Thursday, June 21, 2012


“Five dollars!” Dan’l whistled. “What you gonna do with it, Kitsy?”

“Bet on Joe-bee’s mare.”

“That nag can’t win.”

“Can too, and I’m gonna build my fortune off this race!”

Twenty-five years later, Kitsy sat in her luxury box, remembering. One foray through the stables, unsupervised, had ensured her lifelong taste for winning. The black locust powder had cost a dollar and a handshake with a man whose accent made him hard to understand.

Most of the horses had lived. She had no regrets.

Twenty-five hours later, Kitsy Malone was found dead, a horseshoe-shaped hole where her heart should’ve been.

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