Tom-Pen
Mysterious Writer
Synopses:
In the dusty old west a lone mouse struggles to make a name for himself, traveling across a land filled to the brim with dangerous and exciting adventure. Follow along as he comes across the many races of desert creatures such as rats, snakes, foxes, moles, and many more, each with a unique history and background sure to interest any curious mind. There will be gun play, romance, sorrow, and heartache, all for your reading pleasure!
Note: This is a rough draft of chapter 1, there are likely some typos and grammatical errors that I and some others will go over later on, I am mostly interested in feedback about characters, general enjoyment or lack thereof, and even possible ideas of what you would like to see in this sort of a story. I have also not written a preface yet, but basically, the world is a make believe place resembling the old west, rather than people there are various creatures that inhabit the world, many walking upright, thinking, and even acting in similar ways to humans, however, humans do not exist in this world. Thank you in advance!
Wild Mice: Adventures in The Plains
By: Chris Wyman
Chapter 1: Vultures and Rats
The hot sun beat down on Jack Furr as he walked the dry desert path. He wore a brown leather hat, tipped down to keep the sun from burning his face, and a belt hung loose around his waist with a silver revolver weighing it down to one side (his right side). His thin tail dragged along behind him in the dusty sand - limp - too hot and tired to swish about. He had run out of water, food, and dropped most everything else he had along the way; this was his fifth day in The Plains. He had left the previous town expecting to come across another in just three days time, going off the directions of a friendly looking mole, but to his misfortune he never came across any such town. Jack was quite angry at the mole for this, but upon further reflection he came to see it as his own fault for asking a mole for directions in the first place. Angry (mostly with himself), tired, thirsty, hungry, and lost in the desolate land of The Plains he did the only thing he could, and that was to keep on walking.
Turning back after three days of steady walking made little sense to him at the time he first thought of it; it seemed to make considerably more sense now, though, completely pointless. Pointless mainly because he would not make it back now, in fact he wouldn't even make it halfway back. It would take him many more days than he would likely survive to get back from where he was. He had figured the odds of coming across a new town in less time than it would have taken him to go back to be relatively good(when he had been only three days out), but with only a day more to go before he otherwise would have reached the town he had left, and nothing but cactus and tumbleweeds in sight, he couldn't help but feel like he figured wrong. He thought about his predicament and any possible solutions for it, but came up dry, inexplicably, lip crackingly, throat burningly dry.
Jack continued walking, the hot sun now at its highest point, burning down more furiously than it had before. If he hadn't been so dehydrated he would have been sweating buckets, but he was all dried up. Much early he had been sweating, and buckets surly could have been filled, but now only the white streaks of salt remained in his fur. A dark shadow crossed over the ground before him, he didn't notice. Another shadow passed, this time he noticed, stopping in his tracks. He lifted his head and looked forward, then around, but no one appeared to be there. His hand drifted to his side and hovered above the grip of his revolver, his eyes scanning the immediate area for the source of the shadows.
Jack's fur stood on end and his trigger finger twitched - as did his whiskers - while he stood there in the hot sun. He saw another shadow pass in front of him, this time he was quick enough to follow it with his eye. He spun in a circle following it, then another before stopping, at which point a second shadow passed again. He did not follow this one, instead he looked up to the sky, covering the sun with his hand and squinting one eye. Two vultures were circling high above. They were big, much bigger than him in fact, but he didn't worry about them. Vultures, for unknown reasons Jack assumed they must have, only preyed on the dead, merely watching the living.
These vultures, however, weren't watching Jack, for though their shadows circled around him, they themselves were off ahead. He watched them for a moment and soon came to this realization himself. Ahead a low rocky hill climbed up and then dropped off, the vultures were in the sky just beyond. Jack thought for a moment on his situation. There was almost certainly someone, or someones, just beyond that rocky hill, and they were almost certainly still alive(the vultures would have landed to eat whomever otherwise). Alive someones are much more dangerous then dead someones, but also much more helpful. In the end though, he knew that he only ever had one choice, and that was to have a look. If death waited for him just bellow the circling vultures, and he made his way around it, it would be in vain, for death would likely catch him soon after for lack of water or food.
Directly under the circling vultures three figures stood, a forth lay on the ground before them; Jack observed from a distance using the rocky side of the hill to stay out of sight. The three standing figures moved about the forth, and at times loud hoots and hollers echoed out from bellow, but Jack was too far away to see or hear much of anything useful. He decided to get closer. Slowly and carefully he made his way down the rocky hillside making sure to remain unseen and unheard. As he neared the bottom of the hill he found a spot concealed between a large boulder and cactus bush that put him just above, but quite near, the four. Peering out from there he could see that the three standing figures were rats(Nasty mean creatures with sharp teeth, bad tempers and a general dislike for mic) and the forth on the ground was a wild field mouse who appeared to be tied and bound (field mice are natives of The Plains, unlike regular mice they live in tribes and are often seen as being less civilized, though that might depend on who you ask). Jack listened in from his hiding place.
"We got you now, don't we?" One rat said joyfully jumping from leg to leg and pointing at the bound field mouse on the ground.
"We sure do!" Another rat interjected with similar joy, the two both laughing with that unmistakable airy his like laugh you only ever hear from rats.
"Shut it you two!" The third rat said, striking the second on the head. He shrunk away and rubbed his head. The third stepped forward and knelt down beside the field mouse. He looked him over with his beady red eyes; rats have a knack for seeing fear (they can smell it, taste it, and even hear it as well) and they enjoy it more than any creature should. He obviously saw it in this poor field mouse, because, after eying him a dastardly crooked smile clawed its way across the rat's face.
"He'll fetch us some good money," the rat that had been jumping about hooted from behind. The smile disappeared from the thirds face and was replaced with a viscous sneer. With a whirl he spun up and around, his hand slapping hard against face of the rat standing behind him.
"I said shut it!" he bellowed with his deep raspy voice. This rat didn't shrink away though, instead he reached for the gun at his hip, but before he could pull it out the one that had just struck him had already drawn his, and with lightning speed. He moved his hand away from his hip and put it up in the air, palm out. The hammer of the revolver cocked back, his tiny red eyes grew double in size at the click like sound it made.
"No-now hold on Skeaver," the rat pleaded.
The shot was loud, quick. It was followed by a thud, now only two figures stood. Two now lay on the ground, one a field mouse bound in rope, and the other a dead rat. The second rat, now the only other standing, had watched all of this take place, he looked at the dead rat on the ground, blood pooling in the dusty sand around him. "Never draw on me," Skeaver said. "Now come on," he added with a snap, "We need to get this mouse back to camp," gesturing at the bound field mouse on the ground(Rats made no distinction between field mice and regular mice, Jack found this a little offensive). The two started to grab at him, he squirmed and thrashed making incomprehensible noises through the gag in his mouth.
While watching all of this take place Jack had begun to plan a daring rescue. He didn't know what exactly was going on, but he knew if it involved rats it couldn't be good, and truth be told he couldn't help but feel bad for the poor field mouse. His plan was well though out, genius really, and almost foolproof; almost, however, is the key word. Jack had his gun in hand and was about to leap from the boulder and send his great plan into action - it involved lots of shooting, yelling, jumping, and even some other less violent tactics - but his foot slipped out from under him. He tumbled and slid down the rocky side of the hill, flipped, rolled, and finally plopped on the ground bellow, and right at the feet of two mean looking rats.
Jack got up from the ground and brushed himself off, sore but unbroken. "Who the damn are you!" a mean raspy voice yelled - it was the rat called Skeaver. Jack looked forward, the two rats stood before him guns drawn, the field mouse again laying on the ground.
"Um..." Was all Jack could say. His gun had slipped from his hand in the fall and did not appear to be anywhere within reach or sight. The two rats came closer to him, he put his hands up in the air.
"Who are you?" Skeaver demanded, his sharp jagged teeth glaring out at Jack. Jack hesitated on his response, his words getting caught in his thought, half out of fear and half out of severe dehydration. "Oh hell!" Skeaver said not waiting more than a two seconds for an answer, "We don't have time for this," his gun waving in the air as he through his arms up in frustration. "Go get the others, we'll bring him back to camp too," The other rat ran off and disappeared behind some cactus and rocks. Skeaver leaned in close to Jack, unnervingly close, his beady red eyes piercing through him with a nasty glare. "Are you scared?" he asked Jack.
"No," Jack answered with brave determination, not wanting to give the pleasure of the fact to the mean looking rat. Skeaver's eyes narrowed and his glare intensified.
"Damn," he said at last after a moments pause, his voice suggesting he was earnestly disappointed. Jack started to smile, but had no time to finish before being knocked over the head with by grip of Skeaver's gun.
Jack was knocked unconscious with one hard blow, Skeaver smiled in his crooked way and twirled his gun before putting back in it's holster.
In the dusty old west a lone mouse struggles to make a name for himself, traveling across a land filled to the brim with dangerous and exciting adventure. Follow along as he comes across the many races of desert creatures such as rats, snakes, foxes, moles, and many more, each with a unique history and background sure to interest any curious mind. There will be gun play, romance, sorrow, and heartache, all for your reading pleasure!
Note: This is a rough draft of chapter 1, there are likely some typos and grammatical errors that I and some others will go over later on, I am mostly interested in feedback about characters, general enjoyment or lack thereof, and even possible ideas of what you would like to see in this sort of a story. I have also not written a preface yet, but basically, the world is a make believe place resembling the old west, rather than people there are various creatures that inhabit the world, many walking upright, thinking, and even acting in similar ways to humans, however, humans do not exist in this world. Thank you in advance!
Wild Mice: Adventures in The Plains
By: Chris Wyman
Chapter 1: Vultures and Rats
The hot sun beat down on Jack Furr as he walked the dry desert path. He wore a brown leather hat, tipped down to keep the sun from burning his face, and a belt hung loose around his waist with a silver revolver weighing it down to one side (his right side). His thin tail dragged along behind him in the dusty sand - limp - too hot and tired to swish about. He had run out of water, food, and dropped most everything else he had along the way; this was his fifth day in The Plains. He had left the previous town expecting to come across another in just three days time, going off the directions of a friendly looking mole, but to his misfortune he never came across any such town. Jack was quite angry at the mole for this, but upon further reflection he came to see it as his own fault for asking a mole for directions in the first place. Angry (mostly with himself), tired, thirsty, hungry, and lost in the desolate land of The Plains he did the only thing he could, and that was to keep on walking.
Turning back after three days of steady walking made little sense to him at the time he first thought of it; it seemed to make considerably more sense now, though, completely pointless. Pointless mainly because he would not make it back now, in fact he wouldn't even make it halfway back. It would take him many more days than he would likely survive to get back from where he was. He had figured the odds of coming across a new town in less time than it would have taken him to go back to be relatively good(when he had been only three days out), but with only a day more to go before he otherwise would have reached the town he had left, and nothing but cactus and tumbleweeds in sight, he couldn't help but feel like he figured wrong. He thought about his predicament and any possible solutions for it, but came up dry, inexplicably, lip crackingly, throat burningly dry.
Jack continued walking, the hot sun now at its highest point, burning down more furiously than it had before. If he hadn't been so dehydrated he would have been sweating buckets, but he was all dried up. Much early he had been sweating, and buckets surly could have been filled, but now only the white streaks of salt remained in his fur. A dark shadow crossed over the ground before him, he didn't notice. Another shadow passed, this time he noticed, stopping in his tracks. He lifted his head and looked forward, then around, but no one appeared to be there. His hand drifted to his side and hovered above the grip of his revolver, his eyes scanning the immediate area for the source of the shadows.
Jack's fur stood on end and his trigger finger twitched - as did his whiskers - while he stood there in the hot sun. He saw another shadow pass in front of him, this time he was quick enough to follow it with his eye. He spun in a circle following it, then another before stopping, at which point a second shadow passed again. He did not follow this one, instead he looked up to the sky, covering the sun with his hand and squinting one eye. Two vultures were circling high above. They were big, much bigger than him in fact, but he didn't worry about them. Vultures, for unknown reasons Jack assumed they must have, only preyed on the dead, merely watching the living.
These vultures, however, weren't watching Jack, for though their shadows circled around him, they themselves were off ahead. He watched them for a moment and soon came to this realization himself. Ahead a low rocky hill climbed up and then dropped off, the vultures were in the sky just beyond. Jack thought for a moment on his situation. There was almost certainly someone, or someones, just beyond that rocky hill, and they were almost certainly still alive(the vultures would have landed to eat whomever otherwise). Alive someones are much more dangerous then dead someones, but also much more helpful. In the end though, he knew that he only ever had one choice, and that was to have a look. If death waited for him just bellow the circling vultures, and he made his way around it, it would be in vain, for death would likely catch him soon after for lack of water or food.
Directly under the circling vultures three figures stood, a forth lay on the ground before them; Jack observed from a distance using the rocky side of the hill to stay out of sight. The three standing figures moved about the forth, and at times loud hoots and hollers echoed out from bellow, but Jack was too far away to see or hear much of anything useful. He decided to get closer. Slowly and carefully he made his way down the rocky hillside making sure to remain unseen and unheard. As he neared the bottom of the hill he found a spot concealed between a large boulder and cactus bush that put him just above, but quite near, the four. Peering out from there he could see that the three standing figures were rats(Nasty mean creatures with sharp teeth, bad tempers and a general dislike for mic) and the forth on the ground was a wild field mouse who appeared to be tied and bound (field mice are natives of The Plains, unlike regular mice they live in tribes and are often seen as being less civilized, though that might depend on who you ask). Jack listened in from his hiding place.
"We got you now, don't we?" One rat said joyfully jumping from leg to leg and pointing at the bound field mouse on the ground.
"We sure do!" Another rat interjected with similar joy, the two both laughing with that unmistakable airy his like laugh you only ever hear from rats.
"Shut it you two!" The third rat said, striking the second on the head. He shrunk away and rubbed his head. The third stepped forward and knelt down beside the field mouse. He looked him over with his beady red eyes; rats have a knack for seeing fear (they can smell it, taste it, and even hear it as well) and they enjoy it more than any creature should. He obviously saw it in this poor field mouse, because, after eying him a dastardly crooked smile clawed its way across the rat's face.
"He'll fetch us some good money," the rat that had been jumping about hooted from behind. The smile disappeared from the thirds face and was replaced with a viscous sneer. With a whirl he spun up and around, his hand slapping hard against face of the rat standing behind him.
"I said shut it!" he bellowed with his deep raspy voice. This rat didn't shrink away though, instead he reached for the gun at his hip, but before he could pull it out the one that had just struck him had already drawn his, and with lightning speed. He moved his hand away from his hip and put it up in the air, palm out. The hammer of the revolver cocked back, his tiny red eyes grew double in size at the click like sound it made.
"No-now hold on Skeaver," the rat pleaded.
The shot was loud, quick. It was followed by a thud, now only two figures stood. Two now lay on the ground, one a field mouse bound in rope, and the other a dead rat. The second rat, now the only other standing, had watched all of this take place, he looked at the dead rat on the ground, blood pooling in the dusty sand around him. "Never draw on me," Skeaver said. "Now come on," he added with a snap, "We need to get this mouse back to camp," gesturing at the bound field mouse on the ground(Rats made no distinction between field mice and regular mice, Jack found this a little offensive). The two started to grab at him, he squirmed and thrashed making incomprehensible noises through the gag in his mouth.
While watching all of this take place Jack had begun to plan a daring rescue. He didn't know what exactly was going on, but he knew if it involved rats it couldn't be good, and truth be told he couldn't help but feel bad for the poor field mouse. His plan was well though out, genius really, and almost foolproof; almost, however, is the key word. Jack had his gun in hand and was about to leap from the boulder and send his great plan into action - it involved lots of shooting, yelling, jumping, and even some other less violent tactics - but his foot slipped out from under him. He tumbled and slid down the rocky side of the hill, flipped, rolled, and finally plopped on the ground bellow, and right at the feet of two mean looking rats.
Jack got up from the ground and brushed himself off, sore but unbroken. "Who the damn are you!" a mean raspy voice yelled - it was the rat called Skeaver. Jack looked forward, the two rats stood before him guns drawn, the field mouse again laying on the ground.
"Um..." Was all Jack could say. His gun had slipped from his hand in the fall and did not appear to be anywhere within reach or sight. The two rats came closer to him, he put his hands up in the air.
"Who are you?" Skeaver demanded, his sharp jagged teeth glaring out at Jack. Jack hesitated on his response, his words getting caught in his thought, half out of fear and half out of severe dehydration. "Oh hell!" Skeaver said not waiting more than a two seconds for an answer, "We don't have time for this," his gun waving in the air as he through his arms up in frustration. "Go get the others, we'll bring him back to camp too," The other rat ran off and disappeared behind some cactus and rocks. Skeaver leaned in close to Jack, unnervingly close, his beady red eyes piercing through him with a nasty glare. "Are you scared?" he asked Jack.
"No," Jack answered with brave determination, not wanting to give the pleasure of the fact to the mean looking rat. Skeaver's eyes narrowed and his glare intensified.
"Damn," he said at last after a moments pause, his voice suggesting he was earnestly disappointed. Jack started to smile, but had no time to finish before being knocked over the head with by grip of Skeaver's gun.
Jack was knocked unconscious with one hard blow, Skeaver smiled in his crooked way and twirled his gun before putting back in it's holster.
