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Rated: E · Fiction · Animal · #2255049
A Band of Bulls - Winner! The Writer's Cramp 7/21/21

No Running of the Bulls

“Again the running of the bulls is cancelled, gentlemen. All that training. For nothing.” Chief Bull addressed the gang. All twenty of them. They stood in a meadow, listening to their leader.

Moans from the audience reached his ears.

“I know, I know. I cannot believe the folly of these humans. But we will continue, as we did last year when this happened. We will protest peacefully. We will continue for our ancestors and for our children. It’s tradition, after all.”

The bull herd bellowed its assignation.

“So what do you say? Let’s get to it.”

The bulls took pre-assigned places in the street. At the dipping of Chief Bull’s head, the herd moved down the street. Unlike years past, the herd moved peacefully. As it moved through the narrow street, people began to congregate. A few at first, then more gathered. They cheered on the bulls. Flower bouquets began to litter the parade route.

“Heads up, my fellow brothers! Be proud! Show these brave humans who gathered the brotherhood of bulls!”

All bulls paraded proudly down the narrow streets, heads held high. They were a quiet, peaceful group, taking each step with great care. The hooves kept time, each hitting the cobbled streets at the same instance as the ones next to it.

The band of bulls marched in step to the parade ground, the palazzo at the end of the winding street.

“Now, my band of bulls, let’s show the audience what we’ve been training to do for the past years. No excitement, no raging. Just precision,” Chief Bull exhorted the bulls now marking time.

Any humans brave enough to come out of their homes on this anniversary of the ‘running of the bulls’ caught a strange sight indeed. Twenty bulls marching in drills, keeping time, keeping in step. Back and forth they went. When they were finished with the drills, a great bellow from their chief sent them marching once again down that old running route. Step by step. Hooves created sparks on the cold cobblestones as they marched in military precision back to the lush green meadow.

W/C 352

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