Number One
So, here's something a little different. A few days ago, a friend of mine asked me to write little flash fictions as a sort of writing challenge. It was to be based of the poem "Raglan Road" by Patrick Kavanagh. I think I may have strayed from that idea, but I did manage to write this in a jiffy. I hope you enjoy it!
Number one.
If there were two words Breo would describe himself with, it would be Number One.
The mustang was the self proclaimed king of the makeshift racetrack that made up the mountain range. His fans were many, in spite of the isolated location, and his admirers were plentiful. But there was only one that kept his eye. An auburn haired beauty with a penchant for strong men. She always helped him look for new challengers to prove his worth, to show how strong he was.
And he most definitely proved himself worthy, in every aspect.
Challengers were common, each wanting to usurp his position to build their ranks. They all were outclassed, each one underestimating the blond's power. The horse lived and breathed the wind that whisked him by as he treaded around the steep turns that littered the track, his motorcycle outpacing his rivals' before they could reach the first corner. His motor skills were second to none, and one would be tempted to say he was the best in the country. His fans knew it, his woman assured him of it, and he would be sure to teach anyone else that he was Number One.
Never would he imagine that two strangers would alter his life so drastically.
They were two nobodies, a couple of stallions passing through, loitering at his gas station without a care in the world. The motorcycle that one of them was working on signified them as competitors, and he'd gladly show them his abilities. Their introduction was brief, not many words spoken to what would be considered a challenge. It was not long before he and a black furred horse were side by side, engines lowly humming at the anticipation of the race ahead. His lady yelled encouragement, confidant he would bring yet another win, assured that it would be just another notch in his belt.
He claimed that it'd be over in a minute.
He was not mistaken. And as he laid on the hot pavement, panting like a dog, he saw just how wrong he was. He was not Number one at all.
His lady scoffed at the embarrassing display, heading over to the stallion who defeated him. She promised himself to him, just like she had done to him not minutes ago, and all Breo could do was look forlornly at the ground. His pride shattered, he was left with the realization that he was nothing but talk. The sinking realization that he had lost everything prevented him from standing.
Desperate for a distraction, he turned to the victor's circle. The horse, his compatriot and his former woman celebrating, he was sure.
So it came as a great surprise when they shooed her away, as if she was a vermin. If that wasn't enough, he even stated as such, causing her to leave in a huff.
Breo was speechless as the pair headed over to him, content to only sigh in defeat. Not even fit enough to leave fitting spoils to the victor... The thought raced through his head before he voiced his own self deprecating thoughts.
"My name is Jean, and this is Andre." Was the answer he received. "If I remember right, your name was Breo, correct?"
So they did know my name...
Even more surprising was Jean's hand and offer. He and Andre spoke of a team, in which they would combine their strengths to reach greater heights, and so they would have someone meaningful to share their victories with. Not a leech who only wanted fame, as Jean had said in less polite terms.
He couldn't believe it, and said as much. What talent did he have to be outpaced so thoroughly? That he could be convinced by one woman's sultry words and that of a small crowd that he had what it took to be Number One?
But Jean claimed to see potential in him. Saw there was indeed true talent waiting to be unlocked, and that he wanted to help bring it out. The look in their eyes was almost unreal, none of the starstruck adoration of his fans, or the shallow 'love' he was shown before. In their gazes he saw true warmth, an actual want to understand and care.
It took more strength then he liked to admit to reach out and grab the offered hand. It's owner pulled him up to his feet with no effort, and soon that hand was joined by a third. Their grasp was warmer then her's had ever been, and he soon knew this is what it meant to really win. He could feel these guys would reach great heights, and he would be there with them. Together.