It’s an entry for a horse story contest but I REALLY need some help. First of all, I want to know what you think (is the writing good or bad? Does it sound too much like something out of a novel, not a short story?). Secondly, this is about 700 words – and the contest limit is 500. So I need you to tell me, what parts do you think aren’t needed? Where do you think I could shorten it? Or…do you think I should just forget about trying to shorten it, it would ruin the story? THANKS!!!!!

The black horse stood in the chute on Ronnie’s left, just over a swell of thick, lofty grass and sand. She allowed herself to stare at him for a long moment, gaze unwavering. Then the brisk voices of adults carried to her ears.

“Well, the best of them are on the ship,” she heard her father say. “They’ll sell for a good amount of money and, besides, the public will take it much easier than if we’d killed them.”

“Culling wasn’t the solution,” another man agreed. “The rest can be let free; we’re still keeping a good 200 on Sable Island, just enough for it to support.”

“Right.”

The black horse suddenly snorted, plunging his nose into the air and pawing the ground several times. He looked painfully awkward in the tight wooden stall, kicking up dust and clamming against the sides whenever he so much as moved. Dirt had tangled into his thick coat and mane, and his legs were caked high with mud. Even his eyes seemed to be clouded.

Now Ronnie’s father was moving towards the corrals of mares and foals. The one nearest the gate stuck its head over hopefully as he approached, eyes strewn with desperation, chest pressing against the wood. But no physical power was needed. In a swift motion Ronnie’s father opened the gate, giving way to the free land.

One by one the horses leaked out, until there was nothing but a stampede of thumping hooves and wind-carried mane, of jostling bodies and moving muscle. Within a minute the herd was a mere blob on the horizon, and Ronnie’s father was speaking again.

“Now. Just the stallion to worry about,” he muttered, tilting his head toward the individual chute.

The black horse had stopped, sides heaving, ears flattened as his herd escaped without him.

“It’s only one horse to be killed,” the other man pointed out. “We finally have him captured – securely captured, Tom. He’s not getting away this time. Don’t you remember last year, when you walked too close to the holding pen? That kick kept you out of the saddle for months.”

“I know,” Tom agreed huskily.

“We’ll be killing a pain,” he said. “Now come with me, to the van, for the rifle. That is, as long as you can keep watch on him, Ronnie.”

“Of course.” After all, she’d been keeping watch on him the whole afternoon.

Left alone, Ronnie narrowed her eyes against the glare of sunlight and licked her parched lips, without letting her gaze stray from the stallion. For several long moments he paced restlessly, coat bathed with sweat, breathing laboured, great nostrils flaring in the island air. Ronnie knew it was hopeless. The walls were built tough and sturdy, beyond anything a horse could find its way out of. A perfect trap.

At last Ronnie rose to her feet. Kicking her way through the deep sand, she found the horse’s stalll, running a hand over the hard wood and large metal latches. The entire stall was reverberating with the thrust of the stallion’s body, no attention paid to her. She bit her lip and squinted against the rising sand. It was a simple metal lock. Ronnie slipped it through and opened the gate.

Immediately, a gust of wind rattled it from her own grasp and flung it against another side. The stallion whinnied high and shrill and then blindly plunged through, knocking her shoulder in his own splendour and glory. Ronnie felt a wave of dizziness as she staggered backwards, tripping to the hard ground. The jolt of hitting it send her rigid. After a moment she felt a small spasm of pain and gripped at her shoulder, and as she struggled to her feet she could only blink the grit and sand from her eyes, hope turning to desperation as she wildly searched to find the tall black shape. All she wanted was one last glimpse.

But the stallion had vanished. Even in her dizziness it was clear to Ronnie that he was gone. As she stared into the distance, blinking back sweat and tears, she instinctively rubbed her shoulder. It was throbbing, now with greater force.

She rolled up her sleeve. There, on her shoulder, the wild horse’s knock had left a small, round bruise, now turning purple. Proof that she was the one who’d saved his life.