David wrote this for a Housefire book that's coming out. They gave him the title and then he wrote the story.
A String of Pony
By David Drury
When the Indians killed a buffalo, they used the whole buffalo. What, are you bragging with that? Do you want a cookie? No. You have one. And it tastes like a buffalo.
When Mr. Standish, the butcher, put down Mrs. Prancey-Fance (madness, blindness, phantom kicking), I can’t speak to just how much of our family’s cherished pony he used in the rendering process, but at least 250 yards of her were wound into the finest pink kite string this side of paradise. String is less insulting than glue, but still. Of little comfort to me was the fact that any Indian would be proud of the strong yet lightweight equine twine. If flying kites was something Indians do, but they don’t. At least not that I’ve seen in any pictures.
How shall I describe it? Pony string is sinewy and rigid, but light as like the halo of an angel. Ever wonder about the tough pink skin encircling a circle of baloney? Pony. Reach back and wing a slice of THAT across a school cafeteria. It’ll sail on you, man. God did not make anything in a circle like that, by the way. That is a PERSON who made it. From pony. Have you ever heard an expression, “Riding the baloney pony?” The internet at the church library believes that it means that you have eaten a WHOLE LOT of baloney, so much so that it is akin to being carried away, say, on a literal pony. To my surprise, my sister was a big fan of this manner of baloney consumption, according to close friends and graffiti.
I wouldn’t have known anything about Mrs. Prancey-Fance’s repurposing, but that I was riding my bicycle on the paved trail at the park a week later. I felt a sudden burning sensation across my neck and was thrown to the ground. Kids were pointing and laughing. I clawed at my throat. I had been clotheslined—with kite string. It was none other than Elmer Standish, son of the butcher who stood clutching that greasy spool of pink string? I was seized with the nearly decapitating truth—pony. Elmer saw the look on my face and swallowed hard. But when the laughs and taunts of the other boys continued, His heart hardened. He flexed his control over my weakness inside this new moment of truth-fueled grief. Elmer began to sneer and delight in the power. He tugged on the string, such that the kite danced high above us, taunting me, held aloft on dead pony dreams and wind.
I raced home on a mission of revenge. I found my father’s hedge clippers and tucked them under one arm. I raced back, salivating when I saw that kite on the horizon, still bobbing above the trees. I made a pass on the paved trail and snipped clean through that string. Elmer and his buddies gasped. The liberated kite shuddered and sailed off across the park, string waving behind it. Elmer and his buddies scrambled onto their bikes and gave chase. And as the kite and her string sailed over the pond, across the road, and down into town, I waved and whispered, “Goodbye Mrs. Prancey-Fance.” And I swear that the kite whinnied in response, tossing away sadness with the flick of its mane. And the kite did not float or fly, but only pranced down the avenues on glittery hooves, over rooftops and barns, galloping toward a heaven I had never believed in until now.