My *First* Short Story!

Hello, hello, my dear followers!

...Well, since dear Tarissa has so kindly told me that she would enjoy reading my feeble short story, I will post it! If you are a blossoming writer, please feel free to *kindly* critisize (spelling??...), compliment, or complain. =) I will not mind!

 KING

A small, weather-beaten structure leaned heavily upon the old red barn as if it were tired and in need of a well-earned rest. It had once been a cheery building, with a quaint powder-blue coat and neat white trim. But now, its paint was chipped and worn to a dusty grey, with no one to care how it looked (except for the Farmer’s wife, who had long since given up her complaints).
“It’s only a chicken coop, after all, Ma,” the Farmer would console her, lighting his pipe and glancing somewhat guiltily out the window towards the sagging chicken house. “The gals and their kingly cock don’t mind--‘sides, I wouldn’t lift a finger for that pesky ol’ rooster, him thinkin’ he owns the world. I’ve a mind to git rid o’ him once an’ fer all, one o’ these days.”
The said “Girls”--Jenny, Sara, and Gilda--were scrawny things, each with a bedraggled brown feathered back and drooping comb. Cackling and pecking among the weeds each day, they were long past their laying years and lived solely because of Mrs. Farmer’s pleas for her small brood. They were cheerful, nevertheless, and loved their home. “The Kingly Cock,” on the other hand, was quite the bird. He was handsome and obviously intelligent with sleek bluish feathers, gold-specked plumage, and a glistening curved beak (often used upon the unfortunate Farmer at feeding time). He was much younger than the Ladies, but to their distress still amused himself by frequently picking on them. Gilda had once confided in Sara that she “loved the boy dearly, but would be ever so delighted if he would stop pecking her once in awhile and do some good in the world!” Sara had merely sighed and dashed for a fat worm, remarking that they would simply be better off without him. And so, the quiet life at the farm continued, and the cock was christened, “King.”

Mrs. Farmer’s peach trees soon blossomed, much to her delight, and Spring was officially underway. The hens strutted down their wobbly ramp each morning to greet the sun, King following close at hand. The Farmer would not admit it, but he was terribly frightened of the young cockerel, and he did his best to slink through the barn door unnoticed. In this he was never successful, and surprise attacks were frequent.
“Augggh!! Take that--and that, ye rascal!“ A noisy war of broom against beak would follow, leaving a trail of feathers and bristles, and ending with a muttered vow to the small crowd of inquisitive hens,” I aim t’ git rid o’ that thar King one o’ these days, M‘ladies! Hit’s about time someone did…”

One bright morning in mid-May, the Farmer rose early, kissed his wife, and departed, responding to her queries with news that he had purchased a calf in town. “Iffin’ I fix her up right, an’ take care of her real good, we’ll have money to splurge come winter. You’ll git those lacy curtains yer always wantin’, Ma, and we kin buy ourselves one o’ those newfangled auto-mo-beels.”

Supper was on the table when he at last returned.. A warm breeze blew, sending a waft of blueberry pie through the open kitchen window to where the Farmer had just pulled his rickety wagon to a stop. He decided that putting away the pretty brown-eyed calf could wait. After all, it would not be dark for another hour, and Ma’s pies were no good cold…he quickly made his way to the house, and the screen door slammed. King stepped from his place behind the garden hose, disappointed. It had been a dull day with the Farmer away, and his wife was much too slow to provide much entertainment at feeding time. He made his way out back to the parked wagon, where the forgotten calf lowed dejectedly. The Girls had immediately surrounded it, cackling pityingly.

“Oh, the poor dear,” Sara crooned, generously offering the forlorn animal a beetle. She declined politely, and attempted to gnaw at her line. “Think of how dreadful it would be to have a horrid cord around one’s neck!” She eyed the rope with disdain. “ I believe it is our sisterly duty to at least allow the poor prisoner some grass--don’t you agree, girls?” Her fellow sympathizers nodded, and all three began to peck determinedly. The rope was soon thoroughly frayed. The cow gave a happy “moo,” and lumbered towards Mrs. Farmer’s favorite tulips. King decided not to interfere, and started towards the hutch. It was nearly dark, and he did not wish to be caught alone outside when the Farmer came to shut their coop for the night.
Suddenly, King glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. A low growl came from behind, and he turned to see a large black shadow slink from behind the barn, its yellow eyes glowing like embers. It was ready to pounce, fixed upon a tiny form munching among the flowers. King sprang into action. With a leap, he was between the cow and its predator, feathers ruffled and wings flapping. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” He crowed defiantly, raising himself to his full height. Enraged at the small barrier which separated it from its meal, the beast gave a scream and started forward. A door banged, and the Farmer raced from the house, blueberry stains on his overalls and a rifle in hand. “Cougar!” He murmured, taking aim. The mangy animal soon lay dead at his feet. Mrs. Farmer hurried from the house. “Papa! Are you all right? What happened? Is--” she stopped short as she saw a tear roll down his cheek. There, beneath the weight of the dead cougar, lay the small body of King. His feathers were bloody and torn, and the proud plumes drooped. The calf grazed beside them quietly, unaware of her narrow escape.

“Ma, we are in the presence of a valiant warrior,” the Farmer said quietly, tenderly lifting the former King from the ground. “The little troublemaker saved our calf, and gave his own life for her. I’m sorry I ever said a cruel word about ’im.” Sorrowfully, the two penned up the stray heifer and made their way back to the house.

When the sun rose the next morning, Mrs. Farmer took three remaining tulips from her unfortunate garden and went with her husband to a pretty field out back. She placed them on the fresh turned mound, as the Farmer placed a marker, carefully engraved with the words, “KING,” at the head. As they began the returning walk, he turned thoughtfully to his wife. “Ma? I’ve been thinkin’. When we sell the cow, perhaps we kin do without that thar auto-mo-beel, and--” The Farmer sighed, then glanced back at the small grave. “--and we kin fix up the chicken coop. I’d say it’s about time, wouldn’t you?”