Sport of Kings

This is Chloe. If you follow horse racing at all, you’ve probably heard of Chloellante of Samothrace. She had fifteen first-place wins in a single season, and naturally attracted a lot of media coverage.

The media enjoys painting us as demons, a “threat to the noble sport.” At the end of our first winning season, the authorities passed regulations and closed the loophole, to make sure Chloe would never race again.

We took advantage an omission in the rules. The rulebooks of thoroughbred racing never explicitly limited the field to members of the species Equus ferus caballus (domestic horses).

In theory, you could enter a thoroughbred horse race with a Plains zebra, or a European ass, or any of dozens of other branches of the family Equus. No one ever has because few of those sub-species are fully domesticated (and most aren’t terribly fast). You can’t blame the rule-writers for having a blind spot, who would want to enter a donkey in a horse race?

I’m sorry Chloe is so much faster than their finest horses. How could they predict a Pegasus would dominate their sport?

Next year, I’m going to try Cerberus in a greyhound race.

197 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

One of my sister’s horses. This was just after she rescued it and it was heavily in foal at the time.

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Caught in the act

“John? It’s two A.M.?”

Alt-Tab! She glowered in the doorway, arms folded.

“I was j-just…”

“Porn.” Her scowl deepened, storm warning now level five.

You have no choice. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court!

Alt-Tab. “A cruise site?”

“Happy anniversary.”

Great time for Marguaritas

The colony ship dropped out of hyperspace and the ship’s artificial intelligence HARRY4000 released the crew from coldsleep as planned. Flight crew first, then the science specialist monkeys.

First on the agenda was analyzing the probe images from the terraforming robots. Several petabytes of accumulated readings awaited review, from the first robot landing right up to this moment.

Captain Johnson pulled up the first image.

“Looks like the robots did a good job setting up base camp. Snowdrifts, we’re going to need parkas.”

“No, Bill, see the temperature reading? Mean of 79°C, humidity zero—those drifts aren’t snow. That’s salt.”

100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT – © Douglas M. MacIlroy

Beer Here

Morty needed a better press agent. That stupid poem kept appearing in reprint after reprint, no matter how many letters he submitted to editors, or his frequent pleading with his solicitors for a cease-and-desist order.

“I’ve never whiffled or burbled in my life. For damn sure there aren’t any beamish boys toting my head anywhere, with or without flaming eye sockets. How is a jabberwocky supposed to clear his tulgey woods of the snicker-snack of vorpal swords?”

“Ludicrous,” replied Claude, “As silly as creating your own adjectives. ‘Frumious,’ my frabjous arse. We should’ve sued the pants off that guy clear back in the nineteenth century.” The Bandersnatch popped a cold one for the Jubjub bird.

“Could be worse, how large a behind would you need to make a proper galumph?” Ernie was philosophical about the whole thing. “At least you’re maxome, Morty.”

“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Morty replied sardonically. He sharpened his teeth on a nearby Tumtum tree, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Whatever happened to that Carroll kid, anyway?”

“I heard he got himself gimbled by a hunting Snark.”

Claude mimsied considerably at that thought and cried, “Brew me,” slything his claws to snatch.

200 words. Inspired by the last two Sunday Photo Fiction prompts combined. And, of course, by Jabberwocky.

Pewter dragon ornament

 

copyright – Hannah Duncan

 

Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration

Bessie ambled at a clop while I waved at the state fair spectators. She bolted in terror at a loud noise and I fought for control. When the carriage overturned, I ended in the hospital. Velocity doesn’t hurt.

It’s the sudden stop.

Bridging the past

This bridge is a balm for my soul. My quiet place, where I can come and watch the sunrise, where the spring breeze dances over the water and touches my hair and face with gentle fingertips just after dawn. This bridge is where I find sanctuary.

My morning jogs often bring me here—a tiny detour, just another five minutes of the day. The extra effort is worth it for the peace and solitude.

To the East is a different bridge, a darker shadow on the river. There’s evil lurking on that bridge which I avoid. My sister attempted flight.

Inspired by this week’s Picture It & Write prompt:

by Gustav Johansson

She’s a stunner

The neighbors were not happy about my choice of yard art. I didn’t have a real problem until they took it up with the Homeowners Association.

Simon sat down with me and explained (at length) the CC&Rs we’d signed. How the statuary was in clear and fineable violation.

“So you see, Mr. Jordan, you’ll really have to remove the art immediately or face monetary penalties.”

“Come on, Simon, isn’t there something else…”

“I’m afraid not,” Simon sniffed and snapped his briefcase closed.

“All right, let me walk you out. Honey, this is Simon—Simon, have you met my wife Medusa?”

Inspired by this week’s  Mondays Finish the Story prompt:

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

 

Hmm…not another Bernini?

We’d like to welcome you

Engine Company 31 responded to fire report early in the afternoon; a minor fire in a vacant lot with little danger of spreading.

The freak weather arrived suddenly. Rapidly darkening skies, rumbling and the whistle of high-speed winds heralded the arrival of a funnel cloud. Seconds before touchdown, a wooden building plummeted from the sky and slammed down with a colossal crash in the empty lot.

The firefighters stood staring at one another in disbelief.

The door flew open with a sharp kick from the inside. Small and colorfully dressed figures exited the home, singing.

“We represent the Lollipop Guild.”

Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

And for folks who might miss the reference, a scene from the Wizard of Oz (MGM 1939):

At last count

I take place in at least eight different writing challenge/contest/exercises weekly. And a few more, irregularly.

It keeps me creating, when I don’t feel creative. It keeps me experimenting, when I don’t feel inspired.

But lately it’s seemed like a lot of blah.

Images that don’t thrill me, topics that do nothing, obvious ideas that seem too trite, motivation to create zero.

Maybe I took on too much? Is writing something on the order of a thousand (at most, two thousand) words a week really too much? Doesn’t seem like it should be.

Am I just burning out? Non-thrilled by the not-brilliant fount of ever-flowing ideas gushing eagerly forth?

What happened to the fun and amusing ideas? Why so serious, Dave? When did you start getting so critical of your hobby? Delusions of grandeur not working out?

Bah.

Probably just run down this morning (I’ve got a dentist appt., that’s never bright for the life outlook). Suck it up, drama queen.

Anyway, I need to go get my teeth drilled on now, that should be more fun! Weeeeeeeeeeeee!

Pure Digression: (“Yo I saw a squirrel run across the street and he didn’t get hit by a car so he was like ‘Weeeeeeee!'”  Thanks, Albino BlackSheep.)

Postscript Addendum: Dental fun fun fun fun all completed. Perhaps now I can stare at the blank page, flipping between the websites containing my prompts, and invent something fabulous?

FABULOUS! (*Two snaps*)

Damn I’m such a slave to pop culture.

I have been informed this post is not SeriousFace enough to be allowed through a certain website’s Gatekeeper Standards. I am heartbroken, of course. I don’t mean to be rude but…”LOL.”

It’s always your choice

“In fiction, every person decides for themselves what type of story they want to live in, Darla.” Captain Koopmann indicated the island currently off the ocean liner’s starboard railing to young Miss Slater. “If you wanted to live in a fantasy, that island is inhabited by Dragons. If you wanted to be in a stirring Pirate yarn, Cutthroat Island is bound to be its name. Given no other data, your imagination is always free to choose.”

Darla mutely nodded and examined the island thoroughly before deciding.

“I don’t believe it’s either of those.” Darla observed the enormous sea bird, climbing slowly above the island’s central mountain peaks. It was comfortably larger than a passenger airliner. “I’m pretty sure that this one’s going to be called Monster Island.”

Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

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