Pendragon
03-02-2008, 10:03 AM
Although my story tied for second in the competition, I am not blind to the fact that it needs work. Is there a good editor out there who might help me tighten it up? I also think I mismatched dialog in the first and last part of the story. See what you think. And don't be afraid to be honest!
Edwick
Oh, hey! Hi there! Sorry, I was typing up my story, heah. How ya doin’? My name is Edwick, perhaps youse heard of me?
You got to be kidding me! You don read the papers? Well, lemme tell ya the real dope on the whole thing. Him? Oh, he’s my roommate. He’ll sleep through the whole thing. Hee-hee! Part of how I ended up in heah, but you’ll get the drift, see,
I am Edwick Wolf. But youse would know me by another name because those news hawks can’t evah get things right. They always get the letters mixed-up. They call me “Wick-Ed Wolf”. Yeah, I thought you might recognize that. THE Wicked Wolf. But it’s all lies and trumped up stories. Just heah me out.
There was that business with Ma Sheep and her seven lambs, right? I was supposed to have eaten the lambs or at worse, kidnapped them in preparation for the vile deed. Well, heah’s the real lowdown.
I had just left the pack to be out on my own, wind in my hair, free to be me. I had a Harley and I rented a nice little pad out in the country. Nearest neighbors for ten miles were Ma Sheep and her lambs, and I wasn’t expecting any trouble. I got my meat from a butcher shop in Turnipvillie, and they kept to themselves.
Then one night I came roaring back home on the Harley and noticed a lorry parked at Ma Sheep’s place. The lambs were loading bales onto it and seemed to be in a hurry. I got home, grabbed me a beer and thought about it. What kind of bales of stuff do you load at night on a farm? And why a lorry and not an open farm truck? Why the hurry, it’s gonna be dark for quite a while? Then I recalled that Sheriff Beaver had Deputy Raccoon patrol that road about once ever hour and a half. He’d almost got me for speeding twice.
Sweet Lord Almighty! They were growing weed! Marijuana! Oh, well. It was none of my business. Weren’t like I hadn’t tried the stuff myself a time or two. I ain’t a snitch. That was my bad decision. I should have called the law right then. But I went off to bed.
A knock on the door woke me up the next morning. It was Sheriff Beaver. “Morning Edwick.”
“Morning, Sheriff, something I can do for ya?”
“Well, Edwick, can I search your place?”
“My place? I reckon, but what for?”
“Ah, Edwick, Just come with me as I search please. I want to make sure you don’t take off and run.”
“Why would I do something stupid…?” I shut up because I couldn’t believe what I saw. The sheriff pulled open my pantry and there were six lambs tied and gagged on the shelves. One was even cut a bit and bloody.
The rest was a bit of a blur. I was instantly arrested, charged with kidnapping with intent to murder and devour, and tossed in the pokey. My trial, before His Honor Amphibious P. Frog, was conducted speedily. My lawyer, Baskerville Hound, pointed out that there was a small opening to the outside of the house just large enough for one lamb to escape or else there would have been seven lambs on the shelves. He pointed out that nothing had been done to investigate the things I had seen; and put the butcher from Turnipville on the stand to testify that I not only bought my stuff from him, but I never took mutton.
Lawyer Benjamin Weasel for prosecution merely made the point that Wolves are carnivores and cannot be expected to act differently.
And, well this ain’t the Taj Mahall.
I got out in five years what with good behavior and all. I was forbidden to move back to my old digs so I rode my old Harley down near Fairview and found a place there. Fairview had a nice butcher shop and understood my feelings on mutton.
Really the only real problem was the two drunken bums across the road, about a half mile upwind, Pierpont and Phineas Pig. They were squatters on the edge of their brother’s property, Philip Prescott III, who had a fine brick house two miles back. Pierpont lived in a hayrick and Phineas in a stick shed. They fished in the stream, begged from passersby, and likely mugged a soul or two. Mostly they lay drunk and fragrant in the sun.
But I was content for almost a year. I worked at the mill in Farmview, saved a bit of money, and was doing quite well. I was setting on my porch one evening having coffee, when Philip Prescott Pig III’s limo pulled up near his brother’s place.
“Hey, Pierpont! Yo, Phineas! Come here you rascals! Why don’t you guys come on up to the house, get all cleaned up, and go into town with me? I got a little business to settle, then we can go on home and eat a bite, watch TV, and I got you boys some real nice rooms fixed up. You are going to be staying with me from now on.”
Now, I never knew Prescott to give anyone a straight deal. But for three months, he was good as his word. His brothers had new clothes and all were seen talking and laughing around the barbecue in the evenings at Prescott’s place. Still I was concerned. I’d swear someone was trying to make it look like that hayrick and stick shed were still in use. I smelled the unmistakable scent of fire and whiskey from that direction.
One morning on the way into work, I heard Prescott snarl that his brothers were lonesome for their old houses and he had actually caught them out there the night before last. He growled something about “ingrates.” For two days things were tense, but quiet. There was a funeral on the third day, which all three brothers attended, dressed to the nines. Seems an old uncle had suddenly died.
Peace reigned again for about three or four weeks, but I smelled more smoke and whiskey from the old shacks. Then Prescott announced his brothers had left to go back to their shacks. They got a little money from their Uncle and would probably drink it up.
True enough the smoke and alcohol fumes were horrible and the brothers could be seen lolling on the ground. I got a knock on my door next morning.
“Morning, Sheriff Beaver! Can I help you?”
“Arrest this assassin!” Prescott Pig III was screaming. “He killed my brothers! Murdered them!”
“Go easy with your accusations, Pig. You know anything about this, Wolf?”
“Me? You woke me up! What am I supposed to know about?”
Prescott pointed across the road. Both of the shacks were shattered. “My brothers are gone, and there’s blood and fur! Wolf fur, you murderer! Bet he’s got the bodies already cut up out in that shack out back, smoking his pork!”
I held up a hand. “I ain’t got a shack out back, Prescott, and you know it! So search away, Sheriff. I’m a bit woozy, so I’ll sit right c’here on this chair where I can watch.”
Prescott leaned against the door. “I’ll watch Wolfie. He won’t be escaping, Sheriff.”
“Fair enough, Edwick.” The Sheriff walked around the house. Good God! I did have a shack and it was steadily giving off smoke. I knew that hadn’t been there yesterday, but how was I gon’ prove it? The Sheriff looked inside, grimaced, and turned back to the house.
Prescott leered at me from the door. “Gotcha Wolfie!”
“I didn’t kill your brothers.” I said evenly.
“Really? I’ll bet you burn for it, my fur ball friend!” He laughed.
The trail was before the same Judge, Amphibious P. Frog, was conducted without dispatch. My lawyer, Baskerville Hound was relentless. He pointed out that the time of death could never be established due to the butchering of the brothers; that they could have been dead when supposedly drunk the day before; that no one had ever saw that shack in my yard until that fatal day; and more to the point, the Uncle left a fortune to all three brothers but the shares of Pierpont and Phineas had been signed over to Prescott to invest for them. All to no avail.
Benjamin Weasel stated that finding of the bodies on the property of a known carnivore, already once convicted of criminal intent should tell its own tale.
So this ain’t the Waldorf-Astoria.
Ten yeahs! Ten long hard yeahs, since they could only prove possession of the bodies, not murder. Then I was free. And I had had it with country living and livestock. I moved back in the sticks to a small cottage. I was going to have to hunt for a living, but there were squirrels and rabbits in the woods, and I was a wolf after all. No one was going to put me in jail for this.
I had just one close neighbor, an old lady who lived down the trail. Her granddaughter would come by on the way to her house about twice a week. Her name was Red. She seemed friendly enough. Always wore a habit and riding hood.
I notice things, and I soon realized that she spent more time at a certain Huntsman’s house than she did at grandmas. But such is the way of love, and I was determined to mind my own business.
Red dropped by one day and began to talk to me rather friendly. I didn’t know what was going on but I was wary. That’s when the tranquilizer dart hit me between the shoulders.
When I came back around, Sheriff Beaver had me in cuffs, and I was wearing an old lady’s nightgown and cap. The old lady was a bloody mess.
According to Red and the Huntsman, I had killed the old lady, disguised myself as her, attempted to kill Red, the Huntsman tranked me, and that was that.
So began another trial before His Honor Amphibious P. Frog. Baskerville Hound tried to trip up the Huntsman on the shot, pointing out there was no hole in the gown; that the old lady’s wounds did not match a wolf bite nor claws, but a rake; that grandma left over a million to Red in her will, and a life insurance policy for a million that paid triple if she died in an unexpected way.
Benjamin Weasel pointed out that I was a two-time loser and why should anyone believe anything I said?
So, here were are, not Paris, but I call it home, unfortunately.
But fate takes funny twists. The Mama Sheep gang shot it out with the FBI. The four lambs that survived—Mama died with the other three—are on cellblock B. I got an “apology.”
Philip Prescott Pig III was caught in insider trading and when searching his house, the skulls of his brothers were found in his basement. He’s on cellblock B also. I received a “reduced sentence.”
Red was killed by the Huntsman, who then spilled the beans on the whole plan, which was of course Red’s scheme to get Gram’s money. I was made a “trustee” for the remainder of my sentence, they won’t let me go—habitual offender…
Oh, and Benjamin Weasel disappeared the same night Red was killed. The Huntsman won’t say anything. He usually stays in solitary.
Then there’s my roommate. Let’s just say he was sent up for being generally incompetent. We’re playing checkers to pass the time. Your move, yer Honor! Hee-hee!
The End
Edwick
Oh, hey! Hi there! Sorry, I was typing up my story, heah. How ya doin’? My name is Edwick, perhaps youse heard of me?
You got to be kidding me! You don read the papers? Well, lemme tell ya the real dope on the whole thing. Him? Oh, he’s my roommate. He’ll sleep through the whole thing. Hee-hee! Part of how I ended up in heah, but you’ll get the drift, see,
I am Edwick Wolf. But youse would know me by another name because those news hawks can’t evah get things right. They always get the letters mixed-up. They call me “Wick-Ed Wolf”. Yeah, I thought you might recognize that. THE Wicked Wolf. But it’s all lies and trumped up stories. Just heah me out.
There was that business with Ma Sheep and her seven lambs, right? I was supposed to have eaten the lambs or at worse, kidnapped them in preparation for the vile deed. Well, heah’s the real lowdown.
I had just left the pack to be out on my own, wind in my hair, free to be me. I had a Harley and I rented a nice little pad out in the country. Nearest neighbors for ten miles were Ma Sheep and her lambs, and I wasn’t expecting any trouble. I got my meat from a butcher shop in Turnipvillie, and they kept to themselves.
Then one night I came roaring back home on the Harley and noticed a lorry parked at Ma Sheep’s place. The lambs were loading bales onto it and seemed to be in a hurry. I got home, grabbed me a beer and thought about it. What kind of bales of stuff do you load at night on a farm? And why a lorry and not an open farm truck? Why the hurry, it’s gonna be dark for quite a while? Then I recalled that Sheriff Beaver had Deputy Raccoon patrol that road about once ever hour and a half. He’d almost got me for speeding twice.
Sweet Lord Almighty! They were growing weed! Marijuana! Oh, well. It was none of my business. Weren’t like I hadn’t tried the stuff myself a time or two. I ain’t a snitch. That was my bad decision. I should have called the law right then. But I went off to bed.
A knock on the door woke me up the next morning. It was Sheriff Beaver. “Morning Edwick.”
“Morning, Sheriff, something I can do for ya?”
“Well, Edwick, can I search your place?”
“My place? I reckon, but what for?”
“Ah, Edwick, Just come with me as I search please. I want to make sure you don’t take off and run.”
“Why would I do something stupid…?” I shut up because I couldn’t believe what I saw. The sheriff pulled open my pantry and there were six lambs tied and gagged on the shelves. One was even cut a bit and bloody.
The rest was a bit of a blur. I was instantly arrested, charged with kidnapping with intent to murder and devour, and tossed in the pokey. My trial, before His Honor Amphibious P. Frog, was conducted speedily. My lawyer, Baskerville Hound, pointed out that there was a small opening to the outside of the house just large enough for one lamb to escape or else there would have been seven lambs on the shelves. He pointed out that nothing had been done to investigate the things I had seen; and put the butcher from Turnipville on the stand to testify that I not only bought my stuff from him, but I never took mutton.
Lawyer Benjamin Weasel for prosecution merely made the point that Wolves are carnivores and cannot be expected to act differently.
And, well this ain’t the Taj Mahall.
I got out in five years what with good behavior and all. I was forbidden to move back to my old digs so I rode my old Harley down near Fairview and found a place there. Fairview had a nice butcher shop and understood my feelings on mutton.
Really the only real problem was the two drunken bums across the road, about a half mile upwind, Pierpont and Phineas Pig. They were squatters on the edge of their brother’s property, Philip Prescott III, who had a fine brick house two miles back. Pierpont lived in a hayrick and Phineas in a stick shed. They fished in the stream, begged from passersby, and likely mugged a soul or two. Mostly they lay drunk and fragrant in the sun.
But I was content for almost a year. I worked at the mill in Farmview, saved a bit of money, and was doing quite well. I was setting on my porch one evening having coffee, when Philip Prescott Pig III’s limo pulled up near his brother’s place.
“Hey, Pierpont! Yo, Phineas! Come here you rascals! Why don’t you guys come on up to the house, get all cleaned up, and go into town with me? I got a little business to settle, then we can go on home and eat a bite, watch TV, and I got you boys some real nice rooms fixed up. You are going to be staying with me from now on.”
Now, I never knew Prescott to give anyone a straight deal. But for three months, he was good as his word. His brothers had new clothes and all were seen talking and laughing around the barbecue in the evenings at Prescott’s place. Still I was concerned. I’d swear someone was trying to make it look like that hayrick and stick shed were still in use. I smelled the unmistakable scent of fire and whiskey from that direction.
One morning on the way into work, I heard Prescott snarl that his brothers were lonesome for their old houses and he had actually caught them out there the night before last. He growled something about “ingrates.” For two days things were tense, but quiet. There was a funeral on the third day, which all three brothers attended, dressed to the nines. Seems an old uncle had suddenly died.
Peace reigned again for about three or four weeks, but I smelled more smoke and whiskey from the old shacks. Then Prescott announced his brothers had left to go back to their shacks. They got a little money from their Uncle and would probably drink it up.
True enough the smoke and alcohol fumes were horrible and the brothers could be seen lolling on the ground. I got a knock on my door next morning.
“Morning, Sheriff Beaver! Can I help you?”
“Arrest this assassin!” Prescott Pig III was screaming. “He killed my brothers! Murdered them!”
“Go easy with your accusations, Pig. You know anything about this, Wolf?”
“Me? You woke me up! What am I supposed to know about?”
Prescott pointed across the road. Both of the shacks were shattered. “My brothers are gone, and there’s blood and fur! Wolf fur, you murderer! Bet he’s got the bodies already cut up out in that shack out back, smoking his pork!”
I held up a hand. “I ain’t got a shack out back, Prescott, and you know it! So search away, Sheriff. I’m a bit woozy, so I’ll sit right c’here on this chair where I can watch.”
Prescott leaned against the door. “I’ll watch Wolfie. He won’t be escaping, Sheriff.”
“Fair enough, Edwick.” The Sheriff walked around the house. Good God! I did have a shack and it was steadily giving off smoke. I knew that hadn’t been there yesterday, but how was I gon’ prove it? The Sheriff looked inside, grimaced, and turned back to the house.
Prescott leered at me from the door. “Gotcha Wolfie!”
“I didn’t kill your brothers.” I said evenly.
“Really? I’ll bet you burn for it, my fur ball friend!” He laughed.
The trail was before the same Judge, Amphibious P. Frog, was conducted without dispatch. My lawyer, Baskerville Hound was relentless. He pointed out that the time of death could never be established due to the butchering of the brothers; that they could have been dead when supposedly drunk the day before; that no one had ever saw that shack in my yard until that fatal day; and more to the point, the Uncle left a fortune to all three brothers but the shares of Pierpont and Phineas had been signed over to Prescott to invest for them. All to no avail.
Benjamin Weasel stated that finding of the bodies on the property of a known carnivore, already once convicted of criminal intent should tell its own tale.
So this ain’t the Waldorf-Astoria.
Ten yeahs! Ten long hard yeahs, since they could only prove possession of the bodies, not murder. Then I was free. And I had had it with country living and livestock. I moved back in the sticks to a small cottage. I was going to have to hunt for a living, but there were squirrels and rabbits in the woods, and I was a wolf after all. No one was going to put me in jail for this.
I had just one close neighbor, an old lady who lived down the trail. Her granddaughter would come by on the way to her house about twice a week. Her name was Red. She seemed friendly enough. Always wore a habit and riding hood.
I notice things, and I soon realized that she spent more time at a certain Huntsman’s house than she did at grandmas. But such is the way of love, and I was determined to mind my own business.
Red dropped by one day and began to talk to me rather friendly. I didn’t know what was going on but I was wary. That’s when the tranquilizer dart hit me between the shoulders.
When I came back around, Sheriff Beaver had me in cuffs, and I was wearing an old lady’s nightgown and cap. The old lady was a bloody mess.
According to Red and the Huntsman, I had killed the old lady, disguised myself as her, attempted to kill Red, the Huntsman tranked me, and that was that.
So began another trial before His Honor Amphibious P. Frog. Baskerville Hound tried to trip up the Huntsman on the shot, pointing out there was no hole in the gown; that the old lady’s wounds did not match a wolf bite nor claws, but a rake; that grandma left over a million to Red in her will, and a life insurance policy for a million that paid triple if she died in an unexpected way.
Benjamin Weasel pointed out that I was a two-time loser and why should anyone believe anything I said?
So, here were are, not Paris, but I call it home, unfortunately.
But fate takes funny twists. The Mama Sheep gang shot it out with the FBI. The four lambs that survived—Mama died with the other three—are on cellblock B. I got an “apology.”
Philip Prescott Pig III was caught in insider trading and when searching his house, the skulls of his brothers were found in his basement. He’s on cellblock B also. I received a “reduced sentence.”
Red was killed by the Huntsman, who then spilled the beans on the whole plan, which was of course Red’s scheme to get Gram’s money. I was made a “trustee” for the remainder of my sentence, they won’t let me go—habitual offender…
Oh, and Benjamin Weasel disappeared the same night Red was killed. The Huntsman won’t say anything. He usually stays in solitary.
Then there’s my roommate. Let’s just say he was sent up for being generally incompetent. We’re playing checkers to pass the time. Your move, yer Honor! Hee-hee!
The End