Mental's 100 one-shot challenge. Posting welcome!

[Rising]

This is my 100 one-shot challenge. The challenge is to write 100 stand-alone short stories each on a theme. Here is the main thread for this challenge. viewtopic.php?f=57&t=2583524
I decided to join because it looked like a fun way to improve writing without being under too much pressure. That said, I would really love and value any and all critique on my stories. So posting is open.
I've just finished the second one. Two in a day ain't bad. What are your thoughts?
The themes are:
Injured -Complete!
Sinking -Complete!
Father
Exploit
Boredom
Art of Conversation
Take your Best Shot
Creativity
Flash
Puzzling Words
Ill
Skeleton
Nothing
Servitude
Possibilities
Weightless
Just Say It
Last Words
Immature
Blazing
Help
Presence
Because
Forced
Reversed
Cast Away
Emotions
Questions
Wishing
Crackling
Curl Up
Together
Look Again
Brief
Space
Special
Jinx
Stop Fussing
Cozy
Breaking
Either Or
Tell Me a Story
Waiting
Willpower
Who Am I?
Idol
Unseen
Just Try
For Me?
Your Choice! (You got to 50!)
Useful
Treasure
Ceremony
Lightning
Protection
Stay With Me
Mint
Rescue
Dominant
Thief
Deserter
Stolen
Sarcasm
Darling
How Much is too Much?
Over
Try Again
Hidden
Forgotten
The First Time
Aging
Soldiers
Justice
Tread Carefully
One False Step
Connection
Mess
It Can't Be
In Due Time
Awake
Delicious
Fallen
Trickery
Around the Bend
Well Traveled
Choices
Surplus
Rough
If
Friend
Found Not Lost
Spiral
Deep
I Could Have
Desirable
Resentment
Build Up
Inch by Inch
Dilemma
Blue Sky

[Rising]

Injured.

Sometimes you can’t slow down. Don’t stop, keep flowing, push on, you’ve survived.
bbbbbbOther times it takes every bit of gut and sinew to keep you from dropping out. When every nerve of your body is screaming at you not to do it, but you carry on anyway because it’s still better than facing the shame. It’s as if there are miniature grappling hooks shooting out of your eyes, digging in then slowly rewinding, winching you in when you would otherwise have long since fled.
bbbbbbLike when you’re cantering towards a massive bank on your pony, surrounded by people with far more experience. You know they don’t expect you to make it, especially when your mount is only 13:2 but you go on and do it just to give them a wake-up call, show them what you’re made of. Then congratulations, you’ve earned their respect.

I’ve been jumping for two years now, always on Huw. He’s the only pony I’ve ever owned, a small grey ball of energy who could easily carry twice my weight. I’m the one who holds him back. I know I’ve gained a lot of confidence but sometimes I just can’t handle the thought of that tree trunk galloping towards us, ready to catch his legs and flip the pair of us into the dirt. I used to be constantly yanking him away at the last minute but I stopped doing that about a year ago. I decided I couldn’t bear the disappointment in his eyes. So he is much happier now and I live in a permanent state of terror.
bbbbbbThat’s a gross exaggeration. I’m fine with jumps up to about 2’6’’ high and so is Huw. He doesn’t start to struggle until nearly four feet, by which time I’m ready to dig my own grave. But we survive.

Until the show.

I’m going to be competing against adults. I’ve had my 16th birthday – just! Which means goodbye safe little neat courses, hello open jumping. I just know I’m going to have the smallest mount there. It’s a good thing I’m so light because much as I love Huw, I do feel humiliatingly huge on him.
bbbbbbNow I’m standing in the collecting ring and so far nothing under 15 hands has been round. There hasn’t been a clear round yet either. The one spark of hope for me is that the course is set on a downhill slope which most of them seem to be taking very slowly. Huw’s had plenty of practice at downhill canters, most of them without my consent. Maybe this won’t be so bad?
They’re calling my number but Huw won’t budge. He’s staring out over the ropes into the watching crowd, obviously captivated by something. A mare in heat? I go to give him a tap with my stick and...
bbbbbbOh God, Oh God. Whatever he saw must have been horrible. He is careening wildly across the field and I can’t stop him, can’t hold him, what to do, what to do? If I don’t get him through the starting post soon we’ll be disqualified.
bbbbbbOk, we’re passing the start. Haul that left rein. We’re through. He isn’t slowing down. Head for the first jump then, and pray. Here it comes.
Wow. He flew over it. Next one, then a sharp right hand corner and we’re on the downhill part. He is still cantering like a wolf is after his hide. Here’s the huge one. A great big mountain of poles with a row of traffic cones underneath. Who designed it? Oh my God, we’re going to crash it. No...
bbbbbbHe took off much too early and I’m forcing myself off his neck but we’re still in one piece. And something amazing has happened. The spectators in one great mass are cheering me on, yelling out advice and words of encouragement. I catch a word from one young boy as I pass the entrance to the ring.
bbbbbb‘Go on the midget!’ he cries. And I’m going. Boy am I trying hard. Huw is starting to pant but it’s his energised pant, the huffy and puffy sort. He’ll last a while yet. I’m almost starting to enjoy this now that I’ve got my balance back. I know less than half the competitors have gone but I must confess I’m starting to have wild thoughts. Dreams of winning this contest, of hearing the crowd go wild for us. Of creating a new respect for the Small Pony.

Last jump. I squeeze Huw onwards, not that he needs it, Bless him!
Then suddenly the world is turning. Everything goes black for a second and then the cold, cold mud is seeping through my cheeks and Huw is scrambling to his feet several yards away from me. The jump lies in pieces like shrapnel all around.

It turned out that we had taken off too soon. Needless to say, we didn’t get placed and if I hadn’t squeezed him it might never have happened. But Huw lived to jump another day and as for me?

Only my pride was injured.

[Rising]

Sinking.

‘I only killed him for my grandmother.’

These words played and looped through my head, incessant as a swarm of flies as I watched the body sinking under the mud. I had carted it here on this sweltering summer day because I knew the heat would keep the neighbours housebound. No watchful eyes had tracked me to this neck of the woods. Now I had disposed of it, swung it into the still pool like an old rag doll. It would never swim again, that was for sure.
bbbbbbThe heavy splash had been punctuated by a staccato quacking as a few mallards rose up from the edge. Then nothing, save the lazy buzzing of a bee inside a foxglove’s velvet cup. The river was barely flowing, depleted so much by the sun a few miles further north. It lapped resonantly at the muddied banks as the cadaver drifted down, a rotten leaf in a breeze of cool green waters. The thick chocolate silt on the riverbed parted and it sank in further. I watched a crayfish scuttle through the shallows and vanish and when I turned back to my unfortunate charge it was gone, save one limb waving pathetically in the deep.
bbbbbbThe heat was still building. I mopped the sweat from my brow with the old handkerchief inherited from my great-granddad, which still bore the paint stains from when he redecorated the living room. The William Morris wallpaper remained a legacy to his tastes, though Grandma hadn’t shared his enthusiasm for the bright blue skirting-board and had stripped it after his death.
bbbbbbSurely, I had done the right thing?

As I walked back home my shirt clung to my back like a moist second skin. I was wading through the air, the temperature spiralling out of control. Wavering lines hovered over the dusty lane and a basking slowworm hurried out of my way. I was desperately thirsty. When at last our road appeared, a shimmering mirage in the glowing world, I could have sung for joy. But my throat was much too parched.

I pushed open the door with the horseshoe hung over it, scraping the dry muck off my boots as I went. Grandma was sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth, where she had become a landmark, a permanent fixture that didn’t care whether the fire was alight or not. Her legs were so weak now that she remained stationary for hours at a time, sometimes days if she was really bad.

‘Joseph.’
‘Grandma.’
‘Where have you been? It’s a desert out there; I can see the heat waves from here.’
‘I’ve been preparing for your 100th Birthday party, Grandma.’

A white lie. Not one I could pull off without guilt, but after all, I was going to buy her birthday present in the next day or so. Besides, she was sure to be thankful for what I had done, not that she’d ever know of my role in it of course.

‘I can’t believe I’ll really be 100! It seems so peculiar to think there are only 70 years between us after all. I sometimes feel we have nothing in common these days. Oh, I am looking forward to it. You know how much I love walnut cake, and the chance to reconnect with old friends.’

She paused. Seeing her so engrossed in these pleasurable thoughts made me regret my excuse even more. I had to compensate for this somehow, truth be told I was concerned that it could be the last thing I ever did for her. I knew how badly she had wanted to reach 100 but what if the expectation didn’t live up to the reality? Would she die?
bbbbbbShe sighed, retracting further into her cushioned chair.

‘It’s so peaceful today. Thank the Lord that dog has finally gone quiet. Now I can enjoy the birdsong again, that constant barrage of yapping was so wearing.’

‘Yes, the quiet is much better.’

What would she think of me if she knew where the dog was now? When I did it, I was so convinced of the rightness of my acts that I didn’t give the matter enough consideration. The dog had to go and that was the end of the matter. Would she really have approved? She might be enjoying the quiet but she was always a devout Christian. What did they preach to her exactly? Did her Church advocate kindness and mercy to all animals? Would she eventually have forgiven the dog for the hours of torment it put us through?

It was never going to speak again.

Well there was no point brooding on it. I went out again, this time I really did go to get her a birthday present. The sky was darkening, the Scarlet Pimpernels had clamped up their tiny petals and I was drenched with sweat before I had gone a hundred yards. As I walked round the corner, a crudely taped ‘Missing’ poster on a lamppost caught my eye.

The storm broke as I returned. By now, the picture had appeared on every post along the length of the lane. The familiar hairy face, tongue lolling. Rain drops came down thick and furious, mingling with the tears running down my face.

Out there, somewhere, the dog was still sinking.