James and the Tiny Prince

The fabric caught on the callouses of his hand but James didn’t care, he just scrubbed harder. He wanted to look perfect, needed to look perfect; and he wouldn’t let the smell of bleach distract him. The prince was coming and James couldn’t help bouncing his feet as he stood by the sink.

When the white shirt was clean, or as clean as a farmer mid-season could make it, he pinned it to the line and rushed back inside. His wood cabin was small, but tidy, and he could offer the prince variety of cushions to sit upon. As he patted a gold and red one, a flush grew in his cheeks. He hoped they weren’t too big for his majesty.

The sun fell over the horizon, the colors of sunset shining into the cabin through the window. He was almost out of time.

James was panting by the time he made it back outside, the shirt damp as he slid it on. And then he was standing at attention by his front door, his farm on display and his house tidy. James knew there were better, more affluent subjects in the prince’s kingdom, but he chose James and who was James to question it?

The trumpets were the first thing he heard, followed by the rolling carriage wheels. The carriage was large, larger than James’ cushions, so some of the stress eased from his shoulders.

The carriage came to a stop. A man hopped from the front with another brass instrument. “Presenting!” He blew into the horn. “His royal highness.”

When the door opened, James fell to the ground. A sign of respect, to lower himself under the prince. Above he heard the sticky steps as the prince hopped down, made his way to James.

“Rise,” the prince said.

James did, grasping the princes hand to place a kiss on the slimy, suction cupped skin. “Ribbet,” James saluted.


Prime Ape

The apes part as he walks through the Valley (or, what passed as a valley in this shit-hole of a zoo.) Once, he had a pack of thousands. Now, he had five idiots and a two-way mirror. “They” didn’t think he’d notice the people on the other side. “They” were idiots.

Ugh, people; smelly, fleshy, people. The humans no longer threw peanuts as tokens of admiration in this new cage-like Valley. It had been a weak token, but it was something.

He sits on his boulder and waits; no tokens, no gifts. Just his youngest descendant coming forward to pick fleas out of his hair. At least someone knew their place.

Out to Roost

A Flash!Friday story:

Character: A talking rooster; Theme: Justice

“No one wakes up on time anymore,” Rob the Rooster told the horizon, perched on his spot on top of the hill. “I could crow from sunup to sundown and, still, everyone would wake up to their vibrating gadgets.”

Rob did not want to be replaced. Rob wanted to rule the waking hour.

“A plan is what this Rooster needs,” Rob considered under the fine morning glow.

He needed to get inside the gadgets. The humans had a constant connection with them. If he could control the devices, then his job of Waking Up The World (on time) would be massively successful.

Rob the Rooster needed a hacker.

Good thing his best friend is a Worm™.

It was easy to devise the plan, easier than resisting the urge to eat his friend. Worm™may be a genius – but he was still a worm.

If his friend noticed the inner conflict, it didn’t stop him from slithering into the nearest Wi-Fi hub and doing his magic.

The next morning, when the sun rose at 5:43 am, Rob the Rooster heard the echoing sounds of vibrating gadgets all throughout the land – his job was done here.

Your End is Near

The shot fired. I saw it from across the field, blasting into her side and ending her movement forever. I watched as the light withdrew from her eyes, the only eyes that ever shined when they glanced upon me. The only eyes I ever loved.

The curl of hatred entered my soul immediately, bringing the mist with it. With each of my haggard breaths the temperature cooled, the sky grayed.

The hunter would not make it out of this wilderness alive. A bolt of lightning fragmented the gray sky with my grief. The wind picked up speed and I pounced.

This week’s Warmup Wednesday challenge: Make your protagonist an animal (real or imagined).

Leash Fen in mist. CC2.0 photo by Andrew Hill.

Bob’s Good Day

“Bob – come!” I like my spot on the rug, warm under a ray of sun, but my Pa is calling.  Just this bit of attention is enough to make my tail flick. What could he want from me? What could he have for me? Maybe I’ll get to lick the syrup off his pancake plate! That would be the best.

My tail wags as I approach Pa and his tiny litter. He lifts his fist and says “Sit!” and I put my butt on the kitchen tile. I don’t know why he has me sit like this so often, but it always results in fun treats. Today is no different. The runt of his litter squeals in delight as I lick the plate. My Humans are lovely.

“Bob – mail!” I know this word. This is one of my favorite tricks. I get to showoff how well I stand on my hind legs after a fun dive through the hole in the door. A bluejay flies overhead but I don’t let it distract me.

Pa was kind enough to teach me how to step on the lever that tilts the paper from the mailbox and into my mouth. I keep my lips as dry as I can so I don’t taste the ink. Ink tastes like rotten grass and I don’t like it.

The whole litter laughs as I return through the door, victory in my jowls. My tail wags and wags as the litter surrounds me with hugs and kisses, chanting “good boy”.

Today is a good day.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”


My knees ached something fierce. The walk home from the park used to be easy when Paws was a puppy but that was almost a decade ago. The years show on one of us and it isn’t the energetic American Bulldog by my side.

He, on the other hand, is in perfect health, no joint aches or muscle sores, just excitement and adventure. He’s smart, though, and senses my struggle. My kindhearted Bully slows down and allows our pace to turn to something more leisurely.

Later, once we get back home, he’ll spend a solid fifteen minutes licking the park off my legs and hands. Then he’ll jump up next to me on the couch, turn in a circle a few times, before collapsing next to me for a nap. I may nod off too, with my legs up on the coffee table, petting his fur.

He is my companion, my friend, the reason I go to the park every weekend and the snuggle-buddy in my bed. Even if my husband wants to get in on the snuggles, Paws will reluctantly make room, but only if he’s in the middle of us both.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Menagerie.”

Writing Prompt #25

I’ve been training my humans.

They are fickle beasts, these bipedal mammals, but they are slowly learning my ways. They now easily greet me with the prerequisite belly rub and purr session before filling my bowls with water and food.

They come with donations and adoration – what more could a royal feline want?

But of course, every supplicant can be improved and these human’s of mine are no different. They often stare blankly at the big screen for hours even if I meow incessantly between their ankles. They also tend to spend a solid eight to ten hours everyday playing this horrible game where they go completely still and don’t respond to my head rubbing their chin.

But they are good humans and despite these pitfalls, I think I’ll keep them.

Tyto Books

Write about your day…from the perspective of a cat.

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