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The Library => Your Stories => Story Critique => Topic started by: lavecki on 12:12:45 PM 02/09/17

Title: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 12:12:45 PM 02/09/17
I went to dinner with my mother last night. It had been a while since I had seen her. I moved to the city a few years back and had been making some headway at the firm I worked at.

We went to this place that sold Bison steaks. I remembered liking them a lot as a kid, but we didn’t get them that often. See I grew up on a farm. We didn’t raise animals or anything just grew some vegetables. With only me and my mom, we pretty much grew enough to sustain ourselves and a little extra for trade. But we always had dogs. I loved those dogs. If people couldn’t take care of them or they were moving somewhere they couldn’t take them, they always ended up at our house.

I ordered my bison and got some wine for my mother and I. We started reminiscing about life on the farm. We had anywhere from five to twenty dogs at a time. People occasionally stopped by and adopted some of the dogs, but most ended up running away.

Being that we grew only vegetables, we never had much in the way of meats. If we had a decent enough harvest, my mother would trade with the nearby farms to get some. She would always try and get bacon for our breakfasts and, if it was a special occasion, she would get steaks. This is what I always had for my birthday. One day however she came home with something new. Bison. I was instantly in love with it. I still don’t know why. It was a little gamey but so tender and juicy.

I asked my mom if we could have bison for my birthday from then on instead of steaks. I remember her looking a bit worried, maybe it was harder for her to get, we didn't have the best harvest that year and someone might have charged her more, but she just smiled and said, “Sure honey.”

I got my bison steak and greedily tore into it. Expecting that taste was something I had looked forward to for a while. However, something was off, it didn’t taste right. I looked up at my mother to ask if hers was alright. She looked at me, and started to cry.
Title: Re: Buffalo
Post by: stex85 on 04:17:52 PM 08/22/17
That was pretty epic. I'm guessing that the steaks he had as a child were the dogs. I had to read it several times but once it sunk in I loved it! Only point I'd raise is that aren't Buffalo and Bison different animals? Ones American and one's Asian I think. Just made me wander with the sudden change between them. Unless that was deliberate of course!
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 04:34:26 PM 08/22/17
Updated to make it consistent, all instances now say "Bison" instead of "Buffalo". Thanks Stex.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: Letrune on 04:57:05 AM 08/23/17
That is one doozy. Pretty creepy and sadly, a possibility in a way. :/ Banality of evil, i guess.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 10:36:48 PM 09/04/17
Creepypasta Wiki Version:
When I was a child I lived on a farm. If I was to describe what we raised though, it would be dogs. Don't misunderstand me, we didn't eat them. When people couldn't take care of them or they needed a foster home we would take them in. I saw a lot of crying children in my days there, but I would always reassure them that their dog would have a happy home here. I would show them where their dog could run around. I'd introduce them to the other dogs that were there. I would ease them into their transition.

It wasn't intentional, it wasn't my job to do this. I just felt bad because I would feel the same way when one of the dogs we had went missing. It happened a lot. We usually had anywhere from five to twenty mouths to feed at any one time, and some of them just wanted more out of life I guess. There was a big field for them to play in so it did not surprise me if one just kept going past the field.

Other times people would just come to adopt a dog. Everyone knew we took them in, so people looking for a new pet would stop by every once in a while, and if they found a dog they connected with, they would take them home. These hit harder than the ones who ran away as I had to say goodbye, but either time I would sit up wondering if they were okay, wherever they were.

Our meals were always modest affairs, tough, stale meats and the worst of the crops saved for ourselves. The better bits were traded for essentials. We grew corn, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers and many more, but protein was something harder to come by. Mother would trade for bottom of the barrel meats so that we could get more of it and it could last longer. Towards the end of the season, when winter started in, we would have to jerky the meat. This sustained us and the dogs.

I remember once I asked mother, "why do we take in so many dogs, when we can barely support ourselves." Actually, I think I screamed that at her. It was the middle of winter and we had had "beef" stew for the tenth day in a row. I had slammed my fist to the table, my food spilling to the floor, the bowl rolling along until it wobbled and clattered to a halt. She looked at me in silence for a long while and replied, tears in her eyes, "everything deserves to be loved does it not."

I got up and walked away. As I climbed the stairs I shouted, "Not if it means we have to starve!" I slammed my bedroom door closed, the wind whistling through the trees outside. I think I cried myself to sleep that night. My mother must have done the same. The dogs wouldn't stop howling. Their cries echoed into my dreams.

When I awoke the next morning, there was a new smell wafting its way into my bedroom. It smelled of gristle and fat, the way that it did when mother would take me to the diner for my birthday. I ran downstairs and discovered a banquet of breakfast. Eggs, toast, and bacon. This was more than what we usually survived on through the winter. This must have been half our remaining stock. I looked up at my mother with a look of awe and surprise.

She turned and smiled at me. It was clear from the bags under her eyes that she did not get much, if any, sleep last night. "I've negotiated with the Jacobson's down the road. They have agreed to let us take some of their better cuts of meat and a couple eggs per week in exchange for me cleaning out their chicken coop. We will be able to eat a little better this winter." She smiled at me, but something still seemed off. The Jacobson's weren't known for their generosity. She must have really begged them for them to be okay with this. I sat down and ate my meal. I wasn't about to leave the food my mother worked for, especially since it was my fault she went through the trouble.

After that we started having more food. The Jacobson's raised bison. It was a peculiar meat I came to find, tough and gamey. With that, plus the couple eggs each week, it was practically like living in luxury. This went on for many years. Raising dogs, raising crop, trading crop, and my mother working extra through the winter to get us that little bit more. I was grateful for her. She went and worked for me to have more.

One winter, when I was about sixteen, mother got ill. It was harder for her to go out and I pleaded with her to let me go instead to work the Jacobson's coop. She always refused, insisting on doing it herself. About a month into the winter, she was bedridden. As she was sleeping, I made my way over to the Jacobson's and cleaned out the coop. I knocked on their door. Mr. Jacobson answered. "Whatcha' want," he said in his gruff, grumbly voice.

"Sorry sir, my mother couldn't make it, she's ill, I finished cleaning out the coop, I'm not sure how you usually paid my mother..."

He waived a hand at me, "Yes, yes, I'll get the eggs." He walked away and came back a short while later with five eggs, "I threw in a couple extra for you since your ma' 'aint feelin' well." I took the eggs and continued to wait, "Well, whatcha' waitin' fer, git on home."

I looked back at him puzzled, "I was just waiting for the meats you usually give to mother."

He looked back at me, "Son, my deal wit' yer mother is for two eggs a week. I'm bein' generous today, don' you go pushin' yer luck." The door slammed in my face.

I slowly walked back to my house and opened the door. The bastard must have been trying to stiff us since mother wasn't there to verify. I opened the door and turned to face mother. She saw the eggs in my hand. I started to ask her about the meats. She stopped me. "We haven't been getting meat from the Jacobson's, and the dogs haven't been running away."

I realized then, I had been eating my furry friends for years.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: urkelbot666 on 11:02:44 PM 09/04/17
I feel like this newer version of the story doesn't hold up quite as well as the first one I read a few days ago. The extra stuff about the dogs and not having enough fresh meat to eat  seem a little extraneous to me, and make the story seem a little less focused.
I tend to prefer stories that are a little vague and encourage the reader to ponder things. Plus, when some details are given, but not a ton of details it can open the door for plot holes, whereas leaving things more unexplained makes me as a reader more willing to accept things. One thing here that stood out a bit was the part where the mother makes the big breakfast in the morning. I was thinking that the previous night, she had butchered a dog for its meat to give to her son, but the meat that is served is bacon. obviously bacon usually comes from porn, but similar meats can be made from different animals as well. However, the thing that gives bacon its more distinct flavor (to me anyway) is how it is spiced and cured, which takes time to do, and couldn;t be done overnight.

So then I was wondering if the mother actually was using the last of their meat and only just came up with the idea to cook dog meat that morning, or the night before. But that seems like an odd detail to add for the narrative.

Anyway, like I said, I think the older, shorter version of this one works better for me at least. Others might prefer this new one. The thing here is that when I read the story, both drafts, I was able to tell what was happening very early on. And for the most part, the story relies on a twist at the end, that the mom was cooking dogs. For me, that worked better as a short piece that didn't need to string the reader along, nor beat an idea into their head. I know you've been amending this story based on various critiques, which is cool :) I hope my critique wasn't too harsh or confusing.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 11:06:34 PM 09/04/17
Hey Urkel, Yea, thats kinda the point. The original story was deleted off the creepypasta wiki for being "too vague and not explaining things well enough". So I made this "new" version as a joke/way for it to be hosted on the site as it seems to be what they wanted.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: urkelbot666 on 11:14:53 PM 09/04/17
Ah, okay. I didn't wasn't meant to be taken entirely seriously :) Good luck getting the story on the CP wiki, whatever its final form turn out to be x3
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: Secoura on 11:22:02 PM 09/04/17
The original version was good but did require me to think and it hurt.  This new version eliminated the need for that thinking  ;) 

On a serious note, old and new are both well written though I prefer the old, shorter version myself.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 11:30:48 PM 09/04/17
Lol, thanks Secoura. And  thanks Urkel. The final form will be much longer and go into much more frivilous details.
Title: Re: Bison
Post by: lavecki on 10:07:07 PM 09/06/17
Second Attempt at Creepypasta Wiki Version:
I sat in my office, my glass of brandy sitting idle as I peered through forgotten memories. The condensation formed on the sides of the glass and ran down, pooling at the base. Forming a moat around which I would have to cross if I wanted to taste my poison. The ice melted a little more, shifting in the glass and clinking against the side. I flipped another page over, feeling the slight bumps under the plastic, containing the stills of my childhood, pinning them to the interior of the book. One of the photos stood out among the rest, the aged worn corners of the Polaroid indicating the frequency with which it was removed and handled from its case. I took it out once more and rubbed my fingers along the edges.

The picture was of my mother and I, standing in front of our farmhouse. It was an old rustic affair, the white paint turned yellow, dry and cracked, constantly peeling in the sunlight. We were sitting on the porch, rotted beams holding up the awning, broken boards splintering their way into view. Around us were our dogs; we had nine. A tear rolled down my eye and splashed onto the desk. I missed those dogs so much. There was Nelson the Shepherd Dog  Brownie the Curly Coated Retriever   
Maggie the English Mastiff   
Spike the Finnish Hound   
Lucy the Italian Greyhound   
Lady the Australian Cattle Dog 
Rusty the Jack Russell Terrier 
Vanilla the Great Pyrenees   
Abby the Irish Wolfhound

(more updates to come)