Post by troblsomtwins829 on Apr 15, 2015 13:25:28 GMT -8
Please note: This short story is not yet complete, but i would LOVE LOVE LOVE some critique or advice on how i can improve it 
well, everything after the first paragraph, anyway; as it's based on the tragically true story of how i woke up one morning, lol.
Also, items to note, these two characters are partners of an odd-jobs sort of deal that deals with jobs including, but not limited to: Veterinary services, Lawn care, pet sitting, Baby sitting, lost and found registry and supernatural cases. Yeah, they do a lot. ENJOY!
without Further Adieu:
well, everything after the first paragraph, anyway; as it's based on the tragically true story of how i woke up one morning, lol.Also, items to note, these two characters are partners of an odd-jobs sort of deal that deals with jobs including, but not limited to: Veterinary services, Lawn care, pet sitting, Baby sitting, lost and found registry and supernatural cases. Yeah, they do a lot. ENJOY!
without Further Adieu:
Wolf Of the Plains - At the Rope
A Short Story
Written by Karen Wolf
To be continued...
A Short Story
Written by Karen Wolf
I was awoken by voices. The darkness of my cell blocked any light from the moon overhead along with the sheets over my
own skull.
The voices grew more frequent still, magnifying in the silence around them as a busy city during rush hour, it was a symphonic orchestra of monotonous beeps. I turned sleepily to the source of the unintelligible noise and hit the box from which it came no less than five times before I had acknowledged my defeat and opened my eyes to try and actually locate the snooze button. Judging from what I had caught from the last bit of what I thought was a conversation, before realizing it was something else entirely, something tells me today was going to be an disappointingly interesting day.
It was six o'clock that Wednesday morning and I was too warm, curled up in my sheets, to desire anything but sleep. Sadly, though, I cannot. I turned my head to face up at my dark ceiling for a moment and then forced myself to rise from my cranium snuggler and sat upright, for the most part. From there I yawned in great silence as I twisted my back in both directions until I felt satisfied or, more often, heard an equally satisfying series of pops. By the time I had finished my morning formalities, it was six twenty and I had just put on my pants when a rusty bell, followed by five knocks, in sequence, announced the one and only Nicholas Ware; bearing sacrificial breakfast, I hope.
I can only imagine how awkward it is for someone to knock on a door only to have it opened by a proudly homosexual woman of twenty five wearing a black sports bra and pants and displaying what was visible of my boxers, as said pants were not yet zipped. Nick wasn't fazed, he already has a gold digging girlfriend and knew me better than to feel anything but that he probably could have waited long enough for me to at least tame my horrible mane.
"Your favourite delivery boy has brought pork slices and meat-biscuits" he announced, his own deep brown bed head was a little tamer than mine, but his, normally muddy, eyes were bright and expectant. He was wearing his favorite blue plaid collar shirt, and his lucky jeans, followed by his novelty Titanic belt buckle. Must be a good day.
I laughed. "You mean you got sausage and bacon melts from the dollar menu. Come on in." I stood to the side and waved him in. My friend made a B-line for my coffee table, as I both A: didn't have any other clear table to put food on and B: my one and only dining table was covered in various papers. I don't even know half of what's in there, I've been meaning to go through it. I thoughtfully zipped my trousers as Nick left again to his car, returning moments later with a coffee in each hand and a file under his arm whilst I, myself, marched to my drawers and selected a fitting shirt for the day.
It was a baggy shirt, for men, in pale red that boldly stated "HEED ME" on the front and "GO HITHER" on the back. It was profoundly accurate, not to mention obnoxious -as the letters were florescent, and were impossible to ignore.
"One hazelnut, two creams, five sugars." Nick held out the insulated paper cup as I exited my room, it was just off the living room, I took it from him.
"Thank you kindly," I said, sipping the froth, he put whipped cream on top, like always; always rendering further spoons of sugar null. "Whatcha got there?" I pointed to the file.
"THIS, my dear Kat, is our best payed job this year." He announced happily.
"You mean the hippo dentistry wasn't good enough?"
His face went pale a moment, large, powerful animals scared him, and just this early spring a hippo at the zoo was having problems in his mouth, and we were the best and closest on call. Nick got grazed by a tooth when we'd hit a particularly sore spot and the large animal jerked suddenly. He still has a scar on his side, just under his armpit.
"No. We're not doing that...again." Nick tried to regain his composure, nervously combing back his bangs with his fingers, "no, we're actually helping out in one of your favorite events."
I looked at him blankly, just like the sun washing away the mist as it rose, it washed away my train of thought along with it.
"They're having a rodeo event at the fair and want us to help out the-"
"The bull riders?!" I finished, excitement clear on my face, I had always loved the bull riding events at rodeos, forget official bull riding tournaments, though I had no skill at the rope myself, I've wrangled feisty enough cattle and horses to get a general idea. I loved the spectacle nonetheless. Nick, not immune to my enthusiasm, found it just has hard to hide his toothy smile; I could tell he was terrified to work with such powerful beasts, but our assistance was going to be a cooperative one, unlike the hippo where one held the brute down while the other scrubbed.
"But that's not all we're doing," Nick sat down on my ragged brown couch, I followed in suite, and opened up the file, "local department didn't want to deal with this one, felt that it was more... 'In our expertise.'" He began, spreading a few pictures out, each contained various bulls and small bite wounds that looked like a common vampire bat, "Andrew Gunderson, the host of the rodeo we'll be working at, had fifteen healthy brutes just two months ago. Now, all of a sudden, they're not as violent as they should be."
"Maybe they're bored," I muttered jokingly.
"Well, take this one, Titan," Nick pulled out the picture of a handsome and muscular black bull with white and Brown splashed on his face, chest and legs, "Titan's the strongest, most violent bull Gunderson's got, no rider can sit on him more than a few seconds, to record. Now look at this one," he pulled a second picture of the same bull, the time stamp was just two weeks after the first - it's always good to have recent photos of the bulls to be ridden- there was an obvious difference. Titan's fur was dull, his head was lower, his tail and eyes dropped and he had a generally hopeless look on his face. It was a subtle enough change that he looked perfectly healthy to anyone else, but to the trained eye of a rider, a vet, a rancher, or even his owner, something was seriously wrong with this fella.
"Two weeks?" I asked.
"Two weeks." Nick confirmed, "and it's not just him either, eight other bulls are just the same way, they're low on energy, lethargic and just don't want to do anything. Gunderson had a rider test out Titan just last week, and when they opened the gate. Nothing. Like he just lost his will."
"That IS weird... And those bite marks?" I noted, pointing at the bite mark images, the bites were very small, easily less than an inch apart.
"Vampire bats?"
"Possibly, unless there's a Bunicula running around." We laughed again. Livestock is a common target of vampire bats, sometimes they get big, but generally, they're pretty small, and more a nuisance than anything. And Gunderson's bulls must have looked like prime cuts to have so many bites that it had to be reported.
We looked through the files and pictures for a while, and lazily sipped out coffee and ate our melts. Nick got the sausage, I got the bacon, we traded just to see if the other's tasted better only to return loyally to our own. Convinced it was the best.
We pulled up to Andrew Gunderson's trailer about ten thirty someodd, he we standing outside yelling at a small built man that looked like a horse jockey. I commented about any local races, Nick shook his head. We both stepped out of our, or, Nick's, rusty flame patterned Triumph Herald convertible. With its rusty tire rims and squeaky breaks.
"You really need to get this puppy fixed." I commented.
"If I could afford it, I would." His usual defense, "Bertha's worth every cent, if I can get her to a good body shop."
"I still have no idea why you insist on calling it that-"
"Her." Nick corrected, "she's the light of my life and the only woman who hasn't left me... Well, besides you." He stammered, adding that last comment after a moment of contemplative silence.
"Friends don't count." I chuckled.
We were no more than ten feet from Gunderson before he responded to our presence.
"Weel 's about damn teim y'all's got here! Ah was 'bout to tell that there Bucky to just gon 'n call a vet!" He was a stocky man, thick arms and legs and hair most everywhere I'd care to look at. It was sticking from his leather gloves, rolled up sleeves, even from underneath his shirt. At the top.
He had no beard, but his mustache was easily long enough to be braided with decorative items; and indeed it was, I could
count five differently coloured beads from just a glance. "Now," he continued, "y'all got that fi-all, y'all know whatcher doin'?"
"We're at the gate." I announced, trying very hard to keep a poker face.
"And part if the show," Nick added in turn, he was far less enthused.
"Ate tha gate, parter da show," Gunderson laughed a deep grumble as he bent down into a chest beside his trailer and pulled out a couple small bags and threw them to us. "Yer also on gaud duty. Now, ah dunno wut out thar's bin eat'n at mah bulls, 'n you twoer gonna git to da bottom o' it!"
I tried hard to keep from laughing at Gunderson and his accent, southerners are always entertaining that way; Nick, unhappy with my failed attempts to keep my cool, nudged me hard on my elbow to get me to stop. It wasn't completely successful, but Gunderson started grumbling on about preparations and the events of the show and then left the two of us alone with "find that Bucky, 'n 'eel wok ya through et!" And as soon as he was out of ear shot, I lost it.
Nick just rolled his eyes and went to checking those sacks we'd received. Inside each was a flashlight, spare batteries, a thirty foot coil of rope and a pair of mismatched gloves, making five colors between them; oddly enough, the same colors on Gunderson's long-stache. Coincidence? I think not.
After I had calmed down, which had taken maybe thirty, forty seconds, including warm up and cool down, I too Nick's attention away from the technicolor glove set and pointed at the squat, Nicky fellow I saw when we pulled in.
"Think that might be Bucky?" I asked, the jock was wearing chaps, boots and cowboy hat, stereotypically so, but he looked like the goof ball type, the way he was hovering around the horses like a jocular fly deciding the perfect place to land a ten.
own skull.
The voices grew more frequent still, magnifying in the silence around them as a busy city during rush hour, it was a symphonic orchestra of monotonous beeps. I turned sleepily to the source of the unintelligible noise and hit the box from which it came no less than five times before I had acknowledged my defeat and opened my eyes to try and actually locate the snooze button. Judging from what I had caught from the last bit of what I thought was a conversation, before realizing it was something else entirely, something tells me today was going to be an disappointingly interesting day.
It was six o'clock that Wednesday morning and I was too warm, curled up in my sheets, to desire anything but sleep. Sadly, though, I cannot. I turned my head to face up at my dark ceiling for a moment and then forced myself to rise from my cranium snuggler and sat upright, for the most part. From there I yawned in great silence as I twisted my back in both directions until I felt satisfied or, more often, heard an equally satisfying series of pops. By the time I had finished my morning formalities, it was six twenty and I had just put on my pants when a rusty bell, followed by five knocks, in sequence, announced the one and only Nicholas Ware; bearing sacrificial breakfast, I hope.
I can only imagine how awkward it is for someone to knock on a door only to have it opened by a proudly homosexual woman of twenty five wearing a black sports bra and pants and displaying what was visible of my boxers, as said pants were not yet zipped. Nick wasn't fazed, he already has a gold digging girlfriend and knew me better than to feel anything but that he probably could have waited long enough for me to at least tame my horrible mane.
"Your favourite delivery boy has brought pork slices and meat-biscuits" he announced, his own deep brown bed head was a little tamer than mine, but his, normally muddy, eyes were bright and expectant. He was wearing his favorite blue plaid collar shirt, and his lucky jeans, followed by his novelty Titanic belt buckle. Must be a good day.
I laughed. "You mean you got sausage and bacon melts from the dollar menu. Come on in." I stood to the side and waved him in. My friend made a B-line for my coffee table, as I both A: didn't have any other clear table to put food on and B: my one and only dining table was covered in various papers. I don't even know half of what's in there, I've been meaning to go through it. I thoughtfully zipped my trousers as Nick left again to his car, returning moments later with a coffee in each hand and a file under his arm whilst I, myself, marched to my drawers and selected a fitting shirt for the day.
It was a baggy shirt, for men, in pale red that boldly stated "HEED ME" on the front and "GO HITHER" on the back. It was profoundly accurate, not to mention obnoxious -as the letters were florescent, and were impossible to ignore.
"One hazelnut, two creams, five sugars." Nick held out the insulated paper cup as I exited my room, it was just off the living room, I took it from him.
"Thank you kindly," I said, sipping the froth, he put whipped cream on top, like always; always rendering further spoons of sugar null. "Whatcha got there?" I pointed to the file.
"THIS, my dear Kat, is our best payed job this year." He announced happily.
"You mean the hippo dentistry wasn't good enough?"
His face went pale a moment, large, powerful animals scared him, and just this early spring a hippo at the zoo was having problems in his mouth, and we were the best and closest on call. Nick got grazed by a tooth when we'd hit a particularly sore spot and the large animal jerked suddenly. He still has a scar on his side, just under his armpit.
"No. We're not doing that...again." Nick tried to regain his composure, nervously combing back his bangs with his fingers, "no, we're actually helping out in one of your favorite events."
I looked at him blankly, just like the sun washing away the mist as it rose, it washed away my train of thought along with it.
"They're having a rodeo event at the fair and want us to help out the-"
"The bull riders?!" I finished, excitement clear on my face, I had always loved the bull riding events at rodeos, forget official bull riding tournaments, though I had no skill at the rope myself, I've wrangled feisty enough cattle and horses to get a general idea. I loved the spectacle nonetheless. Nick, not immune to my enthusiasm, found it just has hard to hide his toothy smile; I could tell he was terrified to work with such powerful beasts, but our assistance was going to be a cooperative one, unlike the hippo where one held the brute down while the other scrubbed.
"But that's not all we're doing," Nick sat down on my ragged brown couch, I followed in suite, and opened up the file, "local department didn't want to deal with this one, felt that it was more... 'In our expertise.'" He began, spreading a few pictures out, each contained various bulls and small bite wounds that looked like a common vampire bat, "Andrew Gunderson, the host of the rodeo we'll be working at, had fifteen healthy brutes just two months ago. Now, all of a sudden, they're not as violent as they should be."
"Maybe they're bored," I muttered jokingly.
"Well, take this one, Titan," Nick pulled out the picture of a handsome and muscular black bull with white and Brown splashed on his face, chest and legs, "Titan's the strongest, most violent bull Gunderson's got, no rider can sit on him more than a few seconds, to record. Now look at this one," he pulled a second picture of the same bull, the time stamp was just two weeks after the first - it's always good to have recent photos of the bulls to be ridden- there was an obvious difference. Titan's fur was dull, his head was lower, his tail and eyes dropped and he had a generally hopeless look on his face. It was a subtle enough change that he looked perfectly healthy to anyone else, but to the trained eye of a rider, a vet, a rancher, or even his owner, something was seriously wrong with this fella.
"Two weeks?" I asked.
"Two weeks." Nick confirmed, "and it's not just him either, eight other bulls are just the same way, they're low on energy, lethargic and just don't want to do anything. Gunderson had a rider test out Titan just last week, and when they opened the gate. Nothing. Like he just lost his will."
"That IS weird... And those bite marks?" I noted, pointing at the bite mark images, the bites were very small, easily less than an inch apart.
"Vampire bats?"
"Possibly, unless there's a Bunicula running around." We laughed again. Livestock is a common target of vampire bats, sometimes they get big, but generally, they're pretty small, and more a nuisance than anything. And Gunderson's bulls must have looked like prime cuts to have so many bites that it had to be reported.
We looked through the files and pictures for a while, and lazily sipped out coffee and ate our melts. Nick got the sausage, I got the bacon, we traded just to see if the other's tasted better only to return loyally to our own. Convinced it was the best.
_-*-*-*-_
We pulled up to Andrew Gunderson's trailer about ten thirty someodd, he we standing outside yelling at a small built man that looked like a horse jockey. I commented about any local races, Nick shook his head. We both stepped out of our, or, Nick's, rusty flame patterned Triumph Herald convertible. With its rusty tire rims and squeaky breaks.
"You really need to get this puppy fixed." I commented.
"If I could afford it, I would." His usual defense, "Bertha's worth every cent, if I can get her to a good body shop."
"I still have no idea why you insist on calling it that-"
"Her." Nick corrected, "she's the light of my life and the only woman who hasn't left me... Well, besides you." He stammered, adding that last comment after a moment of contemplative silence.
"Friends don't count." I chuckled.
We were no more than ten feet from Gunderson before he responded to our presence.
"Weel 's about damn teim y'all's got here! Ah was 'bout to tell that there Bucky to just gon 'n call a vet!" He was a stocky man, thick arms and legs and hair most everywhere I'd care to look at. It was sticking from his leather gloves, rolled up sleeves, even from underneath his shirt. At the top.
He had no beard, but his mustache was easily long enough to be braided with decorative items; and indeed it was, I could
count five differently coloured beads from just a glance. "Now," he continued, "y'all got that fi-all, y'all know whatcher doin'?"
"We're at the gate." I announced, trying very hard to keep a poker face.
"And part if the show," Nick added in turn, he was far less enthused.
"Ate tha gate, parter da show," Gunderson laughed a deep grumble as he bent down into a chest beside his trailer and pulled out a couple small bags and threw them to us. "Yer also on gaud duty. Now, ah dunno wut out thar's bin eat'n at mah bulls, 'n you twoer gonna git to da bottom o' it!"
I tried hard to keep from laughing at Gunderson and his accent, southerners are always entertaining that way; Nick, unhappy with my failed attempts to keep my cool, nudged me hard on my elbow to get me to stop. It wasn't completely successful, but Gunderson started grumbling on about preparations and the events of the show and then left the two of us alone with "find that Bucky, 'n 'eel wok ya through et!" And as soon as he was out of ear shot, I lost it.
Nick just rolled his eyes and went to checking those sacks we'd received. Inside each was a flashlight, spare batteries, a thirty foot coil of rope and a pair of mismatched gloves, making five colors between them; oddly enough, the same colors on Gunderson's long-stache. Coincidence? I think not.
After I had calmed down, which had taken maybe thirty, forty seconds, including warm up and cool down, I too Nick's attention away from the technicolor glove set and pointed at the squat, Nicky fellow I saw when we pulled in.
"Think that might be Bucky?" I asked, the jock was wearing chaps, boots and cowboy hat, stereotypically so, but he looked like the goof ball type, the way he was hovering around the horses like a jocular fly deciding the perfect place to land a ten.
