X-P8 gazed skyward, tapping her hoof in a rapid sequence familiar to X-P12: “When do you think they’ll return? We’ve already gathered all the data we need. And I just hate this. It’s humiliating.” X-P12 tapped back commiseration. Meanwhile, the farmer squeezed X-P8’s teat, crooning, “Shhh, Bessie. Almost done. Soon.”
Tracy Royce writes prose and poetry in Southern California.
She invited me in after our third date.
What I found in her refrigerator was shocking. The shelves were packed with yogurt, cheese, sour cream, and, maybe worst of all, two cartons of chocolate milk!
“Betsy, what is this?” I cried. “Explain!”
She hung her head, sighed, and said, “Moo…”
The rearview mirror held a terrifying apparition:
An entire herd of rampaging bovine destroyers trailed behind us, rage and hunger dancing in their eyes.
“Don’t stop! Stomp on the gas!” I shouted, but Georgia wordlessly pointed at the fuel gauge.
The cows advanced, and we were all out of grapefruit…