Exercise 2 Story 3 Sunset Farm

Sunset Farm

Prairie dogs on Sunset Farm are forced to take drastic and violent measures when their elderly leader and sage meets an untimely end at the hands of the tyrannical Farmer Todd.

  Anger and extreme sorrow filled his little furry being. Just minutes ago, beloved Uncle Rupert was giving one of his droning but endearing speeches on his favourite dirt mound under the apple tree to a small group of young dogs. They loved him, Uncle Rupert. Old and  kindly, he always had those sweet little tuber treats up his sleeves. Kaiser choked on his tears, his teeth gnashing with uncontrollable rage.

 Dear old Uncle Rupert. He had exploded where he stood, telling a story about the flowers and the bees. He had burst, literally, into a fine mist of flesh and guts. The small entourage listening to him were showered with his blood, and they had stared in shock, until one of them noticed an eyeball on the ground. Panic had ensued, and they screamed and yelled and cried in fear whilst running for the safety of the holes. They had dashed past a frozen Kaiser looking upon the mound, now splattered red with blood. Another eyeball hung from the tree.

  Rupert was his grandfather.

 “Whuuuwee! Got that old varmint at last! After all these darn years I might add!”  a raspy voice spoke from a distance. “’sploded em good. Now any of you dogs done pop your cute little heads above ground imma blow em up too!” Maniacal laughter filled the air.

  Farmer Todd needed no introduction to the prairie dogs on Sunset Farm. He was a crazy demon, hell bent on eradicating every single one of them with his rusty rifle. They had done a good job in evading him so far, that is, up till now.

   He had killed Rupert with one of those hollow point bullets, the same kind that took his father. Kaiser was filled with grief and rage. But as leader of the dogs here he knew he had to calm himself. He had to stop the killings. His little heart yearned for revenge.

                                                                                                                                        

  He had a plan.

  Farmer Todd sat on his front porch, whistling to his deranged self. This week was a good week, he thought. Why just a few days ago he had popped that old varmint that had eluded him since he bought this farm. He had popped a few more yesterday as well. He had noticed they were carrying pieces of wood and dry grass in the multitudes, but the weirdness of the scence was soon driven from his mind when he started shooting and whooping like a maniac. He would get them today too if they chose to appear again, all from the comfort of his front porch.

  Smoke filled his nose as he cleaned his rifle. Fire! Farmer Todd rushed back into the farmhouse. The entire place was filled with an acrid black cloud. And prairie dogs! Everywhere! He started shooting and shouting as they scurried around the floor, on the table, even in the kitchen sink. It was a literal army of angry, furry prairie dogs, and they began to converge on Farmer Todd. He yelled in pain as they started biting at his ankles and toes. Flailing around in vain he tripped and fell into the furry mass. His rifle! They were slowly turning the barrel towards his face. As Todd struggled, a dog appeared from within the mass, and their eyes locked. Its face was filled with rage and contempt as it raised its little arm in signal to fire. Farmer Todd stared in fear, and he  screamed as a resounding crack filled the air, and the entire farmhouse collasped, its structure weakened by the consuming fire.

  Todd was not well loved by his neighbours, but the manner of his death and the destruction of his farmhouse was a matter of concern to the people living nearby. Todd’s blackened corpse was found amongst the charred beams of his home, apparently lacking a head of any sorts. Some say the farm was cursed, and that his headless ghost still wandered the fields.

  The prairie dogs of Sunset Farm know better.

Exercise 2 Story 2 Chicken Rice

Chicken Rice

A chicken rice man loses what he holds dearest to him, but finally finds happiness in the later years of his life.

  Mr. Goh was a kindly man, quiet, hardworking, and modest to  a fault. He owned a quaint, little chicken rice stall at the end of Seng Street, serving food with a passion that garnered him universal praise from his customers.

  “Goh, you should start selling your stuff over at Tiong Hawker Centre, their chicken rice there is terrible!”

  “Hah, I’m sure its not that bad. Mine isn’t that good either.”
  “Oh you’re always so modest.  Your chicken rice is the best here in Singapore! Don’t even try to argue with me.”

  Goh blushed. He certainly had a following that loved his food, and he appreciated their patronage to no end.  He gazed at the chicken he was slicing, then over at the steaming rice in the back. Simple. Perfect. He sighed, his face betraying what he truly felt.

    It was all missing something.  He meant what he had said earlier. His chicken rice was no longer as delicious as his customers made it out to be.

  His fellow hawkers were troubled, wondering at his apparent depression. Some even claimed that Goh was being over-emotional, and that he should snap out of whatever dump he was in.  He merely smiled at their concern, assuring them that all was well.

  In truth, Goh was sad beyond relief. He felt an emptiness he had never felt before , and he loathed it. He loathed the person that had left the gaping hole there, as much as he missed her and her presence.  A little girl, no more then ten, bubbly, cheerful and a joy to the heart. She had visited his stall for the past few years to buy his rice, and would bring such cheer and happiness to his simple heart that he felt it would overflow with joy. She would sit on the little stool everyday in front of his stall for hours, and they would talk about the most mundane of things, from the clouds to the animals she liked. They would joke about the fat teacher from her class, muse about what she was going to do in the future when she grew up and laugh about anything, from the flowers to the moon. She would complain and cry to him when she felt sad, and he would listen. And the day would pass in an instance.  She became like a daughter to an otherwise childless man.

  Then she was gone. Her family moved overseas. She had left a little bell on the stool the night before, a little trinket he had gave to her in younger years. The sudden and simple cruelty of it all was almost too hard for him to bear, and he had wept in private. He would never see here again. He was alone.

Now many years later, Goh closes his beloved stall. Business has moved elsewhere. Old and grizzled, the kindly chicken rice man stares at the rusted covers, at the dusty store name and the

little wooden chair.  In his hand he gripped a little bell, which he placed back on the stool. Sadness in his eyes, he turned around to leave.

  Jingling. The bell! Even now it refuses to let him go, even now it haunts him! He swivelled his head back towards the stall and stared.

  And there she stood. The little girl from so long ago. Not so little now, she had grown to be a beautiful woman. Even then he instantly recognised her, for she smiled and the tears in her eyes were like those when she had complained about how the boy in class had bullied her. Emotions welled up inside him.

  “Are..are you real?”
  “Yes,” She sniffed. “I’ve missed you.”

  It was in that shocked state that Goh embraced her.  She had come back from abroad, and had not forgotten him over the years, so much more like a father then a friend.

  “Would you like to come work for me?”

  “What?”

  “Our family needs a personal chef, and my dad misses your chicken rice.” She smiled and she wiped her eyes.

Goh’s heart filled with a familiar joy again.

  “Yes.” He burst into tears.

Exercise 2 Story 1 Spartans in the Backyard

Spartans in the Backyard 

Leon, tasked with cleaning the yard of leaves, instead recreates an epic battle of manliness and sacrifice with his trusty rake. 


  His muscles ached as he ran. Sweat from his brow clouded his vision.

  "Halt! Halt! Hold up here men."

  Armour clanked as the small group of soldiers came thudding to a stop. With one swift motion, the entirety of the troop turned about to face their enemy with raised shields and bristling spears.

   "We'll hold them off here. Stand your ground!"

  Leonydaz growled. There were too many of them. The Persians had them surrounded. They've had them surrounded for hours now. Leonydaz's band of weary Spartans had led them on a merry little chase all this while but the game was now up.

  There were too many of them.

  No! They must not fail here. They must not fail. The main army a few miles down at the Hot Gates were counting on them to hold this secret pass. How did they know? How did they find this place? Angry thoughts raced through Leonydaz's mind. A traitor! What else. A thousand curses upon his filthy hide! He will be found out before this day is done, whether they live or died. King Leonidas will grant him a swift death.

  "They're coming sir. Look!"

  An immense force of Persians were now streaming through the pass they just retreated from. They marched ruthlessly over their dead and injured, terrible casualties inflicted upon them by the Spartans in earlier hours of fighting. They smelt blood, knew they had the Spartans cornered at last, and were eager to finish them off. They were still intimidated though, and rightly so. The small group of fifty Spartans had systematically destroyed everything they had thrown at them. Their reputation was well-earned.

  "Well-earned indeed Spartans. Your abilites and ferocity precede you."

  A large, fat Persian ambassador squeezed through the front ranks. Gold bangles glittered on his arms. His horse whinnied under the strain. Leonydaz and his men stared with contempt and disgust.

  "Certainly you know when you've been defeated. You have fought well Spartans, but are moments away from total annihilation. Save yourselves, and lay down your arms! Your false King Leonidas has abandoned you, leaving..."

  His speech was cut short. A whistling spear had embedded itself in the ambassador's heart. His eyes widened, and with a last gasp of air fell dead from his horse. The troops in the vicinity stared, shocked at the swiftness of the Spartans' wrath. There would be no words. With a roar that echoed through the valley around them, the remaining Spartans charged the Persian line. They would either hold this pass, or die trying.

  There would be no words. The sudden fury of the attack pushed the Persians back, but there were too many. Blood spewed and bones were cracked, limbs sliced and torn apart. The Spartan's shields were cloven, their spears broken and swords notched. Heads were hewed from shoulders, but still, there were too many. The Spartans used their helmets, their remaining hands, their teeth.....

 

 
   "Leon? What the hell are you doing?"
   "Eh?"
   "You're trashing around in the dirt like an idiot. What the hell man? Ugghh, whatever, mum's asking whether you're done raking the yard or not, although I think I know the answer."

    Leon grinned sheepishly at his older brother, who was standing over him whilst giving him a look of utmost incredulity. He opened his mouth to explain, but thought the better of it. Standing up, he brushed the leaves off his jacket and started looking for the rake he had been stabbing the air with a few seconds ago.

   "The rake's over there you retard. You threw it and then started screaming like a bloody idiot. Been watching 300 again?"
   "Yeah."
   "Seriously man a vivid imagination is good and all but you're bloody crazy. See you later for dinner."
   "Alright."

 


  Leon stared after his brother. What did the fool know? A red mist descended upon his eyes.
  The rearguard had fallen. Betrayed by a traitor. The Persians were coming from behind. King Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans steeled themselves.

   Tonight, they would dine in hell!