Hannah Wyble, NE

Senior Writer

Writers are born, not made. At four-years-old, Hannah was given her first journal and pen, both of which became an instrument in her hands. Twenty-six journals later, along with countless professional writing projects, she has found that her passion lies in taking the abstract and making it come alive on paper. Throughout her professional career, she has written countless articles, crafted over two dozen personalized narratives for refugee families, and has worked as a ghostwriter for an international autobiographical company.

As a Story Terrace writer, Hannah interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below.

Horse Camp

Soft rays of sunlight warmed the back of my hair as I stood, frozen, in the field behind the barn. Standing twenty feet in front of me was a spotted pony, it’s cream coat speckled in hues of black, brown, and gray. My heart beat hard inside my chest, and I knew that now was my moment.

As quiet as a church mouse, I tiptoed over to where he was grazing on the glistening, green grass. Talking in a hushed voice, I reached out, tenderly touched his mane and told him, “I’m going to ride you.”

A voice of caution rang in my head and told me that it was not a good idea to try to ride a horse with no saddle or bridle, but I dismissed that notion. I had to do this. Grabbing hold of his neck, I pushed up suddenly and swung my leg around his back. He jolted quickly and I almost lost my balance! However, I caught myself and leaned forward, my arms wrapped tightly around him.

Grinning, I felt the wind in my hair as he trotted across the field, nothing between us but the air and sunshine of the day. He was a free horse, bound by no restrictive leather and metal, and I was a free child, riding a horse the way they were meant to be ridden. The same way the ancestors of long ago road horses, with trust resonating between rider and steed. With my legs pressing against one side of his belly and then the other, he followed my directions and we became as one.

“Hannah, where are you?”

A voice called from a distance and I recognized it as my father’s. Horse camp had just dismissed ten minutes ago, and it was time for me to leave the only place where I felt like I truly belonged. Perhaps in a previous life I was a pony; frolicking across soft meadows and enjoying the freedom to go where I pleased.

Frowning, I thought to myself that my dad would hardly accept that answer as to why I was keeping him waiting. Leaning forward I hugged the beautiful, gentle giant, then swung myself off his back.

“I’ll come back,” I told him, and then I turned my back and walked towards the front of the barn.

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