holmes_minor | Fic: September: Gen (Reply)

Title: September (by I. Quill)
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Summary: Inky tries something new at Battersea Park.
Author’s Note: for the monthly prompt.

I suppose it’s quite normal for anyone, even expatriates like myself, to grow complacent about one’s surroundings and routine. The urge to seek out new scenery and novel diversion may wane from time to time, but that is less the case if you, or your friends, are involved in the periodical business.

And so it was I found myself one fine evening, when summer had just released its vise grip on the metropolis, with Sloth and his mother in Battersea Park. Ostensibly our excursion was for research for a possible upcoming feature in this fine publication, but once we arrived, no one remembered to take any notes.

We were having too much fun.

We watched the steamboats at the pier and the paddle boats on the lake and the cricketeers at play in the yard.

The sub-tropical garden was, as promised, a highlight and reminded the Sloths of their home so much that seemed loathe to leave, were it not for the nibbles on offer just beyond the garden gates.

“With so many sweet and savory snacks about,” I observed as we sat down with our ginger beers at comfortable nook facing the oddly-named Rotten Row, “it is a shame that our friend Ferret is not here.”

“Oh, I invited him. He said he would meet us here.”

“INKY!”

I looked up, just in time to see Ferret flying by.

On a bicycle.

His back paws were on the seat, his front paws were gripping the handles, and a pair of fearsome-looking wharf rats were perched on the pedals, rising and falling.

When the shock wore off, I abandoned the Sloths and raced after him. I caught up with him coming towards me.

“This is fun! Give it a try, Inky!” Ferret called.

And to make a long story short, I did. And it was fun. So much fun that Ferret and I had to exchange our tired wharf rats for fresh ones.

As the sun went down, we agreed to one last race with the loser treating the winner (and the winner’s rats) to the delicacy of his choice.

We huffed and puffed and steered our chariots deftly, urging our steeds onwards until a pair of enormous wheels appear from nowhere, right in our path.

We all went flying.

Into a wagon of fruit.

The rats, and Ferret, were overjoyed and set to feasting. I, too, enjoyed the late summer harvest with a more modest enthusiasm.

“So that’s why your quills are so sticky,” said Doctor Watson, as he helped me remove the last of the rind and residue.

“Yes, and it proves that one is never too anything to learn something new.”

“Indeed. Next time, let me know and I’ll teach you how to stop!”

And like the Yank that I am, I told him we had a deal and we shook hand-to-paw on it.

And so I wish all my gentle readers a beautiful commencing autumn and until next month, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Inky Quill