10-27-21

G3 continues to amaze and entertain me with his writing. He far surpasses me when it comes to talent and creativity. When I was his age, I was still rebelling against stupid school assignments. I despised writing — all kinds of writing. The concept of doing it for fun was about as appealing as taking a bath in battery acid. But G3 really enjoys having a few moments to himself every morning to clear his head before school starts and to work on something that interests him. Each day starts with free writing. Sometimes he wants ten minutes. Occasionally it’s a half hour. Whatever makes him happy because writing is too important not to allow him the time. I think one of the hardest aspects about going back to real school will be the loss of his free writing. In school, everything will be on his teachers’ schedule and he will miss having time to be alone with his ideas and to express his creativity. Hopefully though, school won’t kill his desire to write stories.

Here is his most recent short story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Woodstock

Once there was a town surrounded by forest called Woodstock. In the fall, people would flood the streets to try and take a “hundred dollar photo” of the trees. As you can imagine, if you were in the centre of the town, it would feel as if you were surrounded by the most beautiful natural barrier in all of America. The hills almost moved when a wind blew and the trees shook. Right on the edge of the of town, and near this natural barricade, there was a farm. It was at the end of a dirt road and it had a good number of animals. Though it was small, the farmer, or the Governor as some thought of him, was well off. He only owned five acres of land, but he used it well. Maple trees dappled the property, and every fall, some men would come and take from them the sap to make syrup. Across America, people would buy it and then continue buying it because of its unique taste. No one knew, not even the the farmer, what was in the maple tree that made the syrup taste so fantastic. Years passed and the farmer grew old. Awhile back, his wife passed due to pneumonia and he was left alone. And the animals got worried.

One winter day, the Pen Council met under the barn roof. There was one animal representative for each species. Buddy the dog who now sported gray fur, Slick the cat with shiny black fur, Bell the cow who always wore a bell, Muddy the pig who had black spots all over, Hay the horse with a childish yet serious look on his face, and Quacks the duck who was a Northern Pintail and had an extra long tail. Quacks spoke first since she was the head council member. 

“The issue we have come here to discuss,” her voice boomed so all the spectators could hear, “is what we should do if the Governor dies.”

All the animals looked dumbfound. Many cried out, “Is he dying?” “When?” “How!?”

 “ORDER IN THE BARN,” she quacked. “Buddy has something to bark.”

“When I was young, and not the old geezer I am now, this same thing happened over at Ron’s farm, which is now The Child’s Farm. Many of you don’t know, but when Ron died all the animals were put out of their homes and made into great delicacies for humans to enjoy, except the sheep. The new owner even bought all the sheep from this farm, including my best friend, Speck. So, unless we want this farm to end up like Child’s farm, I would recommend you tell us an idea of where to go. I now open up the the council to idea—.”

“I know one,” neighed Hay the newest member of the council.

“How would you know, you’re pretty much a colt?” mewed Slick.

“My father, White Stallion, told me about a place he had seen in one of his adventures. It was called The Old Dude Ranch. One hundred and fifty acres of protected forest, or for the smaller minded, no hunting,” Hay replied.

After the mention of the White Stallion, everyone believed Hay because everyone knew the White Stallion as the Old General. He earned this name by being the most feared and brave animal in Woodstock. Legend had it that he chased down a pack of wolves over miles, even into a place called Canada, just to retrieve three animal-napped piglets.

Everybody trusted White Stallion, except Slick. This is because on a training exercise he ran over her fiancé. But no charges were pressed because he had done so much for the farm. 

“Your father was a horse interested only in fame. He didn’t really want to help the farm and its animals,” replied Slick cooly.

The barn, even the wind, seemed to gasp.

“You. How dare you insult my father?” He was surprised more than anyone at this insult. “Protecter of this farm and its animals. White Stallion’s name is not to be trotted over.”

“Well, he should not have run over my love, Trio.”

As the barn’s atmosphere became intense, all the animals kept swerving their heads to watch each part of this debate.

“Quacks, shut this oink down. It’s getting out oink of control,” whispered Muddy to Quacks.

“I legally can’t because The Book Of Farm Laws says, in section 14, that one cannot stop a debate. This is so the spectators get a three sixty view of each side,” Quacks quacked back.

“But this is not a debate, it is an argument,’’ mooed Bell.

“Plus, you are technically the oink Prime Minister of the farm oink, so you have the right to do so oink,” said Muddy, but secretly, Quacks wanted the argument to go on because now it was getting really heated.

“Alright, everyone settle down. We will send a party of three in search of this ranch. Everyone who opposes, say nay, and all in favor, say ay. All in favor,” Quacks said in a reprimanding type voice.

“Ay,” the whole room now echoed with agreement.

“All not in favor say nay,” Quacks said in a lower voice. 

“Nay,” mooed a tiny calf.

As the roomed gasped, Quacks looked down from the table at the calf. Quacks had neither said ay or nay.

“What is your name young one?”

“O-O-Onespot,” mooed Onespot.

“Why did you whisper this nay?” Quacked Quacks calmly.

“Because, I know there is a better way than a ranch.”

At this, Hay looked at the calf in distaste.

“What is that?” Quacks asked.

“Ranches are for horses and won’t protect other types of animals. This is a fact that Hay left out.”

Whispers went around the room, most likely about Hay, combined with unfriendly looks at Hay. Everyone pondered the fact: why had Hay left out this fact?

“Then what do you propose we do?” asked Quacks, speaking Hay’s thoughts.

“We all know that Governor is most likely dying. While he lives, we have an easy job compared to most farm animals because all we do is help a little and sometimes give our meat. So why change this way of life? There is a farm, only a couple of miles away, that protects all animals. The farmer there does not slaughter any animals. It called Ferguson Farm,” Mooed Onespot with an ounce of conviction.

“How do we know you are telling the truth, calf?” Laughed Hay.

“Wow, get over it Hay. This cow sounds twice as smart as you, and as I said before, you’re pretty much a colt. Please continue, Onespot,” mewed Slick.

If it were possible, Hay would have growled.

“I know it is real. I was born there.”

For the third time that night, there were gasps throughout the room which were accompanied by whispers.

“Okay,” Quacks told the room, “we will send a search party there.”

“What?” bellowed the voice of none other than Hay, “My father gave his life to every soul in this barn and now you’re just going to listen to a calf.”

“Yah, pretty much,” mewed slick.

“There is something you need to know, Hay,’’ said Quacks, “ Your father died wanting to get rid of the chickens on the farm. Haven’t you ever wondered why your stall is so big. It’s because all the horses complained they didn’t have enough room in their stalls. So, your father scared away all the chickens, chased them into the woods, and then out of the blue a couple of foxes came. And, well, you probably can connect the dots. Afterward, the Governor didn’t want to buy more chickens, so he demolished the hen house and made the stalls bigger.’’

Hay’s face turned pale. He wobbled a bit, and eventually fell down. Nothing woke Hay, except putting a little cow manure under his nose.

“The council will now vote on what to do when the Governor dies and everyone will say why they voted as such,” Quacks told the animals in the barn. “We will start with Hay.”

“I vote in favor of the Old Dude Ranch because this calf comes out of nowhere and declares she was born at this Ferguson Farm. Then, she tells us to follow her back to where she was born. It doesn’t make sense,” Hay neighed with a look of evil on his face.

“Muddy?”

“I vote in favor of the Ferguson oink Farm because my best friend was a oink chicken and her home was destroyed oink due to White Stallion. I don’t oink trust what Hay said,’’ oinked Muddy.

“Bell?”

“I agree with Hay 100%,” mooed Bell.

 “Slick?” 

“Hay’s an idiot, as was his dad, and this kid sounds smart. I vote in favor of the Ferguson Farm,” mewed Slick.

This time Hay tried to growl. But it sounded like mean laughter.

“Buddy?” 

“I am an old dog, so I won’t be able to make any journey, but since I have to vote, I say The Old Dude Ranch because I was a good friend of White Stallion,” Barked Buddy.

Quacks could now tie the vote.

“I, Quacks Green-Tail, vote for Old Dude Ranch because I trust one of our own more than an outsider. We will begin our journey to the Old Dude Ranch in half a fortnight. Meeting adjourned.”

Hay’s face beamed with contentment while One-spot’s, Muddy’s, and Slick’s faces fell along with other faces in the audience.

As everyone began to head back to their sleeping places, One-spot knew she would not be welcomed with the other cows because all cows think alike, so they would agree with Hay and not want an outsider. Therefore, she went to a pile of hay and put her head there. Just before she drifted off to sleep, Slick walked up to her and said, “Hey, um, I want to propose to you an idea.”

Startled, One-spot replied a soft whisper, “What?’’ 

“The night before we all are supposed leave for the Old Dude Ranch, we — you and me —go to Ferguson Farm instead,’’ Slick suggested, making sure no one heard her.

“Shouldn’t we also ask Muddy?”

“Good idea, I’ll go ask,” Slick said as she started to walk away. 

“Muddy,” Slick called, but was extra quiet because she did not know where muddy was. 

“Yah.”

“Where are you?”

“Over here. Oink under the mud.’’

“Okay, well I don’t see you, so I’ll just ask. The night before we are supposed to leave for Old Dude Ranch, me and One-Spot are going to go to Ferguson Farm. Well, in summary, we thought you might want to tag along,” Slick meowed.

“I Oink can’t,” she sounded very glum.

“Why not?’’

“Because I am legally oink bound to not disobey the ruling of the Pen Council oink and you are too. I also have a mate who would oink not want to go there. He was always a strong supporter oink of White Stallion and hated anyone who was opposed oink to him,” oinked Muddy.

“Well suit yourself.”

Two fortnights later

In the end, Slick and One-Spot made it to Ferguson Farm which thrived with food. Mr. Ferguson never noticed that there was a new cat and a new cow. Everyone was friendly and everything was good for the rest of their lives.

Now, the Old Dude Ranch was different. Almost no newborn or elder made it, and let’s just say, people loved hunting there.