However this isn't why your all here. In terms of projects, I'm working on a new D&D character class, the Mancer. With luck, I'll be able to wrap it up this month.
Now since I'm in another Fictional Writing class I figured I should share my bit of work here once again. In this assignment we were limited to 10 pages, double spaced. With these limits I couldn't quite broaden out things like I wanted to, and give simple explanations to some elements.
What can you expect? Well if you enjoy Sir Terry Pratchett's work then you should enjoy this short story. I wrote with in an attempt to emulate Terry's style of writing, giving a voice to each character in the story - and there's quite a few. Everyone that read it, including the teacher, enjoyed it, though until I read it out loud to them they were a bit confused with the story (and from my understanding this was a problem some people ran into when it came to Terry's work as well, thus they needed to reread the stories a few times to catch the voice).
When reading try giving everyone a southern accent - it'll help.
Also, fair warning, bad puns are to follow.
The short story to follow is my own creation and this is my intellectual property. Copy & Distribution is not allowed without my permission (though your free to share the link to this blog post for folks to read).
The Trouble With Milk
By: Sean Ropp (4/16/2019)
Wiryahire, is a sleepy old western
town, a town that has been built someplace intelligent, near a river and some
woods. Certainly not some god forsaken
desert where there is only one well to draw water from and the people are half
mad from the heat. Benches lined nearly
every building in town, save for the tavern due to the sudden egress of some
patrons via means of defenestration.
“Mornin, nother hot day Bob.” An old man said from where he sat on a bench
in front of the general store, spitting distance from the tavern, as another old
man approached him.
“Ah yep, so it is Bill, so it is.” Bob said as he sat next to the first upon a
bench. His head twitched to the side for
a moment before returning to normal.
This went unnoticed by Bill.
Across from their general store was
the inn and being a rather laid-back town not much was happening at that moment
in that direction. Oh, a few people were
going about their businesses, but as to what the old men were exactly staring
at was uncertain. Few people ventured to
talk to the pair as they often gave odd responses to questions.
However, the youth secretly observing
them from the cover of the inn, Charlie Thompson, (who kept tabs on them every
day, and an impressively long and detailed journal on his subjects), may have
had a good working guess. He had a
theory that the old men were in fact some sort of human-like autonomous
constructs that only ever sat around and observed people, reacting if needed. On Charlie’s shoulder, a reddish/brown and
white weasel sat and looked at the old men with an odd malevolence in its beady
glare. The youth tucked his notepad away
in his overalls and ducked back around the building where he took to his heels,
moving on to a new observation point.
Note, that while the misadventures of
young Charlie and his intrepid weasel, Mr. Terrible, would have been the type
of story one may want to read about…the pair would not play a part in the
goings on of the day. As the day marched
on toward noon, the distant sound of thunder could be heard, and eventually the
ground began to tremble.
The shake was steady, a low rumble at
first, but slowly grew. The old men seemed
to not notice any of this as another old man came out of the commode along side
the store and ventured over to where the old men sat. Unlike the two on the bench, this man
appeared grubby with a wild and unkept look to himself. “What’ssh thissh sshaking all about?” He inquired as he whistled his ‘s’ sounds
through his few remaining teeth.
“One of them earthy quakers I recon.”
Bill said casually.
Bob turned his head sharply to look
at the new comer. “In appropriate
quotient reached.” He blurted out.
Both of the other men looked at Bob,
a note of alarm on the face of Bill that was shortly followed by a slight head
tilt and widened eyes that conveyed a particular message. Bob blinked, shook his head, and corrected
himself. “Err, I mean it is quite the whatser
call it.”
Monty, the new comer to the porch,
leaned against a pole and spat into the dirt.
“Look, you can sshee the rockssh dancing.” He said with his whistling.
The ground was rumbling far more
now. “Everyone gets inside right
now!” A woman’s voice bellowed out a
moment before they noticed a horse with said owner flying down the main
road. As she passed, she called out
again. “It’s the Milk Boys, their a
stampeding into town!” Her passing was like
a wind, with little time for people to process what they had heard, let alone
make out who was on the saddle.
The Milk Boys, an unusual gang of ruffians
that would move into towns and run some sort scam or another and once they had
gotten what they wanted out of things they would stampede out, leaving a very
literal mess in their wake. A few minutes
after her passing, the gang arrived.
Cattle charged into town, each with a job, a task to perform. The black and white dairy Holsteins spread
out, one coming to stand in front of the doors of each building. The grocery store, and sheriff’s office were
completely surrounded within moments.
“Cowssh don’t act like thissh. Well thissh issh a right pickle we’re
in.” Monty whistled to the two benched
old men.
“What type?” Both old men asked in an odd unison, catching
only the pickle analogy.
With the cows spread around town, and
after several long minutes of work the Milk Boys themselves came into town. A path within the cattle opened for the three
of them as they rode their bulls in. At
the lead was their leader, Hulden Schmidt.
A large man, he looked like he was fresh from the farm. His broad features were accented by his
equally bushy beard, milk stained overalls, and tufts of straw poking out from
everywhere. Behind him followed the
other two members of the gang.
Ronny Schmidt, youngest of the three,
was the sort who liked to cause trouble.
He was bald, and his eyes shifted back and forth, taking in and marking
places he could cause mischief. One eye
twitched uncontrollably. Something was
off about Ronny, everyone knew it. He
too wore overalls, but no shirt.
Finally, there was Lenya Schmidt, the
only girl of the boy’s gang. She was
dressed like a stereotypical dairy maid, her golden curly hair bouncing lightly
under the white bonnet. A beauty that
belonged in advertisement than a top a bull.
She glared disdainfully at the old men as they watched the trio ride
in. Unlike her two brothers, whom were
covered in dried milk, and assorted patches of mud, straw, grime and a
pervading smell of cow, Lenya appeared clean to the point that her dress may as
well have been making a ‘ting’ sound
whenever the light fell upon it in a certain way. Her bull was also the only one with a saddle.
Around town, people stood on
balconies (if there were any), remained on porches if that was where they were,
and those that couldn’t get out of a building were sticking their heads out of
windows. The gang leaders came to a stop
in the middle of the town, roughly in front of the tavern. Holden cupped his hands around his mouth to
boom his voice out more.
“We’re the Milk Boys!” He yelled.
A small cough from Lenya brought about a quick addition. “And our beloved sister whom we respect and
admire.”
Lenya nodded her head in
satisfaction. Every man knows who really
wears the pants in a healthy family dynamic, and it is never them. They just need to be reminded every once in a
while.
Hulden continued his monologue. “From now on, all of this town’s milk belongs
to us. Your cows will be
induc…indorc…made one of us.” He said
with a nod of self-satisfaction at a job of verbal juggling well resolved.
“You monsters!” A woman cried from the upstairs window of the
grocers. “How will our children get
their strong bones now!”
“And just how will we eat our
cookies. Tain’t proper to eat cookies
without a cup o’ milk.” Another voice
chimed in. A general din of disapproval
came from the people now that someone had spoken up.
Lenya spoke up now, her voice was melodious. “Listen here you [censored]
gits! You’ll [censored]
do what we [censored] say or else we’ll [censored] [censored] you with your own [censored] cows!” She
said. Though melodious in tone, her
manners would give a sailor a reason to blush.
“Did you hear thossh odd beepssh whenever sshe
tried to sshay a bad word?” Monty whistled
at the benched old men.
“Multiple Children detected; speech
patterns redacted.” Bob said, his eyes
gleaming with an unearthliness, and promptly got an elbow from his companion
again. “Fairies…must have been
fairies.” He corrected, the gleam
immediately leaving his eyes.
While this all occurred, Ronny had
vanished off the top of his bull. Had
anyone checked the commodes at that moment they would have found him there with
a hammer and a fist full of nails.
Hulden raised his arms amidst the
bray of voices and motioned for silence.
“Now then, you have nothing to worry about – so long as you buy your
milk from us.”
At this point a din of questions were
hurled in his direction, since it was possible that here was a chance to get milk
at a bargain. Hulden, mentally unprepared
for this ‘interest’, froze and in the depths of his mind had something of a
mental seizure. Lenya on the other hand
simply smiled, as the dam that was her patience was rapidly moving to the point
of bursting again.
At the same time that the cows had finished
encircling the buildings, Sheriff Andrew Bulwark, had quickly deduced that
there were several problems for himself in all of this. First his hefty paunch would not be able to
move past the trio of cows that were parked on his porch. The back entrance was equally guarded. In a town where the worst crime was drinking
to much and a forced lesson on aided flight, the sheriff had plenty of time to
sample the various pies and meals that his wife made.
“Jimmy!” He called out in his robust voice.
His deputy, Jimmy Harker, made an
audible jump from where he watched things from the second floor. After a moment the deputy fell down the
stairs. He was fairly young, had a good
sharp mind, and fast hands – a good thing for a lawman. But the most important thing at this moment
was that he was skinny, all knees and elbows as his mother had put it. “You called sheriff?” He inquired once he picked himself up.
“I can’t get out, but I reckon you
can.” Sheriff Bulwark said. “Go get him, there’s no other choice.”
The lanky deputy swallowed, his
Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, but he smiled regardless of his nerves. Knowing not to stand around gabbing about it,
he moved to the backdoor. The Holsteins
waiting outside reared back their legs and kicked, they’d been waiting for
this. But they had been expecting a slow
and very large sheriff, not the lanky – yet agile – deputy. Hoofs slammed into the door seconds after the
deputy dove and rolled out of the way.
Well that was a close one! He thought. Picking himself up was ever a choir, but he
made short work of it, after all he did have a lot of practice at this.
The cows had been trained to keep
people in, not about what to do if someone got out. One cow mood this question to the other. The equivalent response was like that of a
shoulder shrug, and the two continued to stand guard as Deputy Harker took off
at a sprint. The river wasn’t far away,
so a horse wasn’t needed, plus the place was quite full of cows, which made his
lone traversal far easier than it would have been with a horse.
Soon he was tumbling down the river
bank and into the water. While agile, relatively
smart, and quick, he was not well coordinated.
As he picked his soaking wet self-up, a head surfaced in the river. Ears twitched as the large eyes regarded him.
“There you are Hercules, it’s the
Milk Boys, we need your help!” The
deputy said.
The head surfaced and regarded the
deputy for a moment before nodding its amicable understanding. Then Hercules was moving to the river bank,
and once up next to where a large white cowboy hat rested, he made movement
that defied metaphysical explanations that put it upon his head. With his hat
on, Hercules charged down the road with the deputy legging it behind him. On the hat, a silver badge shown like a golden
sun from the reflected light, the words ‘SPECIAL RANGER’ were stamped into the
metal circle around the star of the badge.
The first warning anyone had that
someone was approaching was a steady pounding of the ground that was the work
of a lone being and not a herd. Ronny
Schmidt felt it as he was nailing shut the doors of another commode, his second
one for the day. As a teen he found this
all to be in good fun, never mind the fact that he might have a need to use one
of those commodes himself in the very near future.
Shrugging at the odd feeling, he went
back about his work, hammering in another pair of nails. There was so much fun to be had in watching
people panic because they were seconds away from messing themselves. He stopped when an odd rumbling bellow, “HUR-HUR-HUR-RUMPH” sounded out from
somewhere close by. Ronny looked up from
his work and looked around, the rumbling of the ground was more pronounced now.
After only a moment of investigation,
a massive grey shape drifted to a sliding stop and charged at Ronny, whom
pulled ineffectually at the commode door.
The form bowled him over as if he were nothing. Had he not nailed the door closed he could
have hidden in there, a fact he would reflect upon to his personal specter of
Death, whom had to explain that it would have done him no good at that point
since the commode was in ruins as well.
The cacophony of noise drew the attention
of the remaining Schmidt’s, and the cows who in the outlying areas had already
started to panic upon seeing the legend.
They knew who Hercules was, and as dumb as cows could be, they knew that
it was time to beat hoof and leave town, and so word spread fast with ‘moos’ of fear.
Hulden had enough time to come out of
his mental coma to regard the grey shape that was bellowing ‘HUR-HUR-HUR-RUMPH’ as it charged down
the road! The cattle were already
panicking at the appearance of Hercules and knew that this street was not where
they wanted to be. Thrown from the back
of the bull as it turned, took a few steps, and reared up to get rid of the
extra weight. Hulden’s fall was only
broken by the fresh steamer his bull had just made. Unfortunately, this didn’t save him from the
trampling that followed, his death only sighed despairingly at him as he
reentered his mental paralysis, unable to process his new state.
Lenya, on the other hand, was not so
incumbered with mental coma. “Is that a
[censored] hippo!”
Such were the last words of many a villain who crossed paths with all
four tons of the great Hercules. Her own
diatribe of now uncensored cursing at this unusual hero were spoke in the
afterlife to her own version of Death as the specter waited patiently, she’d
heard worse, but not by much.
“Thank you, Hercules!” The sheriff wheezed as he came out to greet
the returning Hippo from his vanquishing of the invaders. The deputy was ever several dozen steps
behind the massive animal as it sauntered up to the sheriff. It gave an appreciative ‘hurrumph’ and nod of its massive head before walking past him and
the growing throng of citizens whom had come out to thank their hero as he returned
to the river.
“Funny how a Hippo’s a Ranger,
doesn’t seem right really.” The deputy
said to the Sheriff. This also incurred
similar response from the citizens who were close enough to pick up on the
comment.
Turning slighting, the sheriff gave
him a look. “From my understandin, he
wanted to be one. Word from the wise,
don’t argue with a hippo.”
From their place on the porch, the
two old men looked at each other; Bill spoke first.
“Well that was something new.”
“Quantum anomalies were detected…err
and there’s something not right with that hippo.” Bob said, and at this Bill palmed his face in
a gesture of exasperation. Monty missed
the conversation.
Meanwhile, Charlie, from his new
vantage point from under the porch, made some more notes. When he was done, he crawled back along the
trench he’d spent days making and took off running. “Golly Mr. Terrible, I’m
more certain now than ever that they ain’t normal people.”
Mr. Terrible, from his usual vantage
point on Charlies shoulder, said in a voice that dripped with the darkness of
one who has done unspeakable and truly terrible things. “Ah, who truly is my boy.”
Copyright: "The Trouble With Milk" Sean Ropp 2019
