The temptation is very big to write something about the new Doctor (especially since I see none of my fellow Whovians on my blogroll has done so yet), but that’ll have to wait for tomorrow as it’s time for this week’s Song Title Challenge.

This week there’s a twist:  After my previous piece, Bumblepuppies remarked that he (or she – it’s never really come up) is going to give me a title with no potential fantasy or sci-fi connections (if you’ve been reading my fictional pieces you would know that’s what I tend to write – not so much by conscious choice, though; it’s simply what comes out).  I immediately accepted the challenge.  The terms are as follow:  I have to write fantasy or SF on anything Bumblepuppies throws at me.  If I succeed, I win Bumblepuppies’s eternal respect (until the next one).  If I fail, Bumblepuppies gets to laugh at me (which is okay as there’s an entire ocean between us, so I won’t hear it).

But I’m expanding the side-challenge also to you, my other readers:  From today, if you suggest a title, you will have the option of also giving me the genre in which the piece must be written.  I’m going to limit it to the standard genres (and no cross-over) because there’s only so much one can do in 300 words, but that may very well change in future.

As always, you’re welcome to take part.  Write a short piece of fiction, around 300 words, using the song title as your story title but don’t listen to the song.  Remember to link back to this post so I can find yours.

If you would like to suggest a song title for a future post, you can do so from the challenge page.  You can also leave a suggestion on the Facebook page.

This week’s song is Dirty Laundry by Don Henly and the genre is Fantasy/Science Fiction.  Thank you to Bumblepuppies for the challenge.

Dirty Laundry

“Honey, I’m home,” called Hamish as he entered the cottage.

Hilda stepped in from the back room to greet him, but suddenly retreated as if she had run into a wall.

“Hamish!  What’s that god-awful smell?”

Hamish blushed.  He had completely forgotten about the smell, his olfactory senses having closed up shop and left before teatime this morning.

“Erm…yes…erm…one of the dragons had a bit of an…accident.”

“Accident?  Smells like a bloody cataclysm to me.  What’ve you been feeding them?  Get out!  You’re stinking up the whole place.”

“But, Hilda…”

“Don’t you ‘but-hilda’ me, you big oaf.  I said out!”

Hamish quickly retreated out the front door as Hilda ran into the room and threw every herb she could find onto the fire.

Something hit Hamish hard against the head.

“Ouch!  Why are you throwing stuff at me, woman?”

“It’s soap.  You get rid of that stench or I swear, you’ll sleep outside tonight.  And use the old bucket!”

Hamish knew it was futile to protest.  He removed his soiled clothes and started scrubbing himself.  The county fair was coming up and he had been experimenting with a new sulphur and magnesium mixture to make the dragon’s flames hotter.  The show had become so competitive recently and he needed an edge.  How was he to know it would upset Duke Turlington’s tummy?  That beast ate kettles, for crying out loud.

“If you’re clean,” Hilda called, “you can come in for supper.  I just hope that stench hasn’t gotten into the stew.”

Hamish dumped a bucket of icy water over his head and headed for the house.

“And what do you think you’re doing with that?” said Hilda, gesturing at the clothes in his hands.

Hamish grinned sheepishly.

“I’m going to put them in the hamper.”

“The hell you will!  You think I’m going to wash that?  You can do your own dirty laundry, thank you very much!”

Copyright © 2013 Herman Kok

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