This is a creative writing final which was re-edited after the critique. It is now much shorter than the original and compact.

THE SIXTH BULL
By Lenafan


Maria was in the small chapel praying. She ended it with “Holy Mother of God,
forgive my sins and have mercy on my soul.” She stood up, and faced her caudrilla, her picadors, banderilleros, and Tio Ricardo, her best friend and manager. They stared back at her, Chiquita de Toros Negros, the junior matador on the program at Las Ventas in Madrid. She knew they wondered if she still had it in her after the goring she took in the left thigh. It happened in Valencia two months ago. The wind flipped the muleta at her the minute the bull charged. It was relatively minor, but still, she had tasted the horn. Now, the question in their minds was, could she be as courageous as she was before the accident.
Maria Carrena grinned. “Such long faces. We have work to do.” She passed by them and out the door. The noise of the crowds pouring into the famous bullring seemed immense after the quiet in the chapel. She looked at Ricardo and motioned him to join her. They gathered about in a corner of the chapel’s courtyard.
“Tell me about the bulls.” She said.
“They are from Espana. One is big, but cowardly. You will have to work very hard to get him to charge. The other is a monster, at least 1700 pounds.”
“Will he charge?”
“Yes, but how well I don’t know. There is not enough room in the pens to see much.”
“Muy bien, I want the cowardly one first” She looked at her men. “I want you to do your jobs. Pics in the hump and no place else. Sticks where I tell you. Do not try to protect me. I will do the best I can.” She smiled at them reassuringly. “How much longer?” She wore no watch into the ring.
“Ten minutes,” answered Ricardo.
Maria leaned her back to the wall. She was dressed in her black Andalusian outfit: black pants, white shirt, black brocaded jacket, a red string tie, black flat-heeled boots and the flat-topped Andalusian hat. She made a striking figure opposite the gaudy outfits of her banderilleros who were dressed in the traditional traje de luces, Suits of lights, both in a pale blue cloth, with brocaded silver decorations.
She was tall, at five-foot nine. Her dark brown hair, which ordinarily hung shoulder length, was braided into a single pigtail. She looked a lot like her mother, Isabella, who was of Castilian blood. They both had pale golden skin.
“Damn those Espana bulls,” she thought. These bulls were trouble. They had a bad reputation, having killed ten matadors over the last three years. They were big and cowardly. She wondered how the owner managed to coerce the impresario to feature them at this corrida. She wished they were bulls from her father’s ranch.
Manuel “Chiquito” Carrena, a famous matador until his retirement, raised his fighting Toros Negros bulls with such joy that made it a pleasure to visit his ranch. When Maria was three, her father put her in the saddle in front of him and they rode out to inspect the bulls. When she turned six, she had her own horse and rode beside him. To watch her father at work in the testing ring made Maria want to do the same. Her parents did not encourage any of their children to take up the profession, and would have been horrified if they knew their only daughter wanted to be a bullfighter.
Maria was a sponge. She learned everything about bulls, their breeding, and their tendencies. She often went out with only Tio Ricardo, her father’s confidant and manager when he was a successful matador. He told her everything about the bulls and she never forgot any of it. She learned every pass with the cape and the muleta, the red serge used to set the bull up. She practiced hard and took every opportunity when her parents were not around to use the testing ring to get the feel of what it was like. Ricardo, who knew she wanted to be a bullfighter, decided he had to make sure she knew how to take care of herself. He took her to small fairs and had her fight a few times in a novillada, a small fight with bulls that were not expensive, but always dangerous.
She had finally confessed to her parents that she was going to become a matadora. They were shocked, having had no idea her passion for the bulls had developed into a passion for bullfighting. Maria was twenty-one when she told them she had already been in several small rings and was ready to move up. Manuel wanted to fire Ricardo, but Isabella vetoed that. Ricardo would be the one to keep their daughter safe as he had done for Manuel.
As Chiquita de Toros Negros, Maria had fought three years without injury. She had told her father that she would fight just four years. She would save her money and invest it just as he had done. Then two months ago, she was gored. She recuperated at the ranch and now, here she was standing in the toril, the tunnel that led out into the ring. All of the participants, from matadors to bulls, came down the tunnel to learn their fate, be it triumphs over death – or just ignominious death and disgrace.
The band played. Then the trumpet sounded and the players entered the ring in the prescribed order. They made their obeisance to the Presidente. The ring cleared. Horses and picadors moved back down the tunnel to await their signal. Matadors and their banderilleros moved behind the fence to watch the entry of the enemy, the bulls, one at a time.
The first two bulls were nothing special and neither were the two matadors who quickly accomplished their task without grace or spectacle. Maria had done her part with as much grace as she could. She could feel she was a little rusty, especially with the cape. Then it was time for the third bull.
Ricardo was right. That bull was cowardly and she had to work. Her rhythm was still off and the performance lacked her customary smoothness and excitement. She was disgusted with not only herself, but with the bull. She dispatched him without emotion. There were three bulls to go.
It was late, almost five thirty, when the gate opened and Escorpion trotted into the ring. Some of the crowd had been making its way to the exits. They saw the bull and immediately turned around and sat down. The bull was red and was easily the biggest one seen in Las Ventas for years. One of her men ran out to catch his attention. The bull turned and charged, skidding to a stop when the man disappeared around the burladero, the short fence in front of the fenced aisle that ran around the ring. Then another of Maria’s men leapt out from behind another burladero and ran across the ring, dragging the cape behind him. Escorpion charged straight at him crashing into the fence so hard it splintered. The crowd roared its approval. Maria was mesmerized. He was a flag bull, a straight charging monster.
Later, Maria tried to remember everything she did that incredible late Sunday afternoon. Bits and pieces of the fight flitted through her mind like shadows without substance. She had performed one of those once in a lifetime fights, a ballet between Man and beast. She took her cape and stepped out. She danced the cape, swirling it in serpentine flows in front of his nose, and ended with it wrapped around her body. Perfect veronicas and mariposas that were slower and lower passes than the others she performed earlier. She led Escorpion past her time after time. She heard nothing. She focused on the charging bull until, when the trumpet sounded the next act, she and the bull were so wrapped up in their “dance” neither heard it until the picadors rode into the ring.
She caped the big bull into the center, facing the first picador. His flanks heaved. She ordered the picadors to place their pics only into the hump. Maria expected them to follow orders. They did their job. The other two matadors took the bull away from the horses after each picador performed his task. The second trumpet sounded.
“The sticks!” shouted someone from behind the fence.
She waved her men off and picked up a pair of the bright paper-decorated sticks with barbed hooks at one end called banderillas. Escorpion charged. She ran. When they met, she jumped, planting the sticks on either side of his hump, using the thrusting movement to pivot away from his horns. She placed two more sets. Blood curled down his withers to the ground. The red bull shook himself to rid his hump of the irritating sticks. The aficionados screamed with excitement.
The horn sounded again. It was time for the muleta, the red serge flag the matador used to get the bull ready for the final act. Maria’s heart pounded with excitement. Escorpion again stood in the center of the ring, his back to her, staring at the crowd, his flanks heaving from the exertion. It was time to dedicate this brave bull.
Carrying the muleta in her left hand next to her chest, she removed her hat while looking for the owner of Espana. Suddenly, another familiar face caught her attention. Stunned, she smiled. It was her father. This was the first time he had seen her fight. Fear for her safety usually kept him at home, waiting for a phone call from Tio Ricardo to tell him she was not injured.
“For my father, Chiquito!” She tossed her hat to him, as the fans looked to see who it was. As soon as he was recognized, they began to shout his name and clap their approval.
Maria moved out into the ring. “Hey, hey torrrrooo!” She stood, profiled to the massive bull, shaking the muleta to attract his attention.
She began the final act with a pase de pecho, the chest pass. As Escorpion charged straight at her, she slowly lifted the muleta straight up and over his massive back. His right horn missed her by an inch. He turned. Now, again profiled to Escorpion, she did the casbeza a rabo, she moved the muleta from his head to his tail, without moving her feet, and ending with an inside pivot to take him by her again. The passes and his charging never quite made it in sequential order in her mind. Blood covered his withers; his blood covered her costume as she passed him close time after time. Escorpion was magnificent.
Standing behind the fence, Ricardo could hardly breathe. He had never seen such a bull in his forty-eight years of living and breathing fighting bulls. He had managed Chiquito in some spectacular fights. Putting him opposite worthy four-footed opponents and seeing him triumph every time. Chiquito had been graceful, courageous, and fearless. His daughter was every bit his equal. Armed with the muleta and wooden sword, Maria was doing things he had not seen done for a very long time.
A trickle of sweat found its way down the side of his face as he watched the dance on the sand. Maria was captivating everyone in the stands with her fearless, courageous, and beautiful work with the muleta. He watched the bull carefully. It was going to be soon. The bull had been out there a good fifteen minutes. He was learning fast. Maria exchanged the wooden sword for the real one. She left the fence and walked slowly back out into ring where Escorpion waited.
“Tiempo,” he shouted. “Time, Maria.” Then something made him turn around.
“Indulto”! The cry came from somewhere in the upper seats. “Indulto!” and it was louder this time. More voices shouting.
Maria faced the bull, who charged again. She pulled him by her with a left- handed pass. Maria could feel herself tiring and knew she must finish him quickly. Escorpion was a brave bull, the bravest she had ever faced. As she stood watching him, the muleta in her left hand, the sword in her right, she checked the alignment of his feet.
Suddenly, she heard the cry, “Indulto!” She looked up briefly. The seats behind the ring were flooded with white handkerchiefs waving toward the President. The fans were standing now, screaming. She kept her eyes on the bull. He stood a few feet in front of her, his head lowered, but stilled by the muleta, which was motionless.
The trumpet sounded. The Presidente agreed and pardoned the bull. He would live. Maria lifted her sword and saluted him. The gates opened and steers trotted in, surrounding Escorpion. He moved placidly with them as they left the ring.
Maria saluted the President and then her joyful father, who was ecstatic with pride in his daughter. It had been a bullfight of a lifetime. Never would anyone present witness such a fight again. The odds against it were astronomical.
As she took a turn around the ring, flowers, half-filled botas, hats were flying onto the sand. Some fans from the sunny side, some half drunk, came jumping down from their seats. They picked her up and carried her again around the ring. No one left. Cameras were clicking. Then Chiquito came down to meet his daughter. The fans hoisted him up and took him around the ring with his daughter.
At last, when it was over and the ring emptied, Maria and her father stood quietly in the center of the ring looking at each other. Ricardo stood near by grinning.
“I am finished. This was my last fight,” she said to him. “There is nothing I could ever do to match this one.”

OLE! Muy bien!
lenafan...
It's not just the way you put words together that amazes me, but it's the time, effort and research you did to make your story genuine and interesting.
It's as if you sincerely and honestly experienced a bullfight yourself!
Muchas gracias!
EspionageFan :ph43r:

incredible

I loved every sentence of this one!!

this story kept me in its trance --good language

I felt the sunday afternoon sun smelled the sand; heard the crowd etc

Good work

Brenda