In his day he'd been a bolt of lightning, a champion beyond equal. But his day being done, Silver Flash was retired to a farm in upstate New York to create new champions as fast as the bolt of lightning he had once been.
But Silver Flash shied away from the waiting fillies, brooding by himself in the corner of the corral.
"What do I have to do?" I pleaded. "Play Barry White music? Show you racy pictures of My Friend Flicka?"
Silver Flash grabbed a thin wobbly garden hose spurting a small spray of water and pulled it towards me.
"Don't worry, old boy!" I said. "Number One, you are a horse. And Number Two, I know for sure you're not Jewish."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picture prompt above, story below, and at 124 words it's over the limit but hardly a word runaway. Hope you're not too disappointed the story is about a race horse and not about me as you obviously expected and eagerly anticipated.
This is my weekly contribution to the Fabulous Friday Fictioneers and Stallion Stud Service Society. Click the link when you're ready to rear up and mount the posts of the many other ready, willing, and talented Fictioneers.
Whoa, boy, that's the spirit! See you next week.
