white. She doesn't know if there is such a thing as up anymore. She thrashes because she can't breathe, even though it doesn't matter, and she wants it, whatever this is. She can't seem to stop her body from its spasms, the knee-jerk reaction to an overwhelming force. I'd fight God like this, she thinks, if I ever have the chance to meet him. It makes her want to cry that she can't just accept the gift, afraid she'll be puked back up on the shore. She doesn't cry, or maybe she does, but it doesn't matter because she's thrashing in one big tear, a bubble, and then she thinks she can breathe, just as she realizes that it's dark on the other side of the skin, and cold, and there are things there, waiting.