Here is the first short story written based off of a suggestion submitted to this blog.
The next submission date for story suggestions is Friday 1st November.
I hope you enjoy this story.
Goat’s Story
By Andrew Davidson
Based on the suggestion by “J”
On the edge of town, in a dark wood, in a simple house made of wood, lives Mr. Goat. To me, you, and any of our friends, Mr. Goat would seem like any normal goat, with silver fur, a black beard, and small surefooted hooves. During the long hot days he would work in the fields, bleating a good life for himself. But Mr. Goat was sad.
At night Mr. Goat sat in his windowless study and wrote fantastical stories. He imagined worlds so detailed in their description, so beautiful in their words that his heart would ache that he couldn’t visit them. But that wasn’t why Mr. Goat was sad. He was sad because he ate every page of his stories the moment he was finished writing them. At the end of the night he would have nothing to show for his hard work. This was why Mr. Goat was sad.
Every Saturday Mr. Goat would usually walk the short distance from his house, past the Library Tree, beyond the Swan Lake, and around the Shrew Police Station to the stationery shop owned by Nanny Goat, where he would buy some blank paper to write his stories. On this particular Saturday he hadn’t come and Nanny Goat was worried.
Mr. Goat sat in his front room and sulked. He wasn’t very happy at all. He had decided that he would never write another story ever again. “Better to never create than always destroy.” He said to himself.
There was a knock at his door.
Mr. Goat was not accustomed to having visitors and wondered, as he trotted towards his square front door, “Who could be disturbing my quality misery time?” He opened the door with a huff and found Nanny Goat standing outside, an umbrella over her head, although it wasn’t raining.
“May I come in?” She asked.
Mr. Goat stepped aside to let her enter his house.
“You have a very nice house.” Said Nanny Goat taking in the uneven timberwork, the wilting flower in a vase, and the worn red rug under her hooves.
Mr. Goat was trying very hard to be miserable and found her compliments very unhelpful in that regard. He had a mind to tell her as such, which was lucky because she turned to look him in his yellow eyes and asked, “Where were you today? I expected you to come and buy some paper for your stories, but you did not come. I was worried.”
“I have given up writing!” He proclaimed, meaning that to be the end of the discussion. “And how did you know where I live?”
“I asked a Stoat, who told me to speak to the Squirrels, they told me to ask the Badgers, but they have all gone into hiding, I couldn’t ask the Shrews because you have to be missing for twenty-four hours, I found a Fallow Deer who told me to ask a Chaffinch, but they were just rude. I don’t like the Chaffinches. But I met a Mole who said he knew you from the Woodland Association and here I am.”
Mr. Goat thought it was a very tall tale, though he did agree about the Chaffinches.
“Well, now you have found me and I am quite alright. Please leave, I was enjoying some quality misery and would like to get back to it.”
“But why, Mr. Goat, have you stopped writing?”
“Because I always end up eating my stories, so I think I would rather not bother.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Nanny Goat, “But would you please do me the honour of telling me one of your stories before you finish forever. I would very much like to hear one of them.”
Mr. Goat had never told any of his stories before and thought that maybe if they couldn’t last forever in the pages of a book, that maybe it could last as long as it took him to tell Nanny Goat. Yes, he thought, Just this one story and then I will finish forever.
He told her a most fantastic story full of wonder and heroics, of good guys winning and defeating the bad guys, and of love. Nanny Goat sat quietly on the rug and listened intently to his story. She never once reacted to an exciting moment, never blinking as the hero almost died, and she didn’t sigh with relief when the hero won the heart of the girl. When the story was finished she stood up, said thank you, and left the house.
Mr. Goat felt worse than ever and went to sleep in a very bad mood indeed.
A tapping at his door woke Mr. Goat the next morning. Tap-tap-tap. Mr. Goat heaved himself up on his front legs, then on his back legs, and trotted grumpily to his door. “Two guests in two days.” He grumbled to himself. “Quite unacceptable.”
On his doorstep stood Mr. Goose, his white feathers and orange beak immaculately turned out as befitting someone of his position.
“Mr. Goose, sir. To what do I owe this fine pleasure?”
“Mr. Goat,” Replied Mr. Goose, “The pleasure is mine if you would care to join me for a walk.”
Well here was a fine thing if ever there was one. The Geese were well known for their self-important ways and were more likely to honk at you than talk to you. Mr. Goat agreed without question, grabbing his hat from behind the door and following Mr. Goose.
Soon they were past Nanny Goat’s stationery shop, that Mr. Goat noticed was closed, he was not accustomed to seeing it in that state. They waddled and trotted respectively toward the Town Hall that the rabbits had burrowed under the largest oak tree in the wood. As they entered the Hall the gathered animals hushed themselves and stared at Mr. Goat as he followed Mr. Goose to the front of the Hall. All the animals were there, the Ducks, the Foxes, and the Moles were all facing the wrong direction; the Frogs had come too, as had the Owls and the Hedgehogs. Above him were Nightingales, Sparrows, Woodpeckers and Willow Tits. Mr. Goat was pleased not to see any Chaffinches.
Standing behind a lectern made of mud was Nanny Goat. On the lectern Mr. Goat could just see a collection of paper bound together with straw. No, he thought, It can’t be.
“Mr. Goat,” said Nanny, “With the help of the mice we stayed up all night and wrote the story you told me, every word. I would like to read it to these animals, so that they can all share in your wonderful tale.”
Mr. Goat’s heart beat faster and his chin quivered. Throughout the story he turned his head to look at the excited faces of the other animals, his friends. They cried at the sad bits, they laughed at the funny bits, Mr. Owl put a protective wing around his wife when it seemed that there was no escape for the hero, a Nightingale sang with happiness when victory finally came, and the animals all applauded by stamping the ground at the Happily Ever After.
Mr. Goat had never felt happier. Here was his story being read to a group of animals that had loved every moment of it. He had hardly dared dream that such a thing could happen to him, let alone the demands he received afterwards to write another.
It was with a heavy heart that he spoke to the gathering of animals to say, “I am sorry my friends but I cannot write you another story, for I am cursed to destroy anything that I try to create.”
The animals in the hall all groaned in unison.
Nanny Goat stepped up beside Mr. Goat and nuzzled the side of his face with hers. “But you are forgetting Mr. Goat, that you have me, and the mice. We will help you write your stories. You tell us what to write and we will write them, together.”
Mr. Goat thought for a moment. He had been enjoying his misery, or so he thought, but there was a spark in his heart as he had listened to Nanny Goat read his story. Maybe he didn’t have to write alone, maybe there was something greater out there to experience and enjoy if only he would let himself enjoy it. He just had to believe in himself.
“Together.” He said.
And they lived happily ever after.
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