Penguin Preference

The rule for this contest is that you have 15 minutes to write a story or poem. The prompt was a picture of a penguin standing on some rocks looking back over his shoulder (if penguins have shoulders).

Sigmund had a secret.

He wasn’t like the other penguins. Granted, he was physically indistinguishable from the other gob-jillion or so other penguins on his particular ice flow. But he had no doubt that he was different. His difference was on the inside.

Yes, yes, he liked to eat small fish and slide around on his stomach. Polar bears, should they find themselves on the predator side of a dinner plate, would have found him to be delightful with a sprig of parsley and a light chardonnay. That is to say, he would taste like a penguin.

The difference was there none-the-less.

Last spring, as his fur was turning into a dinner jacket, Sigmund found himself undergoing a change. At first, he was confused. His parents explained that he was growing up. Soon he would find a penquinette to call his own. They would mate and raise the next generation of frolicking wave skippers.

Now he was terrified.

Sigmund knew his parents wouldn’t understand. No one would understand.

One day, he found what he was looking for. For the last week, they had been meeting in secret, certain that if they were to be discovered they would become cast outs; completely disowned by their friends and families.

Sigmund glanced back to make sure he wasn’t followed. The coast was clear. With one quick move, he was in the water. Andy was waiting for him there.

Sigmund loved everything about Andy. He loved the way her thousand pound body felt as they swam along side by side. She was beautiful. Neither one understood why their cultures were so at odds. After all, a killer whale is just a penguin in a bigger tux.