Today’s story is a bit of flash fiction inspired by this photo from April 21st of Flemish Minister-President Jan Jambon (in dark suit) beside an installation that is part of “We Walked the Earth” by artist Uffe Isolotto, at the 59th Venice Biennale in Venice, Italy.
“Last of its kind,” the prime minister spoke in a soft tone as he ushered his latest guests into the chamber to take in the highlight of any diplomatic visit to Finland.
Zentari heard, though her head was flat against the marble stone, though her hooves crumbled from the climate and their lack of use. She refused to stand for these visits, preferring instead the cold press of marble floor against her flanks, and the satisfaction of knowing she was disappointing him yet again.
“A real centaur. Is she not stunning?” The prime minister tried to up the drama of the moment. He needed three signatures by this afternoon from the crowd assembled. If only this bloody bitch would cooperate, strut about a bit, wag her tail, he was sure that all pending agreements would be easily met.
“Is she not well? Does she not speak?” The chancellor was first to interject her disappointment. Dreary lady, really, the prime minister could not recall a single smile on her lips either in person or on camera. He shifted his gaze to his prize pony. Oh, if only he could kick the bitch square on the side, that’d do the trick. She’d do this dog and pony show if it was the last thing she did.
“Well…” the prime minister moved closer to her flank. “Perhaps what the centaur really needs is a smaller chamber.” He crossed his arms and waited for a response, but the beast didn’t stir.
“Less fresh hay, perhaps?” He saw her legs twitch at that one. “Or maybe even less free time in the yard? It’s so difficult to keep away the cameras, after all.”
Zentari flexed her arms, raised her head off the marble surface. Did her captor dare to challenge her? A being that had survived the bloody Battle of the Lapiths, traveled distances unfathomable, defied even the greatest of gods?
Before she even rose fully from the floor, she knew what would happen next. Pointing her postern towards the suited sadist she let go her longest and most violent excrement. She’d been stuffing herself for days, not allowing any to escape, so now it flowed in torrents, coating the dignitary with a loose, foul-smelling liquid.
Her bowls empty, Zentari was happy to strut around the small prison. Even raising her knees up a bit higher than usual, and letting out a loud bray, lighter and freer than ever.