Aurora brushed her hand against the dusty collection of old porcelain horses each the size of her hand. She brushed the dust from her hand on her pant leg and bent down to observe them closely. Beneath the thick layer of dust she could see infinite detail, the closer she looked the more she could see and the more beautiful they became. Twenty-three wonderfully made horses stood silently in various poses on the small wooden table. Three little foals, each no longer than her thumb and a little over half the height of their respective mother, stood, almost timidly, protected by their mothers. The other twenty were every shape and color imaginable. Deep chestnut browns, creamy whites, purple blacks, shattered white and brown, and vivid red, light grey, and a tentative blue of black and grey and white hairs. They were so life like Aurora could have sworn one blinked. She picked up the largest, a black stallion standing regally at the head of his herd, and wiped the dust off.

"Been a long time since an'one done tha' ta 'im."

Aurora jumped, nearly dropping the porcelain horse. An old man stood beside her holding a beaten and battered broom in one hand and a large box in the other. His scraggly white hair hung in long strands about his face. His face, a strange thing, though old in appearance his face had an ethereal glow of youth.

"Who-who are you?" Aurora asked nervously. The old man laughed.

"Jus' a humble shop keeper trying ta make a livin'." His voice was like church bells on a Sunday morning, ancient yet strong. He stared pointedly at the figure in Aurora's hand. Aurora set it gently on the table and made to walk away.

"Jus' a momen', lass." he said quietly. Something in his voice made her stop. "Yer the first who's dusted 'im off in a good long while."

"Oh?"

"Last lady tha' did didn' wan' em. Lef' em righ' there she did. Ain' nobody touched them since."

"Why?"

"I dunno." The old man looked lovingly at the horses but did not touch the dusty animals.

"Why don't you?" Aurora asked.

"I tried before bu' my fingers don' work like they did. Dropped tha' fella on the ground. Broke his leg clean off. Ain't touched 'em since." He pointed to a horse laying on its side, next to the fallen horse lay half its back left leg. Aurora went to pick him up, paused, looked at the old man. He gestured for her to proceed. She lifted it gently into her palm and brushed the dust away with a thumb. As she did so she noticed wires, thin as a strand of hair, coming from the broken leg.

"What is this?" she asked him.

"Them be wires. These ain' no ordinary porcelain horses. They go' positronic brains in 'em. Like real livin' horses." he paused. "Minus the livin' par'." he added as an afterthought.

"Do they work?" Aurora asked, she was fascinated by the little horses now. Did they really move like real horses?

" 'Course they do! I guarantee their alive righ' now jus' wai'in' ta move! Now, you take 'em home an' clean 'em off an' take good care of 'em." he pushed the box into her hands as soon as she had set down the broken horse and handed her a small box. "This is a repair kit for the broken one. Put 'em all in the box real nice." Aurora obliged and carefully set each individual horse inside the unremarkable wooden box.

"Good, good!" The old man almost skipped toward the door and held it open for Aurora, smiling radiantly.

"Don't I need to pay?"

"Oh no, no, no! They're free. Had 'em so long they ain' no value to me since no one ever wants 'em. Go on. The sooner they're clean the be'er!"

He shut the door quickly behind Aurora leaving her standing in the grey street lined with little shops selling all kinds of goods. She stood there for a minute, perplexed. What a strange man she thought and headed home.

Home was a nondescript brown house with a darker trim, a small tree and garden in the front yard and two older cars that usually sat out front but today they were gone. She silently pushed the white door open.

"Mom? Dad?" she called. No answer. She set the box on the island countertop and began taking the porcelain horses out. Dampening a soft rag she cleaned years' worth of dust from every one of the horses. Soon she had twenty-three gleaming, shining porcelain horses arrayed on the counter. Aurora opened the little box the old man had given her. Inside was a pair of tweezers, thinner than any she had seen, a tiny glue gun, and a small hooked rod.

The broken horse lay on its side, dull and lifeless, unlike the vivid colors of the others. Carefully she attached the wires of the body, colored blue and red, to the leg using the tweezers and glue gun to secure them in place.

While she was working, for the work was long and tedious, she heard a tinkling noise like chimes in a gentle breeze. Aurora looked up from her task and gasped. Walking around on the counter was the black stallion. He walked jerkily as if he hadn't been oiled and his joints squeaked quietly. He nudged another horse bringing it to life with a soft neigh and moved on waking his herd as he went. He looked around as if sensing something was missing then spotted Aurora and the broken horse. He trotted over tossing his mane that did not move. The herd followed, their footfalls ringing like dozens of little bells against the countertop. They stopped in a semicircle around Aurora nickering and pawing the counter, joints squeaking.

"I'll have to find you guys some oil so you can move easier." Aurora said. Several horses bobbed their head in agreement. She laughed. "I'll just finish fixing this one and then I'll see what I can find." she said. Fifteen minutes later she succeeded in gluing the leg back onto the broken horse. She propped it up and waited as the stallion sniffed curiously at his healed herd member then touching his nose brought the horse to life. As the newly repaired horse shook his head the herd neighed and pranced about him, albeit stiffly as their joints were unoiled.

"I'll be right back." Aurora told them and dashed off to her father's shop outside looking for a can of oil. When she returned she found all the horses standing still. The black stallion stood with one foot raised off the ground looking in the direction she had left. They didn't move until she sat down and touched one.

The stallion came forward and sniffed the oil can and snorted holding out one leg. Aurora dropped a tiny little drop of the lubricant onto each of his joints, a process that took fifteen minutes. When she was done he flexed his limbs neighing joyfully. Aurora smiled at his apparent pleasure of being able to move freely. The rest were anxious to be freed of squeaky joints and crowded her hands jostling each other.

"Careful!" Aurora exclaimed. "You'll damage yourselves." After that they stood patiently.

"There!" Aurora exclaimed hours later closing the lid to the bottle. "All done." The black stallion nickered and pranced across the counter his herd following at his heels. The front door opened and they froze.

"I'm home!" Aurora's mom shouted. Aurora jumped from her chair and put the horses into the box. "Did you enjoy your trip to the market?"

"Yes."

"What is this?" Her mom asked peering into the box. She gasped. "Oh, how beautiful! Where did you find them?"

"Just in a little shop. They were free. The guy didn't want them anymore."

"I hoped you thanked him." Aurora's mother said. Aurora paused. She hadn't thought to thank him. He'd seemed so eager to get rid of them she didn't think he wanted a thanks.

"Yeah." she lied.

"Good. I have to make a phone call. Take those downstairs."

"Yes, mom." Aurora said grasping the box. She took it downstairs to her room, set it on her bed and placed the twenty-three porcelain horses on her shelf. As she set them down they sprang to life and explored their new home. Her roo. was sparsely decorated with just her bed, a desk and chair, a dresser, and a few drawings taped to the wall, several books lined the shelf running the perimeter of the room.

Aurora spent the hours before supper finishing homework and listening to the horses as they interacted with one another, their hooves tinkling on the wooden dresser. After a quick meal she raced back down the stairs and found them sleeping. Here and there a horse moved to a more comfortable position but other than that all was still. That night Aurora fell asleep to the soft humming of the horses' mechanics.

...

The next day at school Aurora couldn't stop thinking about them. They invaded her papers, sketched across the blank space between questions. While she was lost in a daydream her paper was ripped from under her hands by a sneering girl. Lindsie.

"What's this?" she demanded thrusting the paper under Aurora's nose.

"Nothing." Aurora muttered. Lindsie sneered.

"It doesn't look like nothing." she said. "The little whelp can't even do her homework right." she said to her posse. They laughed madly.

"Give it back, Lindsie." Aurora held out her hand to receive the paper. Lindsie snatched it away and tore it to pieces. Aurora yelped and tried to stop her but it was too late. Laughing, Lindsie dropped the scraps on the floor and strode off leaving Aurora to clean up the mess.

The rest of the day Aurora was miserable and Lindsie and her friends kept stealing her homework and tearing it to pieces whenever they had the chance, taunting her, and Aurora could do nothing. By the end of the day she was near tears and rushed home throwing herself on her bed crying.

Minutes passed and she felt a slight movement of her bed as if something was crawling on it. She looked up through tear blurred eyes and saw her horses standing on her bed surrounding her. The stallion, whom she had named Killian, stood a few inches from her nose. He nuzzled her nose and nickered softly telling her everything would be all right.

Aurora burst into fresh tears. "I hate her! She's a horrid person. I wish she didn't exist!" Killian cocked his head quizzically as if asking her who.

"Lindsie! She's just awful to me. And her little friends that follow her everywhere. Why can't they just vanish off the face of the Earth?"

Killian whinnied softly. The horses began crooning softly, a sweet melody that soothed Aurora as she slept away the hurt.

...

A tinkling sound woke her. Her horses were walking sluggishly along the dresser top as if tired. Their hooves seemed to be coated in a red paint but when she blinked it disappeared. The alarm blared loudly. Time for school.

All day Aurora waited for Lindsie to taunt her but it never happened. In fact she didn't even see the bully. She came home in high spirits.

"Hi, Mom!" she called from the doorway and raced into the kitchen for a snack.

"You seem happy." her mother noted dryly turning the page of her newspaper.

"I am." Aurora said.

"Hmm... Honey,"

"Yes?"

"Do you know Lindsie Sayler?"

"Yes..."

"Says here she and several girls were found dead in her house last night about eight o' clock. Died from thousands of puncture wounds." her mom read. Aurora froze.

"Oh?"

"Rather unfortunate. Didn't she used to bully you?"

"Used to." Aurora muttered to herself. Before her mom could speak she raced downstairs. When she opened her door the porcelain horses neighed shrilly in greeting. Aurora ignored them and looked at her carpet. There, in a long red line, were tiny hoof prints leading up to her dresser.

**********************************

Let's begin with a note written three years after this short story made it onto paper and Wattpad as I am sitting in a college dorm room looking back on my previous works and cringing. I refuse to take these early works down because I believe too few beginning writers really get to see the progression of skill in writing and because of that, they may think they'll never amount to anything, they'll never be comparable to the great writers of the past.

Personally, I believe it is wrong to compare writers.

Why?

What is the one thing you've been told over and over again? Maybe you struggled with it in middle school and still do?

We like to compare ourselves to other people.

And that's just not healthy. 

So why compare your writing to someone else's?

You will develop. You will get better. Writing takes time just like growing up takes time(please enjoy your young years, adulting sucks). 

So, as you read through these pieces, consider them not as individual pieces written over the years, but a whole, a single story of how one can develop through patience, love, and dedication. 

Consider that all writers came from a first draft.