Cool Breeze Stables Novels & Stories

The golden rays of the sun streamed into the stables. The stables were dry and warm, filled with the earthy scent of hay, damp wood, and fresh manure. Hooves clopped softly against the concrete floor. As one of the horses shifted its weight, another swatted and flicked its tail at a buzzing fly. The stable door creaked open, and a servant stepped in. The smell of sweat, hay, and manure hit him full in the face. His boots sank slightly into the straw-covered floor as he made his way towards the stall.

As the doors swung open, a symphony of tinkling bells filled the air, like whispers of unseen spirits greeting visitors to their otherworldly sanctuary. Inside, the stable was a testament to natural beauty and tranquility. The stalls, lined with soft, mossy ground, were spacious and comfortable, each adorned with a nameplate bearing the names of the horses or stags, reindeer, blackbucks, and the most delicate beautiful gazelles that called them home. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting mythical landscapes and starlit skies, casting an enchanting glow upon the surroundings.

A normal day at Calloway Cattle Ranch involved nomadic cowhands and ranch hands herding the cows out to new pastures all day, workers that operated the dairy and those that were in charge of animal care and the likes. Most of the ranch hands slept in the ranch bunkhouse, a gentrified redbrick building that sat further up the hill Mentor walked towards the large stable, having handed off his daughter to a trusted worker who was wager to give her a tour. The stable held a total of thirty-four stalls and twenty-nine horses, with seventeen lined on either side of the wide longitudinal walk path.

For being what I'm not—approachable, warm, beloved. And I... I just need this break. This moment of peace before I return to being what everyone needs me to be. I turn slightly toward the stable doors, where pale daylight filters through the gray afternoon. The breeze carries the scent of salt and wet earth, half frozen even without rain drumming on the roof. The hay smells sweeter now, damp and golden as summer memories. My boots are already dusted with straw and dark with moisture from the stable floor. My mare nuzzles my sleeve as if sensing my shift in mood, her warm breath ghosting across my wrist.

"C-cole? You named him after yourself?" "Yeah, that's why I got a little annoyed when you called me Cole while we were making love; it felt like you were calling my horse," "Y-you jerk!" I chuckled as I realized the double entendre. I saw another horse of a different color, Ryk, Rex, Watson, Kee, and others. Aiden led Cole out of the stable, and we were now in a vast expanse of land where various activities could be done. The whole area was covered in green Bermuda grass; it seemed perfect for a picnic, with plenty of trees around.

I don’t want any of this. So why does my chest feel tight like I’m holding my breath? Adrian pulls the horse into a turn and rides closer, angling toward the stables. The black horse’s coat gleams like polished obsidian. The saddle tack is immaculate. Of course it is. Everything about Adrian looks like the capital forged him and then forgot to add softness. He slows near the stable yard, the horse’s hooves thudding softly on packed earth. The animal tosses its head once, impatient.

Seventy-six Windy Gate was a small triangular house that resembled a pointed hat, or that appeared as if perhaps there was a larger house under the ground that was beginning to sprout. A hedge of wild roses shielded the neat lawn from the road. At the end of the gravel driveway was a sign, painted purple and green on black, that read THIstLE StuDIo & TEARooM and beckoned passersby to stop in for a visit.

“Aren’t the owners part American Indian or something? Mixed-blood family?” Richard squinted. “I think so, yeah. Place has gotten bigger since I was a kid.” They meandered up to where some horses were hitched to a hay-filled wagon, and a chestnut Shetland pony was saddled and tied onto a carrousel spoke for the children. Blessing met them, a vintage soda-pop bottle in one huge fist. Tommy grinned crookedly at the label: Prickly Pear Cactus Cooler.

A minute later, he says; “it’s an abandoned animal farm called Eat Better Stables about twenty kilometers from here. If we leave now, we should get there before sunrise.” “Alright, let’s go…!” Minutes later, my heart rate is almost sailing through the roof as our driver turns into a dirt road that definitely leads to Eat Better Stables. When the headlights illuminate a broken sign board in the distance beside a wooden gate that’s in even worse state, I know we’ve arrived. “What should we do about the gates, boss? It looks locked.” Grandpa study the rotting wood for a second; “Drive through it.” And the driver does just that, no questions asked.