The little girl…

stomped into the room.

‘Get up,’ she said, not very nicely.

‘What?’ the small boy looked up at her with bleary eyes.

‘Get up, I said, or…’ she looked around his room quickly. ‘I will whack you with a tennis racquet.’

‘You will not!’ He shot out of the bed like he’d done something in it.

‘Yes, I will. Where are your brothers?’

‘They’re not here,’ he cried, scrambling for the bin, where he’d hidden her papers. ‘Damnit!’

‘Yes they are. I can hear them.’ She stomped her foot imperiously.

Giggling came from behind the curtains. Perhaps, if the boys had been older, it would have been masculine giggling. As it was, they were still very young and didn’t know how to hide properly. Two sets of feet, in very unattractive shoes, poked out from beneath the hideously orange hanging cloth.

The little girl didn’t say anything to warn them. She picked up the racquet the boy had hidden under the bed and advanced towards the window.

‘Run away!’ the boy called from the bin he had accidentally-on-purpose fallen into. ‘How the hell did this get so big,’ he muttered to himself.

The two brothers peeked out. ‘Oh no,’ cried the one with the blue eyes. ‘She’s gonna get me by Jumminy. I must run slowly in a wriggling line of not very far so I can’t be caught.’ He began to tiptoe, very unquietly, and very vaguely, and hideously slowly in the general direction of something that was not her.

‘Arrrrrgh,’ cried the one with the green eyes. ‘I am friendly, I am friendly!’ He deposited himself on the floor and began to giggle uncontrollably.

‘You are NOT HELPING MOIIIIII,’ said the first boy. His eyes were very large and brown, and rather pretty in their own stupid way. ‘Not fair,’ he muttered. ‘I was trying to be cute.’

‘It does not suit you AT ALL,’ cried the little girl and swung the racquet at him as hard as she could. It hit him on his rather horribly shaped backside, for we must remember he was currently upside down in a bin.

‘You better watch out,’ cried the little girl. ‘For when I grow up, I am gonna get my future husband to come along and clean you up like something or other that I can’t think of right now.’

‘Well then! Well then!,’ the little boy cried from under the sheets of paper he’d finally found. ‘When I get a wife that… when I get a wife, and I WILL, I’ll set her onto you and you’ll be SORRY.’

‘Not gonna happen,’ said the little girl furiously. ‘And I’ll tell ya why. It’s because me and your future wife, whoever she may be, are gonna be best mates, and that’s that. So THERE.’

Someone’s mother dashed into the room as quickly as she was able, with her bad back and gimpy leg, and one eye missing. ‘What the hell is going on,’ she cried.

Her husband walked in slowly after her and surveyed the room. He began to grin.

‘What are you laughing at,’ cried the little boy with the big brown eyes as he backed out of the fallen over bin.

‘I see now,’ said the father. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said to his wife, who was trying to grab one of the screeching boys.

‘Don’t worry about it? Look at them!’

‘They’re fine. The only problem I can see here,’ and the father grinned quite widely. ‘Is the fact there aren’t enough girls in this room. But, that’s okay. They’re playing together quite nicely, don’t you think?’

‘They are?’ The mother looked again. The screeching and whacking and begging for mercy all seemed quite… civilised, if the playing of children could seem that way, especially if it were three boys and only one girl.

‘Yep, it’s fine,’ said the father. ‘They’re all friendly, you see. Kids these days just don’t know how to do it right, that’s all.’

‘What year is it here then?’ the mother asked.

‘Most likely the seventies, or something. Maybe the eighties. Doesn’t really matter,’ said the father. ‘They’ll be alright. See, she’s making him feel better now.’

They looked at the little girl, who was currently trying to drag one of the little boys out of the bedroom door by his ankles.

‘See?’ said the dad. ‘They’re friends.’

The End.

Update from a Small Cat – Jan 26th

‘Ah. You wish me to meander with you.’ It wasn’t a question. The cat had stood up and capered along the wall under the fence at least five minutes beforehand, and was likely waiting on the corner for his frenemy, el cato.

‘I didn’t say that, you did.’ El cato projected this thought through the glass door at the rear of his own house. ‘I am not ambulating today either.’

‘What are you doing then. I can’t see you?’

‘Nope, I am a figment of your imagination and you are a worm.’

‘Oh, fabulous. I have always wanted to be a worm.’

‘You have not.’ Of this, el cato was sure. ‘You said you never knew which end to talk to.’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind?’

‘I don’t think you have changed your mind.’ El cato stood and stretched, fluffing up his magnificent tail. He had spotted le chat peering over the fence. ‘Little basket.’

‘Speak to me not of baskets, I am breathtaking. Look at me.’ Le chat wiggled his backside with anticipation. ‘Just so you know, I’m ready to pounce. I’m not sure what at, yet, but I’m ready.’

The dog on the other side of the fence wrinkled her pretty face. ‘What are they doing,’ she mumbled. ‘And why must I always be the one between them?’

The human, who had not got up to look around the corner (through sheer willpower alone), sighed deeply. ‘I can hear you all. Will you please cease and desist. It is Sunday morning. Even the birds are silent.’

It was true. The birds were distant, the wind was lifting into a breeze, and le chat was beginning to sing the song of the people, so they would hear him and perhaps wonder…

‘Oh there you are,’ said the human under her breath.

‘I was bored,’ murmured le chat. ‘Wall smells like stone, fence smells like metal.’ He stared vaguely off into the middle distance. ‘Cobwebs.’ He crouched low on the sand coloured brick. ‘Extra large.’

The human made a slight wheezing sound which the cat assumed meant she was laughing. He stood and turned, wrapping his own black tail gently around his forepaws. The patch on his shoulder stood out starkly against the white of his coat.

‘My ears are not lopsided,’ he chided her. ‘One is merely listening more than the other.’

On this, they could agree.

‘And, just so you know,’ he added. ‘Bermuda is the general opposite place in the world of where we are, which is why, when I dig, you say I am trying to dig all the way to Bermuda.’

And that was the absolute truth.

‘Gunna”

‘What’s a gunna?’ The small boy is excited.

‘Well, it’s different to a gunnie,’ says the man, and he grins. It’s not a polite grin. Not at all.

‘I knew of a place once called Gunna’s Ridge, seeing as we’re going there,’ added the man, and he swiped his nose with a grimy hand.

‘Where is it?’ The boy was curious now, more curious than he should have been. He wonders why it is no longer present tense, and why he is beginning to get a sinking feeling in his gut.

‘Let me tell ya what a gunna is.’ The man stood up and absent-mindedly straightened his trousers.

He pushed his curly hair back into position, and the boy could smell Brill Cream. It was a very distinctive smell to a small child, and still is, apparently. The collared shirt was neatly tucked back into the man’s trousers, and his belt tightened a notch. He reached down and wiped the dirt off his shoes as best he could.

‘Come on then, kiddo.’

‘I don’t know if I want to,’ the boy said. ‘I’d rather just talk about it.’

The man nodded. ‘Yep. That’d be about right, I s’pose.’

‘You s’pose? What’s that mean?’ The boy began to feel a little belligerent, himself. Had he spelled something wrong? He didn’t know, and he was no longer caring much either. ‘Why can’t we just talk about it?’ he said, and tried to stop himself from snarling. If he snarled at the man, he’d get a cuff over the ear, he knew he would. It had happened before.

‘You just wanna talk about it. Ya don’t wanna do it, ya don’t wanna learn it, ya don’t wanna see, ya don’t wanna do anythin’ much, do ya,’ the man said. He didn’t appear angry at all. He didn’t seem perplexed. He just seemed resigned to the idea that this kid could only learn about things through talking about it.

‘Yep.’ The kid stood up straighter. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He had two strong legs, two strong arms, and he had a heartbeat. What was wrong with this bloke, that he was looking at him like he’d just crawled out from under a rock?

‘You wanna know what a gunna is still, do ya?’ The man said and he began to turn away.

‘Yes I do,’ replied the kid.

‘Pretty sure I’ve just explained it. You are. You’re a gunna. Gunna do this, gunna do that. Gunna do all sorts of shit, and yet here you are, doing sweet eff ay, and nothin’ to show for it.’

‘That’s a gunna?’ The kid scratched his head. ‘Dunno if I wanna be one of them, then.’

‘Sweet,’ said the man. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’

Is it Good?

‘Here.’ This tiny creature is stalking through a jungle. He sees the tall branches and waving leaves on one side, and notices the huge tumbling vines on the other side. They do not look safe to him.

Ahead are silly umbrellas. They have pointy-looking hats and seem to be the perfect spot to stop under if it’s raining. They look safe.

A vegie patch with “not very pleasant” additions

The huge waving “trees” have been planted on purpose, as has the tumbling vine. To be fair, the beautiful plant beside him has been planted as well, but that has been put there to be looked at and not touched.

‘And what are these very large soft pebble-like things for,’ thinks the tiny creature to himself. ‘They don’t smell “bad” exactly, but they don’t smell particularly good either.’ He pokes at one with his tiny stick and it crumbles apart. Immediately the sand beneath it looks “happier”, if sand could look happy.

‘Interesting,’ thinks the tiny creature. ‘But, I am getting wet and I would like to take shelter. Perhaps I should get one of those umbrella looking things.’

‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,’ says a voice from inside him, and it makes him jump.

‘What?’ he squeaks. ‘Why?’

‘Those umbrella looking things, as you call them, are not very pleasant at all. They should not be there, and they should not be touched.’ And a large hand reaches down and removes the umbrellas from the soil, although we really can’t call it soil. Not yet, anyway.

‘I’ve eaten umbrellas before,’ thinks the small creature. ‘They were just fine to eat. Why can’t I take shelter under these ones?’

‘They are not what you think they are,’ says the inner voice, and despite him knowing the voice is there, the small creature jumps again.

‘They don’t look well,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘They have no juiciness to them. They are thin and frail. I do not think I will get any kind of safety from trying to shelter myself under these umbrellas.’ And, the closer he looks at them, the more he is afraid. These umbrellas are decidedly not healthy and, although it is strange they have appeared in the garden (here we raise an eyebrow at those crumbling pebble-like things) they are not to be eaten. Not at all.

‘I am getting very wet from this rain though,’ thinks the tiny creature to himself. ‘Where will I take shelter?’

‘Look at the big leaves where the vines are tumbling,’ says the inner voice.

‘They don’t look safe?’

‘They are very safe. Eventually they will give us beautiful big gourds called “Honeydew”.’

‘They will?’

‘Yes indeed. But, you will have to wait until they are ready. You can’t eat them now, and you can’t eat the leaves.’

‘Why can’t I,’ the tiny creature demands, and he begins to jump up and down with frustration.

‘Because, if you eat them now, what will you take cover under when it rains again?’

It sounds to the tiny creature that this inner voice is smiling at him. He begins to grin. He can’t help it. This inner voice is making him giggle and he knows it is right.

‘Fine then,’ he says, and kicks at one of the pebbles. It crumbles apart and sinks into the soil. ‘What is this stuff?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ The voice sounds even more amused.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ The tiny creature jumps on another pebble and it disintegrates. ‘They are funny looking pebbles, and I think I like them. What are they?’ He decides to roll in one. The smell is not that bad, but it’s not that good either.

The voice he has been listening to is really starting to laugh now. It is so overwhelming to him he starts laughing as well, and he doesn’t know why. He likes this voice, but he is not going to ask it again what these weird looking pebble things are. He wonders if it tastes better than it smells. Maybe he should try it?

‘I wouldn’t do that either,’ the voice advises. ‘It’s not really a “thing”. Not with that type of stuff anyway.’

‘Well.’ The little creature shrugs. ‘You never told me what it was, so I’m gonna do what I like in it.’

‘Oki-dokey then,’ the voice says. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

The voice begins to fade and the tiny creature starts to wonder. The voice had not told him the stuff was bad, but it had not told him it was good either. The creature starts to think of how it is helping the soil, and how things are growing because it is there. There is only one thing that might achieve this, that he knows of, and he jumps up as quickly as he can, and starts to brush it off.

‘What is it?’ he calls to the slowly departing voice. ‘What type is it? Will it hurt me?’

‘It won’t hurt you.’ The voice slowly returns. ‘It’s really very mild. That’s why you need so much of it.’

‘Okay. So, what is it again? Just so I’m sure.’

‘Sheep shit,’ says the voice and the little creature finds this so funny, that he has kicked it, and rolled in it, and thrown it around, that he begins to laugh out loud.

‘And, what am I,’ he asks, although it is already dawning on him that he is rather important, in the scheme of things. He wouldn’t usually go after poo like this, he would normally go after something a little more ‘greasy’.

‘A dung beetle,’ says the voice. ‘You are a dung beetle. And, no you could not eat my plants.’

The Enjoyment of Rain

When I first stepped outside this morning I could hear the water gurgling down the pipes and into the gutters. This started me thinking whether it had been raining.

It is the middle of summer, here in Western Australia, and where I live it is not the usual time for rain. I am wearing a t-shirt and it’s warm. Occasionally, we will get mornings like this, and those are the mornings one may wish to dance in the rain.

‘Hmm,’ I thought. ‘The atmosphere around my home seems slightly misty. Perhaps it rained a little earlier and I’m simply hearing the after-effects.’

To check this theory, I looked at the sand and I looked at the fence, but could not see any evidence there had been rain. The downpipes continued to gurgle (as they do while I’m writing this).

‘If there is water coming down those pipes, it must have been raining at some point, so why can’t I see it,’ I thought to myself. I decided to step out from under the roof of my tiny patio, and onto the sand of my backyard. Immediately it could be felt, a warm glossing liquid over my skin. The soft, almost invisible to the naked eye, gentle light rain upon my face and hair felt like someone spritzing me, but without the sound of the spritzer, the someone, or the harsh squirt I might feel on my face.

‘So,’ I nod to myself now. ‘This is awesome. I quite like it.’

As I think, and look around, and hear the giggling and glugging of the drainpipes begin to quieten, and see the cat on the wall at the back fence, I know he and the other creatures up with me this morning are all enjoying the gentleness of this warm and sweet gift of rain, as small as it may be.

I believe the cat has gotten over it, though. He’s currently digging another hole to Bermuda.

I’ll explain the Bermuda theory in another post perhaps. Today, we simply enjoy the experience of rain.

The Truth of Menopause

One doesn’t notice how nasty other people can be until they hit a certain age.

It is strange that this happens, but it has happened for as long as one can read history, if one is interested in such things.

Perhaps poor old Joan of Arc experienced early menopause. Who knows. There was certainly something that got her up and running with a sword in her hand.

Someone whispers to himself, ‘Oh dear, this is not the way we muster the sheep.’ He is now marked for a shearing shed and a pair of clippers. He begins to laugh, for his own wife would do the same thing. She would also have added, ‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’

‘You’re a bloody weirdo.’

‘I am aren’t I?’

‘Just remember who pays the bills.’

‘Well, dear, that would be me. I pay the bills. Fair enough, it is no longer with my money, but it was, before the “evil menopause” raised its head and stated loudly it “wasn’t doing this shite anymore”.’

So why do we pay, literally, for something that will happen? There is no doubt about it happening. It does, and it will. Why are we pulling money out of our bottoms for it, still, after all these eons of it being a fact?

‘I don’t know,’ whispered the fan of rubbing things from the heads of gravestones. ‘But one might assume, if one needs a medication to prevent this sort of thing from happening, one’s best bet is to offer it cheaply, even if one cannot offer it for free.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ whispered yet another. Their names are never mentioned, for although it is fact not fiction, these things are often swept under the rug.

A brave gentleman raises his ugly fist. ‘Don’t forget the blue pills,’ he shouts with close to gay abandon. His voice is shut down with withering looks.

‘Don’t go there dude. You may not come back out again.’

‘Oh. Oh deary me by crikey pumpkin scones.’ And he stops, and thinks about that for a while, and realises he has just made a terrible mistake. He begins to run for the hills, his short and ridiculously fat legs pumping away, his too large head pounding with horror. He trips over a Maple Leaf (a designated friend or foe, who is defiantly a friend). This “man” knows how to shoot arrows, and he aims for a stout thigh.

The woman considers this lucky. If she had shot an arrow, William Tell’s son may never have lived to tell the story. ‘I have never shot an arrow in my life,’ she says, handing over the bow she had been keeping safely inside a backpack. Beside it sits a small velvet box, something she had never forgotten was there.

”She’s back,” the distant twerp shouts to his friends. “It is definitely her. We must all run away now, and hide under rocks, for it is definitely her, and I have been a terrible person in deed.”

‘What kind of coffee was it you liked,’ Harry asked, looking at the kettle sitting on the bench in his hotel room, for he had forgotten to turn it into a respite centre for the elderly.

‘Instant,’ came the reply. ‘No sugar. I’m sweet enough.’

He didn’t write anything else after that. Far too clever for his own good, some thought. Far too clever to get on the wrong side of someone who was very similar to his own wife, he thought, but he didn’t say it out loud, because he was far too clever for that too.

What is a fairy tale?

‘Doing this properly or not, are we?’

My translation is too rough for you. You can’t do this thing and I cannot help you.

The small green frog has nestled himself within the zucchini bushes and frets about what he will do next to escape the cat.

Zucchini plant in our garden.

The cat is merely a small white and black moggie who considers himself a saviour to humans. He is rather proud of himself – which is very catlike and normal for cats.

‘Do I need saving from a frog,’ thinks the human. ‘There really are not enough of them around for me to be saved from them. Perhaps you should reconsider the circumstances of el cato.’

The circumstances of el cato were deliberately falsified by other human beings. We do not return to that horrible place. He thinks this often and it has been agreed the cat’s “mother” had been right all along. He sees a large and heavy ball by a wall, coloured to resemble waves on water or electricity (which are really quite similar). It was a pond the princess had been playing beside in the original story by the brothers Grimm or was that Hans Christian Anderson? This is the purpose of the frog and the “maid” – to share these stories with new thinking and similarities that show how the blending is done.

An old float repurposed as a garden ornament. It is very heavy as it has water inside and we are not sure how the water got in there.

The frog can hear this from under the large leaves of the zucchini plant. ‘What about me,’ he burps quietly to himself. ‘Do I need saving, or can I just dig myself a hole?’

There are many questions floating around in the small garden of the family. The frog suggests the people mama do not go out to the back fence because a kangaroo child is also listening in.

They have all watched the child of the small brown kangaroo follow his mother back and forth along the hot street. Some have seen how she gets stuck when a route she used one morning is blocked the following morning and she must feed her child by a fence with no openings she can discern. Some think they should be fed, although this is not the way of the kangaroo. All she needs to find her offspring (and here the frog would grin as his mouth is wide and the perfect shape to perform such an act) is some narrow-leaved plants with lovely sweet pieces that sit just under the soil.

‘That is all I need as well,’ thinks the frog. ‘Just some plants that are damp enough I can find some insects to eat. I am very good at hunting insects.’

‘How is the translation going,’ questions the female bird. ‘Am I getting this right again?’

‘Understanding and doing is not the… damn it,’ says the frog around an insect whose legs are long and crunchy. ‘Then count me as I jump, for I would rather be a bearer of good news.’

Pleading with me will not work, for I did not put him here.

Can we see him yet, though? Is he rounded and full with new information? Can he see the light of day? Must he always be such a pain in the arse, or will the mother realise he is dreaming again?

Does she even know my Hame, thinks the kangaroo child, for he has learnt at least one language other than his own in recent years.

The mother looks up from her position at the table. ‘They are spying,’ she thinks to herself, and she is right, for they have been trying to write with her this whole time.

They do not wish to be horrible, thinks the frog, but they do not know why she thinks they are friendly.

‘I do not believe she ever thought they were friendly,’ the cat yells from the back door. ‘Oh whoops, I didn’t realise it was open,’ he thinks as the person stares down at him with vague irritation. Ducking his head to apologise for his own small thinking, he clicks and clacks his way down a dark corridor to where he knows a large and comfortable sleeping place awaits. ‘This is the only place that is friendly, and this is where I am staying. These are my people, and I am a cat.’

He thinks loudly out the window and a kangaroo child is frightened by his noisiness. 

‘Bugger off, I said.’

The little beast is dumbfounded. How did such a big thought come out of such a small cat? The cat smiles to himself. He has been training with humans, and learnt how to borrow their voices to make his own thinking louder. He leaps onto the mattress and gazes at the man who talks in his sleep.

‘This one continues to surprise me with these thoughts,’ says the wannabe demon of his large human counterpart. ‘Where is that frog again?’ He jumps off the bed.

The frog sneaks off with a plip and a plop to find himself a hole in the sand. He just wants to live another day and get some new ideas.

‘This one is too much for frogs,’ he thinks. ‘She doesn’t like me at all.’

He would be dumbfounded to know he was right.

A “recalibration” (retelling) of The Frog Prince, with dashes of Rapunzel. Spoken with Grimm determination in an Australian accent.

C.S Capewell.

The red horse did not find it amusing his sire had been named McFlirt.

‘To be the seventh son of a horse named “Of a Flirt” is not my idea of a good timing,’ said the horse.

If words could be uttered from a horse’s mouth, then they would be spoken as honestly as the humans could interpret them. There is much “tongue in cheek” here, but the chestnut has a sense of humour today, apparently.

It is quite a shame some people believe a horse is not up to telling a story, but the chestnut is accompanied by his new old friend who has been named for a Strawberry and doesn’t mind a bit. If anyone else thinks these are terrible puns, please let me know. I don’t think all of them are mine.

Anyway… The chestnut does not roll his eyes, because he leaves that to his friend, who is quite good at pulling faces. I can personally vouch for this, as I have seen it, and he is a funny old duffer indeed. They have consented to having their photographs taken by their owners, so we are in luck in knowing the pictures provided to this particular WordPress blog are genuine and legal. Isn’t that wonderful. That was a rhetorical question.

Today, we do not enter into the personal previous life of Knox the gelding, as he is busy being a horse with no name and pretending to chase bulls down unfamiliar streets with cobbled stones and skinny windows. Hey look, I’m just repeating what the horse is saying, so you really can’t correct me. If he isn’t a horse and just pretending to be the one attempting to bite his best mate’s backside, then I have many questions to ask, and I probably won’t get answers to them.

Knox (the horse) asks us to remember his mature-age friend, the dark bay who was once a strawberry roan, cannot be ridden anymore as he has a bad back, but biting him on the arse is perfectly acceptable. I would just like to say I won’t be trying this myself anytime soon, and nobody else should either. Frazier is quite a large horse, and although he is extremely patient with his younger companion, he would likely get quite a fright if tiny humans thought sinking their teeth into him would be a good idea. He can still kick if he needs to.

I think perhaps photographs of the true characters in this short piece would probably help.

Notes on The Toreador

The chestnut horse, who had never wanted to be a gelding, and had never wanted the marks of ownership, had slowly come to terms with the fact he had been named as security (the horse’s name was Knox), and although the old dark brown horse “p*ssed him off daily”, his sensible nature always managed to calm the chestnut down.

Knox and Frazier.

They had spoken with the lady’s sister that day and she had seen the truth of the horses. Tears have been shed in recognition of their beautiful souls, and have been shared here so no one will get confused. 

Sometimes we may spell a name wrong, or people may get confused by a simple meaning and make it far more complicated than it ever needs to be. Sometimes, if one is not trained to discern the difference, they may consider many people to be one person, and put them all into the same paddock. 

Horses, just like other animals who associate closely with humans, pick up on our emotions, and send them to those whom they smell as being related in some way. When a beast (and here the red horse raises his head and snorts loudly, for he is not a beast at all, it is that bastard on the far corner who thinks he shines like a moon in sunlight, the upstart) is sensitive to people, and does not know how to close his soul’s doors, he becomes skittish and hurt, for he thinks those feelings are his, when they are not.

This is the way of those who aren’t human.

The notes on the real horses had been written some weeks before. If one visits a farm agistment where horses are, one might discern the truth of these beautiful creatures, not take the stories they share and make them into something terrible. The chestnut horse is not a bad horse at all; he has marks on both shoulders to show his heritage. Beside him in the same paddock, lives a beautiful bay gelding, who used to dance but is now too wise to do very much at all. He is not to be ridden – the bay horse, and the chestnut has been learning to trust people again.

‘If I could, I would fight your bulls,’ the chestnut may think. ‘But these stories are old stories and the toreador does not do these things in Australia. If the children must play with truth and lies, let them know this truth, for I am indeed a horse.’

The Toreador (a fiction)

‘If I may say, yer ‘onor, my mount has become quite demanding.’ The toreador looked down at his horse. ‘A flaming beast indeed,’ he muttered under his breath.

The horse arched its neck and stamped its feet. Its hooves had been trimmed, and oil applied.

‘Silence,’ demanded the person at the fence. ‘There will be no shouting in this court.’ Their face had become as red as the horse’s coat. The mumbling of the people dulled to quiet.

This horse had been marked on both shoulders, and stood under a tree to keep out of the sunlight for longer than he’d expected. His older companion rolled expressive eyes and stuck out his tongue for good measure.

‘I really don’t feel like being a toreador today,’ said the toreador. ‘Can someone else look after him?’

‘He’s your horse,’ said the other rider. ‘I think he wishes to have some exercise.’

‘Perhaps in the evening then, when it’s cooler,’ suggested the toreador hopefully, then grimaced as he noticed the trembling of the horse beneath him. ‘Bugger. He’s going to be a pain in the backside. Perhaps I’ll take him for a short stroll around the paddock instead.’

‘I do not think that will be enough,’ said the rider of the dark bay.

As if to prove that point, the bay sighed, very deeply. He had been bitten enough by the young maniac beside him over the last few weeks, but it had not ruined his own good nature.

The horse wished the toreador to take him to a bull. He lifted his head and snorted. This time it was the toreador who sighed.

‘The bull always comes to us, you idiot,’ he said, raising his spear. ‘Now for goodness sake, calm down and start dancing.’

to be continued…