One Sill A Bull

Write something in one syllable words starting with "The bull..."

The bull stares, and his eyes shoot back and forth from the rope I hold in my hands, to my face, stern with the job I loathe, but must be done. Toad (don't ask where his name comes from. It's to do with his horns is all I know) was sold last week to a man with red cheeks and white hair whose prize bull died from mad cow and it is my job to see that Toad gets on the truck with truck and me still in one piece.

Toad backs up and drops his head as I start my long walk. My rope is in full swing as it keeps time with the swish of Toad's tail, each with the fear of what is to come. "Come boy," I soothed with a calm I did not feel. "Let's try this nice and slow." Toad still kept his eyes on me and showed no signs of ease, of calm, of he did not want to kill me. I was new to the ranch and so Toad and I had not had time to be friends. This did not bode well for all. "Tooooad" I coaxed. "This old rope is for show. Don't you mind it at all." Quick as a wink, Toad seemed to perk up, head raised, ears straight, and I thought I must be good at this bull stuff. The bull walked to me and I stepped back to let him pass. He gave no thought to me at all as he made his way to the truck. I turned to watch, proud of my man skills, which was when I saw why Toad had loped past me with no huff or puff. The white haired man, Jack Daws, an old hand at bulls, knew the best way to coax one where you want him to go was to use a girl. There, by the truck, was a cow in full heat, the smell of sex strong to Toad in the warm ranch air. He felt the pull of it and had to check it out. The rope hung still in my hands as the Toad made his way to Daws and his new home. I learned a thing or two that day. Sex beats the rope. Hands down.

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Quote of the day: There was Kato, his dear hands folded on his chest, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly in his sleep, like a dog dreaming of Schubert. Patchett - Bel Canto.
Chosen because of the wonderful simile. Just gorgeous.

Memory Lane Prompts

I remember learning...to ride my bike. It was birds-egg blue, a bit too big for me, and represented a promised land of freedom and self reliance. I spent some long hours hoisting myself onto the seat and falling before I could get even get my feet on the pedals. Realizing part of my yard gently sloped, I cleverly made my starting point the upper corner by the redbud tree, facing down the slope which all of a sudden, loomed long and steep...but hey...automatic momentum! I was able to coast long enough to put feet to pedals, before falling. I did this all day. All Day. My mother says she remembers glancing out the kitchen window at my determined little face, body language in full motivation, fully intent on riding that bike out of the yard before twilight. I don't really remember much about all the falling, but oh. I remember the first exhilaration of flight, of speed that didn't end up with a mouthful of dirt. If only I'd kept that spirit to see me through so many of my heart's desires that now lie cobwebbed in the darkened rooms of a forgotten youth.

I remember biting...down on a loose front tooth, feeling the almost but not quite painful wiggle of it, amazed that my body was capable of dislodging one of its own. I tongue-worried it, moving it this way and that, feeling the wiggle grow wider and looser, with the occasional copper taste of blood proving the event progressing quite nicely. Thoughts of a fairy visit thrilled me more than any financial reward, although I never could stay awake to see her. Yes, it was a girl fairy. Weren't they all?

I remember the balloons...of the Macy's Thanksgiving parade. They were huge, and the people looked so cold. I never wanted to be there. I can't remember what the balloons were now. Was there a huge turkey? Was Snoopy there in the 1960's? I'll need to google.

I remember falling...into fall leaves. My dad would make these huge piles (our yard, particularly the back yard, was tree heaven) and I remember taking a flying leap into the piles, scattering the crunchy leaves as my father half-heartedly chastised me for messing up his neat piles. I remember the smell of them, the dry, woodsy, clean smell of them as I fell face first, inhaling their cool scent. Days must have been cooler then as I was always wearing a coat or sweater, never worrying about getting itchy or scratched. Here it is, mid-November, and almost 70. It would not be the same experience for children in the yards of today. One needs the red cheeks of a sweater day to properly do the Leaf Dive.

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Quote of the day: Perhaps there is an airborne spore in Vegas which enslaved Liberace and now has Siegfried and Roy by the boleros; they all end up with the hair of rash French poets and the jackets of Prussian limo drivers hewn out of sequins and semiprecious chandeliers. Wilson - A Massive Swelling. Chosen because it made me laugh. I love this kind of sarcastic, dry wit. There's a danger of coming across as rude or offensive with wit like this, but I can't help myself. I respond to it and if I didn't watch myself, could easily let fly with this kind of thing. In fact, I think I probably do from time to time, particularly with each passing year.