bull in a china shop
i feel like its been too long since i wrote a story, a piece of fiction. i think the last time was for a ten minute play festival in february, which got cancelled for illness anyway.
i feel like a bull in a china shop. several images circling.
one, the minotaur, of course. my namesake. forced to live underground for the fear of the monster he hadn't yet proved to be. how many sacrifices got lost in the maze before he would even have a chance to kill them?
two, ferdinand. the bull who just wanted to smell the flowers. but one day he sat on a bee, and in his fear tore across the fields with such fervor that they thought he was the fiercest bull theyd ever seen and dragged him out to the bullfighting ring. thats the fear. that one small moment of terror and anxiety will be the last straw, convincing everyone im something terrible im not. looking in every flower for bees. spending more time looking in flowers than enjoying them until i cant enjoy them anymore.
three, the bull in a china shop. reckless and stupid and damaging due to pure nature, its not his fault but that doesnt mean he can be expected to change. hooves werent made to sculpt pottery, fix things, to paint tiny detailed flowers and romantic scenes, even if they want to. his mere weight shakes the shelves and his tail threatens to knock over priceless heirlooms even as his back is turned. the china bull stays out of the store, denies himself beauty for fear of breaking it all. its less about breaking plates than it is about being the kind of monster that breaks things.
still working on a hook. also also, a moral. a happy ending. i recite my own work for my own reminder of what it means, i need my own reminder of the happy ending. radical acceptance. breaking things. the china bull being ok broken.