The exercise:
Write something that takes place at: the rodeo.
We're now three months away from baby's expected due date. I suspect that time is about to magically accelerate once again.
My arms and legs are very itchy right now. I hate mosquitoes so much.
Mine:
The battle between bulls and rodeo clowns escalated so dramatically and so quickly that it is difficult to determine who struck first. Did the bulls start the troubles by sharpening their horns to razor sharp points? Or was it the clowns, when they began carrying syringes filled with poison?
There are reports that matters reached the point of no return when the clowns brought spears and swords into the arena. But the language and obvious bias found therein have led many historians to believe that these were merely propaganda bulletins produced by those bucking broncos.
On the other hand, one can hardly be expected to believe the photographs of bulls bearing rocket launchers on their flanks as they emerge from their bucking chutes. You can almost smell the trademark stench of the rodeo clowns on those images.
6 comments:
Hey Marc,
sorry, I had written a dinky little story about the rodeo for you, but Blogger has thrown it away instead of saving it and I've not got enough time to rewrite. Maybe tomorrow!
g
@Marc - oh yes, I suspect so - just watch that belly grow! (My coworker is due in October) As to your sotry - Oh me oh my! *Hand pressed to cheeks*
@Greg - bad Bloggger, bad bad blogger, be sure you give it a time ut for eating your prompt response. :}
The Rodeo
She met him at the rodeo,
Doing some derry-do.
But then he fell down,
And broke his crown.
So she put him together with glue!
horses
bulls
smells
sounds
cheers
and boos
candy floss
and booze
hot sun
dry throats
whips
and spurs
toss to and fro
it's a rough ride
at the rodeo
Greg - boooo, Blogger :(
Also: I doubt that it was a 'dinky little story'. I want to read it!
Cathryn - I'm not sure your cowboy will hold together for very long with such a rough lifestyle!
Unless it's very, very strong glue...
Writebite - really enjoyed the flow and rhythm of your poem :)
Well, I have a little time now, let's see how much of that dinky little story I can remember...
Jemanimal tugged at her mother's skirt, pointing with her free hand at the horses in the corral. "Look mummy!" she said.
Jemanimal's mother slapped Jemanimal's hand away. "Behave yourself," she snapped, her voice whiny and self-indulgent. "I've told you before, you little wretch, children should be seen and not heard. And not really seen either."
She turned away from Jemanimal now, and saw the rodeo-handling sitting, bare-chested to a man, on the railings. She winked in their general direction and patted her bob, making sure it was in shape before she sashayed over,
Jemanimal, who hated her name and was very proud of the fact that she was five, watched her mother walk off without her and made a decision. The horses were much more important, and mummy would have to come and find her when the people with the big-voice system made enough of a fuss. She turned around too and walked over to the horses. Sitting on the railing here was a young man with a big grin and a plaid-shirt.
"Have you come to see the horses, little lady?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "See that one over there, standing up on his back legs? That's the Thunderer, and he breaths fire!"
"I want to ride the horsie," said Jemanimal confidently. Mummy had told her that horses were what she watched on the cartoons on the television.
"You can't ride the Thunderer," said the young man, laughing softly. "No-one can."
"I want to try," said Jemanimal. She stuck her bottom lip out and stared up at him. He looked back at her for a moment, and then jumped down, picked her up, and swung her onto the fence.
"Very well then, little lady," he said. "You take a look at those horses over there and tell me which one you want to ride."
Greg - hurray!
Oh my goodness, that's a great line about the 'big-voice system'.
I quite like your little girl with the unfortunate name. I hope she returns for another visit :D
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