20/08/2025
I work with several students who struggle with reading and writing. So producing longer text based work is a huge challenge.
This morning I worked with a young man on how to use AI to assist. The essence of the story is his (the events are based on events he recently experienced so I could verify them) but he used AI to formulate his thoughts into a story. Something he really struggles with and which would usually produce about 5 stilted phrases and much resistance.
This is not always a suitable tool. But for the task I set it's been perfect. And the ego boost has been worth it too.
"The Groom at Faurismith"
The morning mist still clung to the fields when Oliver stepped off the bus, a worn leather duffel slung over one shoulder. Tall and quiet, with tousled brown hair and soft brown eyes, he paused at the old wooden sign just off the gravel road:
FAURISMITH ESTATE — BREEDERS & TRAINERS SINCE 1823
He swallowed hard, heart thudding in his chest. The estate was more sprawling than it had looked in the pictures — acres of green pastures lined with stone fences, stables standing like cathedrals of wood and iron. It was his first day.
Oliver wasn’t the type to draw attention. At 21, he'd learned to keep his voice low, his movements calm. People called him shy, sometimes even distant, but he just didn’t waste words. Animals, especially horses, never seemed to mind.
He’d grown up around stables, first cleaning hooves and stalls for pocket change, then slowly learning the rhythm of the job — when to push, when to hold back, when to just listen. He hadn’t gone to school for it, didn’t have a fancy résumé. But he had something better: feel. That quiet, invisible thread of understanding between horse and human. And somehow, that had earned him a shot at Faurismith.
Waiting for him by the tack room was Marla, the head groom — sharp-eyed, silver hair tied back, hands calloused from years in the trade.
“You Oliver?” she asked, looking him up and down like she was sizing up a c**t.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re taller than I expected,” she muttered. “Shy too, by the look of you.”
He gave a small shrug. “I just like to listen more than talk.”
That earned him a small, grudging nod. “We’ll see how that works here. You’re on stall duty for now — start with Maple. Broodmare. Moody. She’s been giving everyone hell.”
Oliver didn’t flinch. He’d handled worse. And besides, he wasn’t here to impress anyone. He was here to work.
Maple was a fiery chestnut with a sharp eye and quicker hooves. She pinned her ears when Oliver entered, but he didn’t back off. He stood just inside the stall, hands by his sides, and waited.
“Morning,” he murmured after a few minutes, voice barely above the sound of the wind outside. “I’m not here to rush you.”
No sudden movements. No halter yet. Just presence. Patience.
By the end of the morning, she was letting him brush her neck — tense, but curious. She hadn't bitten, kicked, or bolted. For Maple, that was practically affectionate.
Marla passed by, did a double take, then kept walking without a word. That was as good as praise.
The days fell into a quiet rhythm. Up before dawn, first to the feed bins, last out of the stable. Oliver never raised his voice, never boasted. But horses calmed when he entered the barn. The c**ts followed him like dogs. Even Valiant, the old stud with a mean streak, let Oliver clean his hooves without a fuss.
The other grooms — loud, fast-talking types — didn’t quite know what to make of him. Some ignored him. Others started to watch. Quietly.
And slowly, word spread through the stable: the new boy's got hands like silk and a heart horses trust.
Oliver never cared much about that. What mattered to him was the work. The small wins. A flick of an ear. A nudge of a muzzle. A hoof placed gently instead of stomped down in panic.
Each day, walking through the early mist toward the barns, Oliver felt it growing — not pride, exactly, but a sense of belonging. Like he’d stepped into a story that had been waiting for him all along.
And here, at Faurismith, among the horses and the silence, Oliver was finally beginning to be heard — in the language that had always made the most sense to him.
The morning mist still clung to the fields when Oliver stepped off the bus, a worn leather duffel slung over one shoulder. Tall and quiet, with tousled brown hair and soft brown eyes, he paused at the old wooden sign just off the gravel road:
FAURISMITH ESTATE — BREEDERS & TRAINERS SINCE 1823
He swallowed hard, heart thudding in his chest. The estate was more sprawling than it had looked in the pictures — acres of green pastures lined with stone fences, stables standing like cathedrals of wood and iron. It was his first day.
Oliver wasn’t the type to draw attention. At 21, he'd learned to keep his voice low, his movements calm. People called him shy, sometimes even distant, but he just didn’t waste words. Animals, especially horses, never seemed to mind.
He’d grown up around stables, first cleaning hooves and stalls for pocket change, then slowly learning the rhythm of the job — when to push, when to hold back, when to just listen. He hadn’t gone to school for it, didn’t have a fancy résumé. But he had something better: feel. That quiet, invisible thread of understanding between horse and human. And somehow, that had earned him a shot at Faurismith.
Waiting for him by the tack room was Marla, the head groom — sharp-eyed, silver hair tied back, hands calloused from years in the trade.
“You Oliver?” she asked, looking him up and down like she was sizing up a c**t.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re taller than I expected,” she muttered. “Shy too, by the look of you.”
He gave a small shrug. “I just like to listen more than talk.”
That earned him a small, grudging nod. “We’ll see how that works here. You’re on stall duty for now — start with Maple. Broodmare. Moody. She’s been giving everyone hell.”
Oliver didn’t flinch. He’d handled worse. And besides, he wasn’t here to impress anyone. He was here to work.
Maple was a fiery chestnut with a sharp eye and quicker hooves. She pinned her ears when Oliver entered, but he didn’t back off. He stood just inside the stall, hands by his sides, and waited.
“Morning,” he murmured after a few minutes, voice barely above the sound of the wind outside. “I’m not here to rush you.”
No sudden movements. No halter yet. Just presence. Patience.
By the end of the morning, she was letting him brush her neck — tense, but curious. She hadn't bitten, kicked, or bolted. For Maple, that was practically affectionate.
Marla passed by, did a double take, then kept walking without a word. That was as good as praise.
The days fell into a quiet rhythm. Up before dawn, first to the feed bins, last out of the stable. Oliver never raised his voice, never boasted. But horses calmed when he entered the barn. The c**ts followed him like dogs. Even Valiant, the old stud with a mean streak, let Oliver clean his hooves without a fuss.
The other grooms — loud, fast-talking types — didn’t quite know what to make of him. Some ignored him. Others started to watch. Quietly.
And slowly, word spread through the stable: the new boy's got hands like silk and a heart horses trust.
Oliver never cared much about that. What mattered to him was the work. The small wins. A flick of an ear. A nudge of a muzzle. A hoof placed gently instead of stomped down in panic.
Each day, walking through the early mist toward the barns, Oliver felt it growing — not pride, exactly, but a sense of belonging. Like he’d stepped into a story that had been waiting for him all along.
And here, at Faurismith, among the horses and the silence, Oliver was finally beginning to be heard — in the language that had always made the most sense to him.
