Bored? Short Story I Made...
<div class="IPBDescription">Just for my writing class</div> Was supposed to be a quick English assignment. Basically, we were given the opening of short story bits and asked to carry it on. I thought having a suicidal dog would make things interesting. Anway, here's the product:
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<span style='font-size:14pt;line-height:100%'><u>A Dog Named Jackson</u></span>
<i>I have a dog named Jackson, who between the ages of four and five, in people years, became suicidal.</i>
In his mid-forties, (in dog years), Jackson was the second oldest in a family of four that lived with the Duncans on 37th Street, in the rather unremarkable town of Copperstone. Coincidentally, the faction of 37th street consisted of exactly thirty-seven dogs, and the entire faction considered Jackson as president of the faction. A well-trained golden retriever, Jackson was born an orphan after his mother was killed in a car accident. In spite of this, he managed to grow up to become your average Lassie; cunning, polite, a hero if the occasion called for it, reeking of leadership skills, et cetera.
The oldest in Jackson’s family was a German shepherd by the name of “Old Screamer”, legendary for her shrills in the prime of her life, but now receiving generous pensions of Iams, and on life support. Despite her age, she was anything but senile. Kind and knowledgeable, she was a fountain of wisdom to be seeked by canines even beyond Copperstone, and was Jackson’s trusted advisor, and the only mother he ever had.
After Screamer and Jackson were the twins Sunsky and Butch, carefree collies brought over from the farms to become natural city slickers. Any trace of their sheep-dog heritage was completely erased when you saw the two glued to the TV watching the Discovery Channel making bets on which predator would be dining on which hapless prey. As president, Jackson often chastised the twins, but nothing was ever accomplished, except a gradual build of annoyance.
Jackson’s presidency went undisturbed for a strong two years. In his third year, dystrophy kicked in with excruciatingly pain, like having a titanium sledgehammer swung to the ****. That kind of pain.
A border dispute had erupted between blocks 34 to 39, as it started with a few misfit canines who urinated on fire hydrants clearly not in their territory. This started the chain reaction that would lead to unauthorized urinating and defecating, setting the events for an all out war. Being the diplomat that he was, however, Jackson was against the use of violence and did his best to try to negotiate peace among the factions, although several members, including a considerable sum from his own faction, wanted to settle it with the traditional “only the strong survive” method.
In addition, an influx of feline refugees had arrived from the countryside, where a severe rodent famine had struck. Forced to flee the area, several cats immigrated to Copperstone, to the dismay of all dogs of the town. Again, Jackson tried to sympathize with the feline refugees and tried to hold negotiations between the cats and his kin. Unfortunately, the hereditary contempt that each side held for the other often led to steps taken backwards in reaching a peace and resettlement agreement.
Going into his forth year, a new arrival to Jackson’s faction would ultimately lead to his breakdown.
Only four months ago, the Duncans added a new family member: a young and haughty brute by the name of Quincy. He was a mongrel, (and mistake), of unknown origins, and very huge, like an elephant on steroids type huge. Although not too much on the bright side, Quincy was unfortunately bright enough to figure out that his size gave him the ability to bend certain rules, (i.e., respect your elders).
Disgusted by old Jackson’s “pansy” approach to the political turmoil, Quincy set about in rallying virtually all of faction 37 and set about crushing any opposition. His sheer size, brute force, and menacing teeth were enough for several dogs to glue their tails between their legs for an entire day. Some from other factions simply abandoned their block and conformed to Quincy’s fascistic terror. The dogs who once supported Jackson deserted him; months of negotiation had served nothing from what they saw as an old and failing leader, whereas only a few weeks under Quincy’s leadership had made them lords of all of Copperstone. Jackson was stripped of his presidency, and both he and Old Screamer were excommunicated from Copperstone. Their lives were spared, granted that they could leave the town before midnight. Old Screamer didn’t make it.
He ended up coming to me one night after my human companion had left our garage door open. I woke up hearing some clatter in the garage and quickly jolted up rushed downstairs. Barring my teeth out ready to take on what I thought would be some human dolt that had not completed Burglary 101, I came face to face with a dirty, scragged… I couldn’t even smell what it was. Then I saw his eyes: forlorn specks that were drained of life, and in his paw was a bottle he spilled.
It was antifreeze.
He started to tilt his head down, and before he could take his first lap, I had him in a half-nelson, (or the human equivalent of that move anyways). Starved, and beaten, Jackson still fought like bloody Cerberus, trying everything to get a lick of death until my human companion finally came down and helped me stop him.
It’s been several months since that night. He’s been living with us, and getting better. For the first few days, he still looked more like a starved cat, and he wouldn’t eat anything. I don’t think anyone thought he would make it, but something must have sparked in his mind to make him realize suicide isn’t the answer he’s looking for. I helped with his rehabilitation, and now he looks just like the president that he told me he used to be. In fact, I think he looks pretty damn cute. He must look just like the way he used to be, if not, then better looking. There’s only one change that wasn’t there when he was still president:
His eyes; his eyes scream for one thing:
Blood.
Quincy’s blood.
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Hope you guys didn't consider that too much of a waste of time.
<!--emo&???--><img src='http://www.natural-selection.org/forums/html/emoticons/confused.gif' border='0' style='vertical-align:middle' alt='confused.gif'><!--endemo--> - What's wrong with the word "c*otch"?
<!--QuoteBegin--></span><table border='0' align='center' width='95%' cellpadding='3' cellspacing='1'><tr><td><b>QUOTE</b> </td></tr><tr><td id='QUOTE'><!--QuoteEBegin-->
<span style='font-size:14pt;line-height:100%'><u>A Dog Named Jackson</u></span>
<i>I have a dog named Jackson, who between the ages of four and five, in people years, became suicidal.</i>
In his mid-forties, (in dog years), Jackson was the second oldest in a family of four that lived with the Duncans on 37th Street, in the rather unremarkable town of Copperstone. Coincidentally, the faction of 37th street consisted of exactly thirty-seven dogs, and the entire faction considered Jackson as president of the faction. A well-trained golden retriever, Jackson was born an orphan after his mother was killed in a car accident. In spite of this, he managed to grow up to become your average Lassie; cunning, polite, a hero if the occasion called for it, reeking of leadership skills, et cetera.
The oldest in Jackson’s family was a German shepherd by the name of “Old Screamer”, legendary for her shrills in the prime of her life, but now receiving generous pensions of Iams, and on life support. Despite her age, she was anything but senile. Kind and knowledgeable, she was a fountain of wisdom to be seeked by canines even beyond Copperstone, and was Jackson’s trusted advisor, and the only mother he ever had.
After Screamer and Jackson were the twins Sunsky and Butch, carefree collies brought over from the farms to become natural city slickers. Any trace of their sheep-dog heritage was completely erased when you saw the two glued to the TV watching the Discovery Channel making bets on which predator would be dining on which hapless prey. As president, Jackson often chastised the twins, but nothing was ever accomplished, except a gradual build of annoyance.
Jackson’s presidency went undisturbed for a strong two years. In his third year, dystrophy kicked in with excruciatingly pain, like having a titanium sledgehammer swung to the ****. That kind of pain.
A border dispute had erupted between blocks 34 to 39, as it started with a few misfit canines who urinated on fire hydrants clearly not in their territory. This started the chain reaction that would lead to unauthorized urinating and defecating, setting the events for an all out war. Being the diplomat that he was, however, Jackson was against the use of violence and did his best to try to negotiate peace among the factions, although several members, including a considerable sum from his own faction, wanted to settle it with the traditional “only the strong survive” method.
In addition, an influx of feline refugees had arrived from the countryside, where a severe rodent famine had struck. Forced to flee the area, several cats immigrated to Copperstone, to the dismay of all dogs of the town. Again, Jackson tried to sympathize with the feline refugees and tried to hold negotiations between the cats and his kin. Unfortunately, the hereditary contempt that each side held for the other often led to steps taken backwards in reaching a peace and resettlement agreement.
Going into his forth year, a new arrival to Jackson’s faction would ultimately lead to his breakdown.
Only four months ago, the Duncans added a new family member: a young and haughty brute by the name of Quincy. He was a mongrel, (and mistake), of unknown origins, and very huge, like an elephant on steroids type huge. Although not too much on the bright side, Quincy was unfortunately bright enough to figure out that his size gave him the ability to bend certain rules, (i.e., respect your elders).
Disgusted by old Jackson’s “pansy” approach to the political turmoil, Quincy set about in rallying virtually all of faction 37 and set about crushing any opposition. His sheer size, brute force, and menacing teeth were enough for several dogs to glue their tails between their legs for an entire day. Some from other factions simply abandoned their block and conformed to Quincy’s fascistic terror. The dogs who once supported Jackson deserted him; months of negotiation had served nothing from what they saw as an old and failing leader, whereas only a few weeks under Quincy’s leadership had made them lords of all of Copperstone. Jackson was stripped of his presidency, and both he and Old Screamer were excommunicated from Copperstone. Their lives were spared, granted that they could leave the town before midnight. Old Screamer didn’t make it.
He ended up coming to me one night after my human companion had left our garage door open. I woke up hearing some clatter in the garage and quickly jolted up rushed downstairs. Barring my teeth out ready to take on what I thought would be some human dolt that had not completed Burglary 101, I came face to face with a dirty, scragged… I couldn’t even smell what it was. Then I saw his eyes: forlorn specks that were drained of life, and in his paw was a bottle he spilled.
It was antifreeze.
He started to tilt his head down, and before he could take his first lap, I had him in a half-nelson, (or the human equivalent of that move anyways). Starved, and beaten, Jackson still fought like bloody Cerberus, trying everything to get a lick of death until my human companion finally came down and helped me stop him.
It’s been several months since that night. He’s been living with us, and getting better. For the first few days, he still looked more like a starved cat, and he wouldn’t eat anything. I don’t think anyone thought he would make it, but something must have sparked in his mind to make him realize suicide isn’t the answer he’s looking for. I helped with his rehabilitation, and now he looks just like the president that he told me he used to be. In fact, I think he looks pretty damn cute. He must look just like the way he used to be, if not, then better looking. There’s only one change that wasn’t there when he was still president:
His eyes; his eyes scream for one thing:
Blood.
Quincy’s blood.
<!--QuoteEnd--></td></tr></table><span class='postcolor'><!--QuoteEEnd-->
Hope you guys didn't consider that too much of a waste of time.
<!--emo&???--><img src='http://www.natural-selection.org/forums/html/emoticons/confused.gif' border='0' style='vertical-align:middle' alt='confused.gif'><!--endemo--> - What's wrong with the word "c*otch"?
Comments
interesting...
I'll post them here (attached file, perfectly clean, i'll convert to .doc)
They gonna be kind of hefty.
Second one (attached) is Slayer: Dies Irae - and no, it's not based upon the anime Slayers