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I lost my draft story, or did I?

I posted a draft start to a Halloween story:

Sheep of Doom

*************************************************

Copyright Oggbashan October 2006
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

*************************************************

It was Halloween and the late evening after our friends’ wedding. They had flown off to their honeymoon in the Bahamas and the reception had ended late afternoon.

There were just a few of us staying overnight in the remote country public house that had been the venue for the wedding and reception. The sense of anticlimax was obvious. As we sat around the glowing log fire we tried to entertain ourselves with ghost stories but none of them seemed at all scary or believable. Behind the bar the aged barman watched us.

“Why not ask him if there are any local ghost stories?” Someone suggested.

We did. He agreed on two conditions. The first condition was that we would order and pay for any more drinks now, so that he could shut down the bar. The second was that we would call it a night no later than one in the morning. We agreed to his conditions. Armed with a line of drinks we settled down to listen.

“Well, young masters, and young mistresses, this area is sheep country. It wasn’t always sheep country. The population used to be much larger than it is even now, with many small farms making a basic but reasonable living for those days. The landlord decided that sheep would produce more money than the tenant farmers could pay as rent and over a period of five years he evicted the lot of them, keeping just a handful as shepherds.

The land agent carried out the landlord’s orders except for one cottage that was occupied by Annie Blacksmith who was old and expected to die soon. The agent thought she would survive but a month or so and it wasn’t worth turning her out to starve. When the landlord saw that Annie’s cottage was still occupied he disagreed. His agent tried to explain and was dismissed for failure to execute the eviction.

On the day that Annie was to be removed from her cottage she got out of her bed for the first time in several weeks, dressed herself, and sat on a bench outside the front door. As the landlord approached with his bailiffs she stood up and shook her fist.

“Sheep is all you want,” She yelled, “Sheep you shall have. Sheep will bring you pelf. You and your heirs will answer for what you have done to the people of this land. The sheep of doom will come. That fate you cannot evade.”

Annie swayed on her feet.

“The sheep of doom will come…” She said before falling dead across the threshold of her cottage.”

The barman paused and drank some of his beer. We looked at each other. ‘The sheep of doom?’ seemed very far-fetched. The hound of doom; the wolf of doom; but a sheep?

“Of course the landlord thought that Annie had been raving and her threats were the delirium of a dying woman,” the barman continued, “but that very night in this house as the landlord settled himself down to sleep he heard the scrabble of sheep’s hooves along the corridor outside his room and a faint baaing. He dismissed it as a fantasy brought on by too much wine.

The sounds continued all night long. He made a joke of it at breakfast the next morning. After breakfast the landlord was due to join the local hunt. On the way to the meet he jumped his horse over a wall. They landed in a flock of sheep, throwing the landlord to the ground. The sheep, panicking, trampled him to death. He was found with his head resting on a dead sheep.

An unfortunate coincidence, people thought, until Master Jeffrey, the landlord’s heir came to the valley and stayed in this house. He too complained about the noise of sheep in the upstairs corridor. The next morning he went for a walk to inspect his newly inherited lands. As he crossed a stream a flock of sheep, panicked by a swooping eagle, rushed into him and knocked him down. He was found face down in the bed of the stream, drowned in a few inches of water.

After two deaths people began to wonder if there had been anything to Annie Blacksmith’s prophecy about the sheep of doom.

I don't think I can really inflict "Sheep of Doom" on Literotica's readers.

Or should I?

Og
 
oggbashan said:
I posted a draft start to a Halloween story:

Sheep of Doom

*************************************************

Copyright Oggbashan October 2006
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

*************************************************

It was Halloween and the late evening after our friends’ wedding. They had flown off to their honeymoon in the Bahamas and the reception had ended late afternoon.

There were just a few of us staying overnight in the remote country public house that had been the venue for the wedding and reception. The sense of anticlimax was obvious. As we sat around the glowing log fire we tried to entertain ourselves with ghost stories but none of them seemed at all scary or believable. Behind the bar the aged barman watched us.

“Why not ask him if there are any local ghost stories?” Someone suggested.

We did. He agreed on two conditions. The first condition was that we would order and pay for any more drinks now, so that he could shut down the bar. The second was that we would call it a night no later than one in the morning. We agreed to his conditions. Armed with a line of drinks we settled down to listen.

“Well, young masters, and young mistresses, this area is sheep country. It wasn’t always sheep country. The population used to be much larger than it is even now, with many small farms making a basic but reasonable living for those days. The landlord decided that sheep would produce more money than the tenant farmers could pay as rent and over a period of five years he evicted the lot of them, keeping just a handful as shepherds.

The land agent carried out the landlord’s orders except for one cottage that was occupied by Annie Blacksmith who was old and expected to die soon. The agent thought she would survive but a month or so and it wasn’t worth turning her out to starve. When the landlord saw that Annie’s cottage was still occupied he disagreed. His agent tried to explain and was dismissed for failure to execute the eviction.

On the day that Annie was to be removed from her cottage she got out of her bed for the first time in several weeks, dressed herself, and sat on a bench outside the front door. As the landlord approached with his bailiffs she stood up and shook her fist.

“Sheep is all you want,” She yelled, “Sheep you shall have. Sheep will bring you pelf. You and your heirs will answer for what you have done to the people of this land. The sheep of doom will come. That fate you cannot evade.”

Annie swayed on her feet.

“The sheep of doom will come…” She said before falling dead across the threshold of her cottage.”

The barman paused and drank some of his beer. We looked at each other. ‘The sheep of doom?’ seemed very far-fetched. The hound of doom; the wolf of doom; but a sheep?

“Of course the landlord thought that Annie had been raving and her threats were the delirium of a dying woman,” the barman continued, “but that very night in this house as the landlord settled himself down to sleep he heard the scrabble of sheep’s hooves along the corridor outside his room and a faint baaing. He dismissed it as a fantasy brought on by too much wine.

The sounds continued all night long. He made a joke of it at breakfast the next morning. After breakfast the landlord was due to join the local hunt. On the way to the meet he jumped his horse over a wall. They landed in a flock of sheep, throwing the landlord to the ground. The sheep, panicking, trampled him to death. He was found with his head resting on a dead sheep.

An unfortunate coincidence, people thought, until Master Jeffrey, the landlord’s heir came to the valley and stayed in this house. He too complained about the noise of sheep in the upstairs corridor. The next morning he went for a walk to inspect his newly inherited lands. As he crossed a stream a flock of sheep, panicked by a swooping eagle, rushed into him and knocked him down. He was found face down in the bed of the stream, drowned in a few inches of water.

After two deaths people began to wonder if there had been anything to Annie Blacksmith’s prophecy about the sheep of doom.

I don't think I can really inflict "Sheep of Doom" on Literotica's readers.

Or should I?

Og
Click to expand...


*chuckle* You don't have any troubles inflicting it on us, Sir Og.;)
 
Yeah, I was confused about a lot of the spelling on those multiple threads.

I mean, around these parts, you do see many PHUCK PHRED bumper stickers. You know, for that pretend-religious group that is really just a family hate-fest?

But I hadn't seen that in print lately.
 
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