Photo by K.S. Brooks

Nisveta’s team, all fine Arabians was majestic. Anything else was silly, pulling such a magnificent carriage. Approaching the lakeside palace, she cracked her whip, spurring them to top speed, all foaming and wild eyed, long manes streaming.

The child stood rooted, frozen in terror. Before the Arabians crashed into him at full speed, a commoner rushed from the park, knocking the child out of harm’s way. She closed her eyes momentarily, savoring the multiple bumps as the carriage dispatched the boy’s father.

Looking back in satisfaction at the crumpled and bloody heap in the roadway, she yanked the reins, forcing her frothing, overworked team into the yard.

Walking away, she had to turn, admiring her coach. New York City had nothing as visually stunning as her 1970 Beetle Convertible. The only thing close was her sister’s Gremlin, a closed coupe pulled by… a horse! She snorted.

Her team of twenty large muscular men, well-oiled and running at top speed was matchless.

Suddenly, one Arabian fell, nose bleeding. The wagonmaster knelt over the dying man.

“You better FIX HIM NOW!”

Viciously slashing her quirt repeatedly across the suddenly screaming Columbian’s back, realizing it was too late, Nisveta caught her breath, considering this pathetic, groveling creature.

He would do, she realized, very well. Similar size and appearance.

Drinking deeply from her golden goblet, she munched a juicy apple, selected because it perched perfectly on the fruit bowl’s rim.

“Stable boy! Put on this armor. Pose for me. Geld my newest steed, that beautiful kneeling Columbian.”