This is my entry into Finish the Story Contest hosted by @bananafish. I did go a little over the word count. I might be able to cut out about a hundred more words but with what time it is and being that I'll not have time for that tomorrow, this version will do. I enjoyed creating the second ending to this story.
by @gwilberiol
My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.
I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.
I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.
Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.
I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.
Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.
Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.
Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.
My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!
Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.
It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.
I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'
Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?
'They're all here. I'm about to start.'
We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?
'Can't promise that.'
I'm warning you, Crow!
I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.
I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.
And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.
I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.
"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear."
"The Fox in the Hen House"
"Centuries ago, the farmer made piece with the fox. The deal: the fox stayed out beyond the farmer's pikes and never, ever trespassed to steal food. In return, the farmer would no longer hunt his kind. A broken deal meant, he'd hunt down and kill every fox.
"The fox agreed.
"The fox kept his word until Dagaler, a hen, came to him one day asking that he protect her special eggs and help make a will.
"Dagaler was known for her violent outbursts and being the most feared animal on the farm. So feared in fact, that The Bitches, the elite guard dogs, stayed away from her hen-less hen house. Rumors spread around that she'd lost it one night after her rooster was found dead. He'd bashed her head in one too many times.
"Dagaler, still with at least five years of life left, explained her first concern was in taking care of the farmer's keeper, the god she put up on a pedestal. As payment for the fox's services, he'd be given eggs.
"The fox foamed at the mouth. He couldn't say no. He'd missed the yellow and white goop too much. Since he wouldn't have to steal the eggs, he would be keeping the agreement between the farmer and him."
Brigitta yawns loudly and stretches. "Great story," she says mockingly. "Can you get to the will now?"
I glance first at Pearl, whose eyes show she is tuning in and out; then at John, who shudders with his head down, clasps his hands together and twiddles his thumbs; then back at Brigitta. "Please, let me finish. Geralda says I must tell it."
Brigitta, rolling her eyes and making a face of disgust, slumps back.
I continue: "The fox traveled back and forth to the hen house for months.
"Three animals caught the fox's eye.
"Laper, a baby chick. She was bald from head to toe due to some chicken disease. She estranged herself from the group and was never let back inside to experience the comfort of family and friends. She was fed only second-hands scraps. Her cognitive decline, memory loss, impaired language skills, and behavioral and emotional changes, made the group uneasy.
"Titigrab, a hen. This hen a conniving, jealous little thing wanted her sister's eggs. Age wasn't treating her well. Her coop, a barren, infertile coop, was empty without any hens, roosters, or eggs. Titigrab had been given a key to Dagaler's hen house.
"C. J., a horse, who did Dagaler's cleaning needs in and around the hen house (the only one trusted to enter her house daily), was also a skill planter and grower of vegetables. Everyone on the farm ate what he plowed. He'd grown resentful after not sticking up for himself. Deceit was on his mind. But how?
"Titigrab and C. J. knew how much Dagaler loved her parsley plant that was by the door.
"They, also, both knew about her failing eyesight and weak heart.
"It was Ttitgrab who came up with the plan to mix in monkshood with the Parsley after she'd asked C. J. about what plants did what. She promised C. J. that he'd get her hen house plus a share in the eggs in exchange for the plant. She was in the will after all.
"C. J., tired of being improperly treated and underappreciated, went to the hills for the plant. Returning, he grew it in his parsley patch. No one knew.
"Time passed. The season changed from summer to fall. C. J. had what Titigrab needed. Titigrab, needing an air-tight alibi to get her coming eggs, convinced C.J., after further manipulation, to pull off the job.
"C. J. mixed in the monkshood with the parsley. Dagaler was found dead shortly after. That weak heart of hers couldn't take a rub against the plant.
"The fox knew immediately who had done it through powers of psychic ability and reported it to the farmer. The farmer listened and is taking action."
Brigitta, jumps to her feet, "Enough with your shitty fucking bullshit fairy-tales! Do your fucking job, nigger. Read the fucking will."
Francine swings the door to my office open, without knocking, and struts in, a paper held out in front of her. "This is an arrest warrant for Brigitta Conners and John Cutters."
"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" Brigitta shouts. "You've got no evidence."
"We have the toxicology report and the evidence in the parsley patch was found," Francine says.
John stands up, looks at Brigitta, and says, "The deal was if I went down, you go down."
"Son of a bitch!"
She leaps at John, nailing him in the head with her first a couple times before the police break it up and handcuff the two.
I say to Pearl, "You'll be getting everything, minus the farmer's overlord taxes and the foxes cut. Because, by way of slayer rule, I can prove your mother murdered your father for the money." Before Francine opens her mouth, I say to her, "I'll fill you in on that once we can talk."
| Previous Finish the Story Contest Entries | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| The Town That Changed | Even the Clouds Smile | The Border | Horror Vacui | |
| Black Star | Quitting Life | LER | It Awakens | |
| Apocalypse and Pretzels | Metallic Kisses | Curie upvoted The Battle of Bloodneck Valley | Awakening | |
| Curie Upvoted Obstinancy |
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Very cool idea, having the lawyer tell a fairy tale with animal stand-ins for the characters! I also enjoyed how quickly and violently things unraveled and got nasty between the co-conspirators. :D Nicely done!
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STOPTo support your work, I also upvoted your post!
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I think this is brilliant. You spin a convincing parable. You sorted all the characters, made parallels in your story-within-a-story, and guided us to your theory of the crime. Well told....And great insight into human nature. That is the core of every classic parable.
I was hoping it turned out alright. I'd like to know how this story could have more punch. Did you know the outcome straight off or did it leave you guessing until the end what was going to happen?
It was a challenge for me to use code for all the characters. Did you catch what I did with a few of the names of the animals. ;-)
I didn't get the trick with the names...but what happened (what should happen in a story like this, I think), is the reader gets to enjoy the net closing around the suspects. We're in on it. Plus...your character portraits are priceless, especially:
I guess the punch came with the mother murdering the father for the money. What a nest of undesirables. I didn't understand the part about the overlord taxes, but it sounded medieval so it fit right in with the parable.
Really very clever.
I’m glad I made you feel like you were in on it. Cool.
The names of the suspects are anagrams! 😏 I couldn’t figure out one that I liked for John besides C.J.
I should have kept the previous referance but I missed it when editing. The overlord is supoosed to represent the government as a whole with the farmer (police) doing their bidding. Gotta collect them eggs for their fare share. 🤨
:)) Nice dig at bureaucracy!
somehow it reminded the Animal Farm by Orwell. I see several affinities with that book. It's a cunning elaborate parable who reveals a lot of work from your end. Congrats Tristan!
I've skimmed that book. Good one, no doubt.
I had this at about 1100 words before edits. I just wrote the story out. The trouble was editing down, as good writing may already know. 8-)
Editing down is one of the best exercises to improve the writing style imo
What literally @agmoore said, but without the human nature apart. It instead is a great insight to the ideology we've been spoonfed and have yet to seriously question as the economy benefits from it. This we are blind to see consciously and, despite us being unconscious of it, we still do it. To say "greed!" consciously is to say nothing; to talk of how it came about, why the economy benefits from it and why our societal structures nurtures its growth is to then finally be able to then understand why we commit to such actions. Regardless, the story is very telling; especially the beuracratic part that was being hinted with the gap in the fox and farmer except in the beginning and end. They cannot operate without getting their funds, even if it's from dirty money, and they need a slice of the pie since they do benefit from being in the chaos of wills and inheritances. Upvot'd and resteem'd.
Thanks for your view point. It speaks to the way our society is run.
Greedy people run the government, in my opinion. I'm no longer strongly against the idea of collecting taxes as I once was. The problem I do have with the idea is that the greedy people having say over how those funds are allocated. These greedy people also have their hands in piles that have nothing to do with them and should keep their greedy hand out of.