It’s time for this week’s Song Title Challenge.

Write a short piece of fiction, around 300 words, using the song title as your story title but don’t listen to the song.  You can pick your own genre or use the one suggested to me.  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 Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice and was suggested by bumblepuppies.  Genre is Historic Fiction.  (At this point I want to remind everyone that under the terms of this challenge I reserve the right to slapstick any genre suggested to me.)

Ice Ice Baby

The barge drifted lazily down the river. We had taken to the water hoping it would be cooler. It wasn’t. I’d left my armour in the palace for once and was wearing only a toga of that exquisite cotton they weave here, but even that was too hot. If it weren’t for my men I swear I’d have gone nude.

She had of course insisted on wearing her full royal regalia. The woman was bloody daft if you asked me but she’d insisted a goddess should look the part. She didn’t look very godlike now. The kohl so precisely applied around her eyes was running down her cheeks and her hair was dull and lifeless.

“Ice. Ice!”

“Baby, what are you talking about?”

“I want ice. Now!” That’s queens for you. Believe they can merely command and all will obey. I wish being emperor worked like that.

“Cleo, where on Earth do you want to get ice from?”

“That is not my concern. I herewith decree that there must always be ice for the Queen’s use. Steward, bring me some ice.”

I did not envy poor Harwa his job. The eunuch prostrated himself before her. “Great Lady of Perfection, your humble servant regrets to inform you that we have no ice.”

“Dare you disobey my royal decree?” She pointed to her burly bodyguard. “You! Throw him to the crocodiles.”

Anthony stood up. “I will fetch you some ice, my queen.” Ass!

“Sit down, Anthony. The nearest ice is in the Hindu Kush, three months away. You’re as silly as she is.”

“Yes, Ceasar.” He sat down. “Sorry Ceasar.”

“And Cleo, you can’t simply make up decrees like that. Harwa did nothing to deserve the crocs.”

She had the grace to look bashful. “Yes, Julius.”

Being the voice of reason can be exhausting sometimes…

Copyright © 2014 Herman Kok

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