A clear day

It was only a few weeks ago when we had the air conditioner going.  Today it's cold and rainy.  Oh well, the seasons change and so does the temperature.  This is an image of a warm and sunny hill on a summer day that was rendered on a cold and windy fall chicken soup and fresh bread day.  Both have their positives.

Relaxed and Thinking

After a big meal with friends and after everyone have gone home, muskrats of the 3D type like to sit in front of their fireplaces and relax for a while.  It gives them time to think of short stories to write, 3D images to develop and of other muskrats that they would like to visit soon.

Usually this time of the night inspires them, so when they are with friends they can share short stories or develop on-the-fly ones according to the season or the weather or something that they saw earlier that day.

Dramatic Scene

The great artist was at work today.  I pointed my camera out of my window and just happened to take a picture of this masterwork.  A few minutes before, I was outside, looking around for something natural to photograph.

After taking some pictures of branches and leaves, grass and vines, I came back inside and just happened to look out at the sky.  It's amazing what kinds of fleeting artworks we can take photos of when we take the time out of our busy schedules to do so.

This dramatic scene is definitely inspirational.  If you look closely, there is an unidentified wedge in the image.  Whether it was something minuscule that had stuck to the lens while I was scrounging around for things to take photographs of, or if it was something in the sky, I don't know.

It's just one of those things that will never have an answer.

Abandoned

I rendered this image some time ago and re-found it on a hard drive that I had converted into a portable drive, whose laptop home had gone to that great p.c. showroom in the sky.  That was years ago, way back before I moved up to Mac.

I wrote this little story to accompany the image.

-----

Walking along a strange beach in the late evening, I came across an abandoned seaside house.  It was very weathered and in severe disrepair.  As I went closer to it, I happened to see an old man walking along the side of it.  I asked him about the house and noticed that he looked concerned.

"Your not going into that house are you?" He asked.

"I wasn't thinking about it seeing that it seems very dangerous."  I replied.

The old man looked relieved.

His reaction sparked my interest into investigating the old house.

"Does the house belong to somebody?"  I asked, "Personally, I don't understand why such a neglected building would be allowed to remain standing being in such a poor condition."

"Well, the building belongs to Captain Orlande." He said, "So nobody ever goes in there, much less even think of knocking it down."

I stared at the house.  What a strange place to build it.  It was right on the beach and so close to the sea.

"Captain Orlande?  Do you mean that someone actually lives in that?"  I asked.

"No, Captain Orlande was lost at sea over eighty years ago."  He replied.

Now I was confused.

"He's been gone for over eighty years?  Well, I suppose that he was a highly respected man of the community then," I said.

"Actually, no.  He was despised.  You see, Captain Orlande turned traitor during the war and joined the enemy for a few bags of gold and a commission in their navy.  After that, his ship saw battle at sea.  As far as the townsfolk of that time knew, Captain Orlande's ship didn't survive."  He said.

"Well if that's the case, then I would have thought that a traitor's house would have been burned down long ago."  I replied.

"Are you kidding?"  He said suddenly, "If we did that, Captain Orlande wouldn't be very happy with that.  He comes back to it every night at about this time."

I looked at the old man as if he was out of his mind.

"What do you mean?  He's been gone for so long."  I said.

Just then, we heard a bell in the distance and heard a commotion in the distance.

We turned in the direction of the sea and there we saw a turn of the century naval ship.  I thought that since this was a pretty popular seaside community, the antique ship must have been a restored vessel for a re-enactment of some sort.

Just then, a small lantern-lit boat with a single man came closer to shore.

We watched as the man, dressed in a turn of the century naval uniform, came out of the boat and pulled it onto the shore.  He took the lantern, turned and walked closer to us.

I wanted to say hello, but the man walked right past us and up the stairs of the dilapidated seaside house.  We watched as he went in and closed the door behind him.  We watched the light of the lantern move around through the breaks in the walls of the house, and then slowly went out.

"That was Captain Orlande."  The old man said.

I stood there confused, as the old man excused himself and walked off.

I then turned to face the sea.

"Of course, the ship's gone and the small boat as well."  I said to myself as my expectations came true.

I turned back towards the house and it was gone as well.

"O.k. now, it's time for me to go."

As I walked off, I had a thought...

"This could make for a blog post.  I hope that I don't forget about it before I get back home in a few days."

The Beast

When it starts getting cold outside, the little creatures start finding ways to sneak inside.  This little moth showed up fluttering around the lamp.  I shooed it from there and it went and flew right into the dog before fluttering around the ceiling.  It stood there where you see it just long enough for it's picture to be taken.  Afterwards, I opened the window and it escaped back into the outdoors.  I saw it as an opportunity for inspiration.  Lets see...

There once was a beast that appeared one day from distant lands.  It was said by some that it came down from the sun to terrorize the vast herds that roamed the plains and then it took up residence amongst the cliffs of the far mountains.  It had great dusty wings, heavily muscled legs, ferocious turned up whiskers and an imposing-looking dusty face.  One day, as it perched amongst the great cliffs, it noticed another much greater world that it could terrorize and explore.  The beast flew to the new land and liked it so much, that it was never seen again.  And the vast herds celebrated on the plains.

Land of the Harpies

This is a 3D image of a mythical creature confronting a stone soldier.  Whether men made of stone or iron are mythical or not, I do not know.

The Minotaur's Maze

Far to the south, in hazy and poisonous swamplands, there was a maze carved deep into a mountain in ancient times.  It was said that an evil man, cursed by a warlock, was taken and melded into a form of an animal.  Now, part man and part beast, has wandered the deep and mysterious maze for hundreds of years.

It is also said that the minotaurs maze is laded with riches.

They are riches that had been carried into it over the centuries by unknown hands to hide them from long-forgotten enemies.  There is gold there, blocks of it that are heavier than any can carry.  There are gems there, more than can fit in the packs of many mules.

It is said that for all of the wealth that the thing guards, the beast has no use for it. But it knows the greed of men.  It knows that fortune hunters in search of gold are many, and that they will always be willing to risk their lives for it.

This time, an evil prince has taken a maiden and set her within the cavernous maze, in hopes that a particular heroic knight will search for her within it.  And to there a knight travels this very evening.  So the minotaur waits.

Asimov City

Somewhere in the universe there was a settlement that was built by escaped robots.  Eons later, an artificial moon named Asimov orbits a giant ice planet.  It is inhabited by the constructed descendants of the original escapees.

Little Red in 3D

I was looking through some of my old 3D renders recently, and still being into 3D art after all of these years, I decided to post a few.  I built this one about four years ago. The subject, of course, is Little Red Riding Hood.  In my opinion, it is one of the best little short stories that was ever written, and of course, modified by so many in book and film ever since.

A regular girl like any other, living in a countryside village, only this one was haunted by a persistent wolf.  How would you respond if a crafty-talking wolf were to approach you on a dark night and in a dark field, and you, with nothing but a lamp, a basket in your hands and your wits to protect you?

At first I thought that it was a German short story, but it may actually be of French origin.  Either way, it is my favorite fairy tale.  Now, we are going out to get the recent film version of the story of Little Red Riding Hood on DVD.  I hope that it is as good as some say, although the producers of the film could have chosen a better name for the character than "Valerie".  Somehow, that name just seems so "twilight-ish" and not at all traditional enough for a 17th century tale.

Oh well...

What an orb really looks like...

Who says that if you look very closely, that they don't look like this.  Could they be the memories of someone as they moved around in a room or field sometime in the past?  Could they be the thoughts of someone living far away, as they sit in a chair, drinking some tea and having a conversation with someone about something that was left someplace?  Maybe they are just insects flying along in a random manner, or maybe they really are just tiny flecks of dust carried along on the breeze.  Either way, you can decide for yourself.

An occupied empty Hallway

A few minutes before we went out today, we briefly spoke about what happens to energy "signatures" after they are no longer stored as in a nine-volt battery.  Since this is "that" time of the year, this little thought came from that conversation...

An abandoned house in an old neighborhood.  A dilapidated structure far off in a near-forgotten part of town, one that saw bright and sunny days in it's past.  A room, a staircase, a musty hallway, if memories are formed in the physical mind, then why wouldn't some of them remain in the areas where they were formed?  Some say that memories can remain in physical places long after their origin.

Well, if memories are nothing more than electrical signatures that are stored in the mind of those who "record", file them away, and retrieve them from time to time, then what happens to them after they are no longer stored? since energy cannot be destroyed? and what would be the difference between the energy in a nine-volt battery and a stored thought?

Maybe we just ate a bit too much candy corn today and had too much energy of our own to burn.

Last words from Foolish Adventurers

"When we were in the fishing village near the stormy peninsula, we came across one of the stories that had intrigued us at the previous inns that we had visited all along the coast.  It seems that these stories are widely told and retold all along those rainy and foggy seaside villages.  I don't know about you, sir, but I like my pockets full of gold like the next man does, and my co-adventurers here will agree.

As the story goes, there is a ruined castle hidden amongst the countless rainy islands that line the foggy coast far along the peninsula.  It is also true that a ruthless king, whose name is lost to history, and who was cursed by one of his victims, still roams the ruins of his castle, not living or otherwise.  A nightmare shade from a forgotten age, cursed to exist yet not exist.

He is the nameless king who still guards vast caverns of gold and jewel.  But like my compatriots here and I believe; "what can a foolish old ghost do to us?"  Such stories are better meant for scaring misbehaving little ones into finishing their dinners and going to bed at a proper time.  I for one, and I speak for the three of us, as we now head for those very islands, will brush aside any helpless spectre, and search out that fabled treasure for ourselves.  What a fine thing that it will be."

-last words from foolish adventurers-

An inspirational place for writing

The scene depicted in this 3D image looks nothing like the room or the desk where I like to work and write meager stories.  It's just an image that I put together with available 3D objects and foliage.  I have to say, that the lighting in this composition is the only thing that is just about right to my actual place, minus my books, Mac and bowls of candy corn and candy pumpkins.

That's Mr. Ghost, to you...

Not being an avid television watcher, I usually don't sit in front of the television night after night, partially because I am not a fan of goofy sitcoms and nothing-but-bad-news news casts.  Like many in this age, I Google my news and Netflix my movies.  I have to admit that on occasion I do watch programs like Ghost Hunters and UFO Hunters.  Whether or not the hosts and teams of those shows actually "find" something or if their projects are just developed for "entertainment purposes," I admit that they are fun to watch.

This very short story was inspired by an episode that I watched.

-----

I stepped of the bus at the corner of the famous Green Marble Street.  The surrounding neighborhood was just as the brochure had described it, down to the photographs and even the lighting in the photographs.  Walking along, I used the map to guide me to the next corner where the establishment of establishments stood.  It was the place where the most avid of persons make a trip from all over the world to experience.

I had finally arrived.  After all of this time, I was finally standing across the street from that famous place.  I had told myself that if there is anything that I absolutely had to do, more than anything else in the world, was to make a trip to eat at this, the most famous of establishments.

I was destined to come and be here at least once.  To eat here was my ultimate goal, and if I was lucky, to be joined for dinner by the most famous of long-time patrons, well, that would make for the ultimate of life's accomplishments.  I was eager to begin my experience, so after a few moments of reading the address in the brochure, and then re-reading the address on the establishment's window, I crossed the street.

I pulled the antique-looking door open and entered, a small bell signaled my entry into the famous place.  A good-looking woman came over to me, and with a smile, motioned over to a table.  "Good day," I said to her.  "Good day," she said back.  "Would you like to see our menu?" she asked. I said yes, and soon was looking over the most famed of their available items.

I gave her my order, which happened to be their most well-ordered item on their menu, and she quickly wrote it down.

"Do you think that your famous patron will visit today?" I asked her.

"Well, we had a visit some days ago, and two tourists who were passing through, just happened to be here.  After a few moments, they struck up a conversation.  They spoke for some time, over our delicious t-bone dinner.  In older days, the right people, who had the right intentions, would often receive a surprise visit.

But that was in the older days.  These days, only few people receive a visit, and usually they only consists of tourists, younger ones and those of the older generations.  I think that certain people, referring to those who are known and expected, and who usually seek out a visit for the sake of fame and profit, very rarely get the opportunity to enjoy such a surprise visitation." she said with a smile.

"Well," i said, "I came here all the way from home to try the famous t-bone dinner, as well as, I have to admit, the hope of enjoying a bit of a conversation with your most famous of patrons.  I don't really want to use the situation to become famous for it myself, or to sell the story of my experience, or anything else like that."

She smiled again. I watched her as she walked through a door, which according to the brochure was the famous kitchen.  I sat there, watching people walk past.  I also looked around at the many antique-looking objects that were all over the walls and shelves and corners of the establishment.

Soon enough, she came back with the much described and famed t-bone dinner of t-bone dinners.  I had just started, when I heard the small bell signaling someone entering through the front door.  I heard footsteps behind me, and then the creaking of a chair as the person sat down.

The young woman came back through the kitchen door.

“Good day sir,” she said happily. “Would you like the usual?”

“Yes, thank you Colleen.” The voice said.

After a few minutes, the man stood and came over to my table.

“May I have a seat?” the man said.

Happy for the company, I agreed. “Yes, join me over a good dinner.” I said to him.

The man sat down and we conversed for many minutes, until Colleen, the young woman brought him his t-bone dinner.

“I have to say, sir, that you chose the best item on the menu.” the man said.  Out of being respectful, I had stopped eating until the man had his t-bone served before continuing.

“Where are you from, sir?” he asked.

“I’m from the mid-west.” I said.  “I’ve been dreaming about visiting this place for some time.  I saved my money and counted the months.  Finally, my vacation time came along, I bought my ticket, and here I am.”

“Is that the only reason that you made your long anticipated of visits to the most famous of old-time establishments?” he asked with a smile.

“Well, I have to admit that there was also another reason that I came here, rather than visit any other storied place in the country.  I also came here in hopes of receiving a visit from the most famous of patrons that ever visited this place.  I have to say, that that most famous of persons is probably the reason why this place is so well known.  Well, that and the t-bone dinner.”

The man smiled.

We spoke for some time, as people passed outside, and mid-day turned to late evening.

Finally, the man excused himself.

“Well sir, that was the most delicious of t-bone dinners, the best in the country.” he said as he stood.  “I enjoyed our conversation as well, but now I must go.”

I thanked him for the company.

“Thank you sir,” I said.  “I have to say that the fame and description of this t-bone dinner and of this place lived up to the best of expectations.  I have to come back one day to relive this good day.”

The man excused himself, placed a gold coin on the table and left the establishment.

I listened as the tiny bell rang for a moment and then stopped.

It was silent in the establishment until Colleen returned to take away the plates and utensils.

I stood and stretched, readying myself to leave the establishment and check into the hotel two blocks south of there, according to the brochure.  

“How was your visit to our place?” she asked with a smile.

“It was fine, just fine.  The t-bone is as delicious as was described. But...”

“But what?” she asked as she held the plates in her hands.

Well, I was hoping to meet the most famous patron.  I was hoping to meet the original owner of this establishment.  They say that after two-hundred years, he visits sometimes.  It would have been really nice to meet a two-hundred year old ghost and get his opinion of things.  There are so many questions that I could ask him.  If he would have come by, I could have even asked him for his t-bone recipe.  Well, maybe next year.” I said dejectedly. 

Colleen just smiled.

“What do you mean, you spoke with him for hours.” She said with a smile, then disappeared through the kitchen door.

The Acid Rivers

We so love racing amongst the planets of the neighboring solar system.  Luckily for us, they are uninhabitable.  The acid rivers of the seventeenth moon are especially thrilling.  The lights, the colors, the shapes of the river, which happens to be the only living organism on the moon, are spectacular to witness.  It is unlike anything that you will ever experience.  If you plan on visiting, I suggest that you take the necessary precautions, as the acid rivers can reach up and disintegrate your vessel in an instant.

Warnings to an Unbelieving Traveler

Ah yes, the misty fields.  Those misty knolls and ridges that lead the way to the haunted wood.  If you plan on continuing your travels to the west, I would suggest that you take the long way around the mountains and avoid those misty lands altogether.  I tell you that directly, for you should know that it is a haven for the sinister and ethereal things that dwell there.

Where they came from, or why they they linger is not important, as it is that they prowl amongst the trees and rivers of those lands, and have done so for longer than any of us here have been alive.  However, if you are one of those unbelievers who look to the challenges of traveling the darker and more dangerous of roads, and may long to encounter the strange and otherworldly inhabitants of those misty hills, then that is the way that you can travel.  I have to say, that all of us here wish that you wouldn't.

But should you decide to go by that way, then we shall plant a tree in your memory.

There was a dark road

When I was in grade school, I made a series of drawings having to do with ghostly activity.  Those drawings are long gone, so I remade a few of them in 3D.  This time of the year usually reminds me of it.  Basically, this is the question that I am adding to it: "Do ghosts still go through their routine even when nobody is around to witness it? or do they prefer an audience?"

-----

There once was a dark road.

And on that dark road, there was a dark house.

And in that dark house, there was a dark staircase.

And atop that dark staircase, there was a dark hall.

And along that dark hall, there were dark steps.

And up those dark steps, there was a dark attic.

And in that dark attic, there was a dark trunk.

And in that dark trunk...

O.k., it wasn't much, but I wrote it long ago.  I don't remember what inspired it.

Haunted Places

Just a scene of a place that could be anywhere.

The Dutiful Ghost

These days, we've been watching ghost-themed movies. Sometimes, for a few days, we get into science fiction, prehistoric or historic-based films.

I have to say, that good plotted-films always bring inspiration.  Just like when someone mentions something interesting about somewhere, or when passing a dirt road and dark trees on the way to someone's party, inspiration can come from any fleeting moment if one is willing to notice.

One evening, we were on our way back from visiting, and we were on a road with open fields and small wooded areas on both sides.  I was in the back, and noticed that there weren't many cars on that road.

The sun was setting, and long shadows from the trees had begun to form to the right of us.

I was inspired to write this very short story...

-----

It sprang to its feet as it had done so many times before.  The rain fell, accompanied by bellowing thunder and lightning like it did on most nights. Long shadows across the floor added to the sudden sense of urgency that befell it.  The windows lay wide open, the torn strips of curtains flapping in the wind.  

The trees across the way, and visible from the window, were swaying back and forth as they had done so the night the northerners had attacked.  

It could remember a time when its body would ache unbearably, as it walking across a room, struggling from the pains of its many wounds.  It remembered the battlefields that it had witnessed, and the battles that it had taken part in.  It still heard the rain as it hit the cannons and the wooden barriers that had been hastily erected.  

It’s orders were to protect the house.  Its task was to keep the enemy from reaching the building and destroying it.  It fought hard, loading and reloading, dodging and hiding.

It remembers the wounds that it received from torn iron and splinter flying about in every direction as cannonballs bashed at the iron plate that had been it’s station.  It remembers being carried to this great house by it’s compatriots, some of them wounded as well.  

Then the world changed.  

It did not hurt anymore.  

It noticed itself as it stood in a corner.  It watched as the wounded were brought in and treated.  It watched as the northerners attacked the house.  The fires, the bullets embedding themselves in wooden walls, the cannonballs tearing and breaking, it’s own compatriots fighting to keep the enemy away.  

It remembers the final ensuing confrontation that took place there so quickly.  It was the confrontation that it could not assist in.  Why?

It watched as the general and his men scrambled back and forth, trying in vain to protect the wounded and keep the enemy out.  It heard the cannon and watched the fires engulfing the rooms, wounded compatriots attempting to escape.  

It wanted to help, but not one would heed it.  All the time the thunder and lightning almost engulfing the cannon fire and onrushing enemy.  

It watched helplessly as the northerners eventually overran the house and defeated its compatriots, healthy and wounded alike.  

When the fires died out everything went silent.  

It watched as it’s surviving compatriots, both healthy and wounded alike, left the house without him.  He would not follow without his own orders.  His loyalty was paramount  to his general and to his contingent.  

From the windows it could see northerners walk back and forth in the rain and the fog and the snow, by day and night.  It’s fear and anger unabated.

It wanted to attack the enemy, to assist it’s compatriots, but it waited for it’s orders. 

In time the sounds of war faded.  

It watched as the road directly ahead was repaired and homes were built there.  

Days went on, and no longer did it see wagons and carriages from its place. It watched  as machines not drawn by horse or mule or ox take their place.  Time went on, and it noticed as the outer world kept changing.  

The farms that it could see in the distance from the back and side windows, gave way to homes, and other homes that were built in their place were torn down or burned and replaced with larger buildings.  

It noticed that when people would enter the house it would go to them to find out how his general was faring, and what orders were given.  It wanted to talk to them, to make them listen, but it couldn’t.  It wanted to know of it's regiment, and those who were taken away wounded, but it would get no answer.  

It watched as they would run out of the building as fast as they could and it would not follow, because it had it’s orders: to protect the house from the northerners.  

For a time, it watched as groups of people would enter and spend the night in the rooms where it’s compatriots lay as casualties, groaning and in pain.  

It watched as they would hold strange goings on in the old parlor and in the long rooms at the far end of the building where cannonballs had torn the walls open, and floods of northerners had entered.  

When it would go to one of them.  Usually, they would run out and not return.  

On this night, it heard the familiar sound of the old bugle.  

It forgot about the visitors, and went to the window facing the street that had once been a road.

They had returned!

They had returned in formation and ready for battle!  

His compatriots had returned!

It noticed the general, as he walked through the formation and towards the old house.  

“Private Silas, Private Silas, its time for us to go.  Soldier, get your equipment and fall in.”  

Silas left the room.  He walked across the parlor, ignoring the visitors who were sitting there, and into what was the makeshift hospital so long ago.  He went to the place where he had been laid down with the other wounded.  He picked up his rifle and pack where the general had left them, and walked down the old stairs.

With his belongings,  he walked out the door.  

He hadn’t been out of the house, away from his assignment since the men had brought him into it after he was wounded so long ago.  

Silas quickly took his place and stood amongst his compatriots as the general turned to face his troops.  

“Were all together now men, its time to go.”  

As they began their march, Silas turned to the house where he had been for so long.  He noticed that on a plaque that had been attached to the front door he made out the words:  

One of Civil War’s most haunted places, enter if you dare-

Tours available at reasonable prices - Inquire in the next door office. 

The Chicken War

This is the second half of this little story.


Part 2 of 2


-----

Red crept closer to the coops and smacked his lips.  “It has been a very long time,” he thought to himself as he snuck around the coop, and slipped in through the slightly opened door.  

The chickens were sleeping.  

“There they are, all in a row and ready for my dinner.”  The old fox felt overwhelmed at such a sight.  

“So many to choose from!”  

He crept towards a plump hen and readied himself for his quick escape.  

Just then, and quite by instinct, the little sly fox, turned to his side, and facing him no more than a foot away, was none other than his old enemy, Bad the wolf.

Lime wasn’t sleeping.  

He had decided to leave the house at night to scrounge around for kernels as he had done several times in his tiny life.  

“Perhaps the hens hadn’t eaten all of them,” he thought to himself as he scratched the dirt of old man Barley’s farmyard.  

As he was about to peck at a lone alfalfa seed, Lime heard a commotion coming from the coop, a commotion unlike any that he had ever witnessed in his tiny life.  

He ran to the coop, up the ramp, and through the slightly opened door.

His little eyes never saw such a sight.  

There before him were two great creatures fighting and rolling around on the coop floor.  

Chickens and straw and feathers flying everywhere as the frightening event was taking place before him. 

Lime started chirping and cheeping, afraid for his family and for the others then he suddenly realized that it was up to him to save them. He had to do something.  

He remembered the bigger creature, the one that gives them the corn and seeds every day, the one that sings and protects them and makes their world peaceful and happy. 

He turned around and ran out of the slightly opened door, down the ramp as fast as his little chick legs could carry him, fluttering his little wings behind him, and straight to old man Barley’s house.  

Lime bumped into the side of the house, then started running along the length of it, until he reached the front steps. 

He thought of his family and the others perhaps being taken away like in the stories that the older hens would tell.  

Frantically, he fluttered up the stairs and straight through the broken dog door.  

At that moment, the lights went on atop the stairs, and Lime heard the stirring of a bigger creature putting on shoes.  

Lime cheeped and chirped at the top of his little chick lungs, fluttering and flapping back and forth across the wooden floor all of the time and making as much noise as he could make.  

He was quite frantic and desperate.

Caroline was sleeping when she heard the noise coming from the yard.  

In her mind, she had remembered the stories that her father had told about the wolves and foxes.  

She also remembered the hounds that her father had bought to the farm that eventually caught most of the wolves and foxes and drove away the scant survivors.  

But the hounds were long gone now, and Caroline, in her fear, found herself with the thought of having to face the intruder or intruders alone.  

She ran our of her room, into the hallway, took up her father’s carbine from the wall, took three shells from a table, stuffed them into her pocket and bounded down the stairs.  

At the bottom, she noticed something quite peculiar. 

There, Caroline found a winded chick hobbling around across the floor.  

“How did this ever get here?” she thought to herself as she picked up the chick, ran around into the kitchen, flung open the farm back door and headed towards the coop.

Red squeezed through two overturned nests and narrowly escaped the angry wolf’s bite.  He knew that he didn’t stand a chance against his old enemy, as he darted past a tumbling chick and took a swipe at the wolf’s back.  

Bad was very angry and irritated at the fox that he seemed to remember from the old days.  

“When I catch you I am going to make a meal out of you, you can bet on it!”  Bad thought to himself.  

Red quickly decided that it wasn’t worth risking his life for a chicken meal, when a wolf was concerned, and started for the coop door.  At that instant, he found himself face to face with the wolf’s gaping teeth.

Caroline put the frantic chick on another unused coop and shoved her hand into her pocket.  

She fumbled for the three shells that she took for the carbine, and placed one of them in the rifle, just as the coop door flung wide open.  

Out bounded the fox with the wolf on its tail.  

Chickens and feathers were flying everywhere as Caroline fell back and landed in a puddle, dropping one of the last two shells.  

The carbine dropped to the ground, and went off, blowing a hole in the side of the unused coop.  

The poor little chick was thrown upwards two feet, and then fell back down onto the coop roof, cheeping and chirping frantically all along.  

Just then the fox flew right over Caroline and tumbled to the ground with the raging wolf onto it.  

Caroline reached for the carbine and fumbled loading it with the second shell, just as the wolf reached the fox.  

She took aim and closed her eyes as she shot at the two intruders.  

Most of the pellets scratched the fox, which with a last bit of energy, jumped onto an overturned bucket, and over the fence of the farm and disappeared into the scrub and the darkness.  

The rest of the pellets hit the wolf, who now turned to face her as she sat frozen in the puddle with an empty carbine rifle in her hands.  

Caroline saw the wolf dart at her as she fumbled at the mud for the last shell at the same time the chickens were clucking and in the distance the cows were mooing and a mule was braying.  

In that instant she saw the wolf’s teeth as it rushed towards her and with lightning speed that could have only have been inherited from old man Barley himself, Caroline, forgetting her fears that had plagued her from childhood, loaded, aimed and shot. 

Barley’s Farm was silent after the carbine did its job for the very last time.  

It lay broken in the mud due to age and the force of that last shell.  

Caroline stood up and looked around.  

She noticed a trail heading out towards the fence and into the dark of the woods.  

The old carbine had sent the wolf flying more than twelve feet before it gave itself up, and Caroline gazed at the woods and the trail that the wolf had left behind.  

She took the chick from where she left it, and put it back in the good coop. The chickens and chicks, who had scattered, started to come back to the coop.  

She picked up the broken carbine and checked the fence. Satisfied that the old wolf wouldn’t be coming back, she headed into the house with a smile on her face.

The chickens hadn’t lost anyone that day.  

A couple of the hens made sure that everyone was accounted for.  

Lime was exhausted from all of his hard work, and just lay there as the hens and chicks talked amongst themselves.  

“It would seem that if it weren’t for our little Lime here, a couple of us would have been eaten for sure,” said one of the hens.  

“Maybe even more than that” said another.  

The chicks were still excited about the whole thing. It would become the great event of their little chick lives. 

From that day on, none of the others complained if Lime would get to the corn and seeds first when Caroline would spread it across the yard for them.  

He had saved the coop, he was their champion, and the other chicks looked up to him, and for a long, long time afterwards, he was known as the hero of the chicken war.