Dirigible Racing is a Deadly Sport


There were two ways to win a dirigible race. One was to be the fastest. The other was to always have a sharp object handy.

The Baron–simply the Baron, name and adjective-less to admirers and competitors alike–preferred the second way. He was quite thankful for the accident that took his left hand. Nobody tried to take your hook from you.

He smiled as his dirigible rose and Stevenson’s did not. Stevenson shook a fist in the air, but the rest of him remained on the ground and out of the race.

Only one remained. The Baron set his eyes on Bellerose, floating ahead of him, a golden telescope pressed to her eye. She was looking ahead. Her first and last mistake. She should have been looking behind.

He adjusted the gas and his dirigible crept slowly ahead, closer to hers. His hook reached for the control to activate his needle-sharp ram.

She should have left her craft unguarded, like that fool Stevenson did. The fall would have been gentler.

Bellerose put down the telescope, turned her head, and smiled. Her eyes shone with fire.

The Baron realized he had entirely underestimated his competition. It was his last realization.

Word Count: 200

This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #33. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge!

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