A TOY BOAT

The writing prompt for this week is a toy boat. I’d like to think that we’ll have nice happy stories and poems but I have a feeling that you guys will find away to make this dark. No doubt someone will fill it with murderous pixies or use it as a drone filled with explosives to assassinate an admiral at a regatta. I cant wait to read what you come up with, but also a little afraid.

My flash is a little gentler and it was inspired by one of my favorite books Gulliver’s Travels.

Peace in Lilliput

Every morning, I have two of the softest boiled eggs for breakfast. I crack the first open from the big end and spoon it on to toast. Then the second egg I slice the little end and dip soldiers into the golden runny yolk.

Thus is peace is Lilliput maintained.

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Please let me know what you think of my story and leave your own in the comments.

7 thoughts on “A TOY BOAT”

  1. William loved his toy boat. It was better than other toy boats, as it was an exact replica of a big boat, even down to the tiny people living inside.
    He enjoyed dropping bits of his breakfast onto the deck and watching the captain organize the crew to carve up and distribute the morsels.
    When he dripped water or juice, or sometimes dark liquid stolen from his father’s tumbler, the crew raced around with upheld containers to catch the precious liquid.
    William loved bath time most of all, because that was when he pretended to be a great monster from the deep, whipping the waves into a frenzy, as he listened to the tiny sailors scream.

  2. Good story, David. Iseult, the tiny sailors’ screams, so creepy-scary! Here’s my offering:

    My naked two-year-old stood in front of the bathtub and crossed his arms with a harrumph. “No, Mama, I’m NOT getting in the water without my ship!”

    Was this another bedtime stall tactic? The muscles in the back of my neck were tense. I softened my voice best I could. “You’ll have to bathe without it tonight, dear.” I saw his lip tremble and quickly added. “We can look for your boat again in the morning.” The dog probably buried it somewhere in the back yard again.

    My son stamped his foot. His face morphed from pale to brilliant red. A full blown tantrum was next. “It’s NOT a boat, Mama. It’s a ship, the Hungarian SMS Rabatsch.” He thumped his chest with his thumb. “MY ship!”

    He can’t say “water” correctly. How does he manage “Hungarian” and “Rabatsch”? A question to ponder another time. Right now, the bathwater was getting cold. Maybe I should pick him up and throw him in. I stepped forward, angry blood pounding in my ears. My mommy instinct stopped me, and I tried again.

    “But honey, you’ve never been to Hungary. None of us have. You’ve never been on a ship.”

    His legs buckled, and he fell to the floor in full sob mode. “But I have, Mama. I was there in my other life, my before life. Before we shipwrecked and I went inside your belly.”

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