This week’s #writephoto prompt is
The Princess Factory
Professor Crucible Pipette felt misunderstood. For years he had led the way in creating life in jars. Admittedly his Admiral in a bottle had sunk without trace; his Grow your own Politician, ended, like all political careers, in failure; and his boil in a bag Soprano, failed to sing for her supper. However he felt sure he was onto a winner with his Princess spawn. After all, he reasoned, society demanded a greater recognition of the feminine; even the British aristocracy had dumped primogeniture after they realised they might end up with the Dog’s Bollock of a second son rather than the more acceptable Anne. And, while, democracies were being shown up by the more authoritarian despots, male despots had a habit of invading neighbours rather than being nice about their shoes and cutting ribbons, so maybe a few female dictators might prove a popular ‘not just for Christmas’ sort of leader.
Fortunately the elders of Little Tittweaking were both far sighted and morally ambiguous and offered him the facilities he needed to begin manufacture: namely a decent shed, clean underpants every Thursday and a loyal if only partially with it assistant named Crutch.
Crucible rubbed his calloused hands and lit the paraffin stove from the ensuing sparks. ‘Well, Crutch, shall we see how the first batch is doing?’
It is probably that Crutch nodded his head, though it wasn’t securely attached at the best of times and this being Wednesday, the odour from the Professor’s excitable nethers meant Crutch was doing his best to lean as far away as possible. In truth Crutch knew – because he’d already looked – that this wasn’t a good time to check on progress.
Crucible lifted the lid on his fermentation process and gasped. Instead of a tureen of gambolling princesses, he was confronted with a kind of royal reversion to the mean. As he gawped down, a dozen sad and oily toads’ eyes peered back up at the self declared genius.
Crucible looked at the toads; the toads looked at Crutch; and Crutch looked for a means of escape.
‘Oh dear,’ muttered the Professor.
‘Oh not again,’ wailed Crutch.
And the toads? They started applying some lippy and a dusting of rouge.
‘Must I,’ quailed Crutch.
‘It’s in the name of science,’ consoled Crucible.
And the toads? They lined up by the rim of the container, lips puckered.
The Prof turned for the door. ‘Let me know when your done, Crutch. I think I’ll go and see if they’ve delivered my Calvin Kleins. It’s all getting a little tacky in the engine room. Chin up. They might be slimy disgusting reptiles today, but tomorrow they could have become the next Boudicca or Amazonian goddess. And you know what happens to their mates?’
Crutch sighed. Yes, they had their heads bitten off. Couldn’t he just go straight to decapitation, he pondered as the first toad offered her hand and pointed at the reeds?
Once again Crutch sighed and took the moist palm. ‘Oh very well, but no tongues,’ he stated firmly.
The Toad smirked and caught a fly with a flash of her adhesive proboscis. ‘One thing at a time,’ she lisped.