Puppy Power!

I noticed all you guys have something posted and wanted to get in on that. This is a short story I wrote a few months ago. This is its second draft and, when writing it, I tried to emulate Stephen King's style of simple, blunt horror - let me know how successful my attempt was. Any criticism, feedback, &tc., would be greatly appreciated.

It's horrendously titled "Puppy Power!". You'll find out why.

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“Rufus! Here boy!” the man shouted into the night. He was clad in a blue fleece and sweat pants, his hands stuck in its pockets to try and keep them out of the chill air.
“Rufus!” he tried again. There was no sound to be heard except the soft rustling of bushes nearby. He looked around, trying to peer past the darkness, but he couldn‘t see anything beyond the faint glow of the porch light. The door behind him swung open, and a young woman in a violet colored robe stood in the doorway. She held a mug in her hands; steam rose from it in wisps.
“Where is he, Jeff?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Jeff continued to stare into the impenetrable night.
“Maybe it’s time we thought about getting a leash,” his wife suggested.
“Now Liz,” Jeff turned to her. “I know he’s been a little unruly lately, but he’s always been responsible when it comes to staying in the yard and coming when he‘s called.”
“He’s been a bit of a killer too,” she said. She looked disconcerted. “All those dead rabbits we found in the back yard… Jesus…”
“Probably Coyotes,” Jeff said. “Rufus wouldn’t hurt a kitten.” He strode to the railing at the front of the porch and called out again into the darkness, “Rufus!”
He turned his head. Had he seen something beside the house? He thought he caught a glimpse of red; a shiver ran down his spine that was not caused by the cold Autumn wind.
Suddenly the dependable form of his golden retriever appeared in view, coming across the yard at a slow jaunt.
“There you are!” Jeff cried. The dog leapt up the steps onto the porch, and rubbed its back against Jeff’s legs. He ran his fingers through the fur on the side of its head.
“I was getting worried about you buddy.”
“C’mon guys,” Liz said, holding the door open. “It’s time we all were in bed.”
Jeff strode through the doorway and whistled for the dog to follow him.
The dog walked slowly after him then stopped in the doorway. Jeff had disappeared. The dog turned it’s head towards the woman and gave her a look almost of intelligence. It then walked inside and disappeared down the hallway.
“That was weird,” Liz said quietly. She shook her head, walked inside, and shut the door, uncertain whether she should lock it.

“I don’t want him to sleep with us tonight.” Liz said. Her and Jeff laid in their bed. She had her arms crossed and looked distracted.
“What? Why?” Jeff asked. He wore his glasses and was flipping through the pages of a magazine.
Liz frowned, then bit her lip. “He’s probably dirty. Who knows where he was all evening?”
Jeff smiled. “He’s clean enough, I checked. He was probably just visiting the neighbor’s dogs.” He looked amused. “I think he fancies Missy, Bill’s English Sheppard.”
“Still, I don’t think he should sleep in here tonight,” Liz said this with a note of finality in her voice.
Jeff stared at his wife then smiled. “Okay, okay. I’m sure he’ll understand.” He Removed his glasses, lifted up the sheets, and got out of the bed. He whistled and Rufus stood up - the dog had been lying at the foot of the bed.
“C’mon boy, it’s the couch for you.” Jeff placed a finger around the dogs collar and led him out of the room. Liz stared at the dog as it left, but it didn’t look at her - it just followed the man obediently. Jeff returned a moment later and shut the door behind him.
“That’s odd,’ he said. He climbed back into the bed.
“What’s odd?” Liz asked.
“He seems a little out of it. He must have been doing some heavy exercise today.”
“Probably chasing bunnies,” Liz muttered.
Jeff sighed and put his glasses back on. “Maybe you’re right. Next time we let him run around I’ll go with him. See if he’s really turned into a mass murderer.”
Liz smiled. “I don’t mean that honey, I just…”
“Shh…” Jeff leaned over and kissed her. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll worry about it tomorrow.” He picked his magazine up, and began to study it again. Liz closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep. As consciousness faded she could hear the steady, crinkling noise of the pages being turned.

Jeff woke up to the blare of his alarm. He looked at it, agitated, and flipped the switch on its side. His glance fell to Liz - she lay peacefully asleep.
He got out of the bed and placed his feet in a pair of slippers. They had cartoonish looking rabbit faces on the front.
“Hope old Roof doesn’t want a bite of them,” he muttered playfully, and opened the bedroom door and shuffled out and through the hallway. He made a stop at the bathroom, then came out and walked into the living room. He glanced at the back of the couch. “How you doing buddy? You awake?” he looked over its top. The dog wasn’t there.
“Guess so,” he said, and walked through the den and into the little kitchen. He flicked on the lights, opened the refrigerator door, and looked around for the necessary things to make breakfast with. He grabbed a package of bacon and placed it on the counter. He opened a drawer, took out a knife and began to slice the plastic off the top of the bag.
“Rufus,” he yelled. “Want some bacon?” He waited to hear the excited click of nails on the linoleum, but all was quiet.
“Hmm, that‘s odd.” He peered out of the kitchen and into the living room - it was still empty. He shrugged and ripped off a piece of a paper towel, and began to lay the strips of bacon over it.

Liz dreamed that she was in her office. The fire alarm had just got gone off and she was trying to get to the stairwell. Flames shot out of the rooms and offices. Bodies littered the floor. She tried to climb over them, but her feet were stuck to the floor. The heat made her sweat so much it was as if she were melting. She saw a dark figure in the corner of the room, watching her. “Help!” she screamed at it; it merely stood there. The flames rushed towards her and she felt them licking her body with their scorching tongues.
Her eyes shot open. Liz breathed a sigh of relief as she began to recognize her bedroom. She rubbed her face and rolled to the side to check the alarm clock. The yellow Labrador stood beside the bed, staring at her.

Jeff ran into the bedroom as fast as he could. “What, what is it?” he asked, staring at Liz. She had backed herself against the headboard, staring wildly at Rufus. The dog looked up at its master and began to wag its tail - its tongue lolled at the side of its mouth.
“I was having a nightmare…” Liz muttered. She lowered herself down slowly and clutched a pillow tightly to her chest. “Then I woke up, and Rufus was just… staring at me.”
Jeff breathed a sigh of relief, and pat the dog on it’s head. It’s tail slowly thumped against the floor. “He’s just saying good morning,” he said. He leaned over and kissed Liz on the brow. “I’ll have some breakfast ready in about ten minutes.”
Liz’s eyes remained on the dog, who was looking away, apparently disinterested.
“All he was doing was staring,” she said quietly. “He just stood like he was frozen and stared at me. I don’t think he even blinked.”
Jeff didn’t hear her: he had already left the room. A whistle came from the hallway, and Rufus trotted out obediently.
Liz slowly unclasped her arms from around the pillow.

Jeff stood in his front yard and surveyed it. His hands were on his hips and he was wearing a button up polo and khaki shorts.
“Hey Jeff!” came a shout. He looked over. His neighbor Bill was walking up the drive. He waved a hand but the man did not return it; he looked as if something were deeply bothering him
Bill was a man in his mid forties- portly, but not overly much, and with dark lanky hair. He approached Jeff.
“Hey Bill,” Jeff put his hands in his pockets. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you heard any strange noises last night.” Bill said, looking around at the yard.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like growling, or howling or anything like that.”
Jeff shook his head. “Not a thing.”
Bill lowered his head. “It‘s strange. I didn’t either. But when I got up this morning I found Missy in the front yard with her throat ripped open. It looked like a Coyote had gotten her.”
“The Sheppard?” Jeff frowned and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Bill, that must have been tough on the kids.”
Bill nodded. “Yeah, they’re pretty upset. I know your dog won’t be too happy about it either.”
“Rufus was quite fond of her,” Jeff said sadly.
“Well, just wanted to let you know.” Bill was still gazing around the yard. “Probably best to keep your dog indoors tonight,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks. And I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear any coyotes.”
“Please do,” Bill said, nodding his head. “I might finally get some use out of that Remington I bought. Well, I’ll see you Jeff.” Bill walked away, and disappeared over the drive.
Jeff shook his head. “It’s a darn shame,” he said.
Rufus trotted over from around the side of the house.
“Sorry bud,” Jeff said, patting his side. “No more midnight rambles for you. There’s something dangerous out there.”
The dog just stared at him.

It was late in the afternoon. Jeff and Liz sat on the front porch with glasses of lemonade in their hands. She was talking to him about the office, and he nodded his head attentively. Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence and sniffed the air. “Yuck. What’s that?”
Jeff also took a whiff. “Huh. Maybe a skunk?”
“Whatever it is, it stinks.” She placed her lemonade down. “Smells like it’s pretty close by too.”
They retreated inside the house. Jeff made sure to let Rufus in before he shut the door.

The next morning Jeff had gotten up earlier than usual. He stood on top of the porch, wearing a small white mask that covered his mouth. Liz was at work, and he decided he would get to the bottom of that strange stench; it seemed to be getting stronger.
Rufus had been acting sluggish - all its movements were languid and Jeff was beginning to get worried. He had decided that he would call the veterinarian later, and left the dog to rest on the couch.
Jeff took off the mask and sniffed the air. He nearly gagged. “Gah, that’s rancid,” he said, “but it doesn’t smell like a skunk.”
He walked into the garage and came back out with a garbage bag and a shovel. He began to look around the yard. Passing by the porch, he noticed the smell was stronger.
He lowered himself onto his knees and took a look below the wooden porch. He thought he could see a lumped form underneath.
“Shit,” he said, “I think something crawled under the porch and died.”
He went inside the house and returned back with a flashlight. He shined it around. Sure enough he spotted a furry object. He put his mask back on, got on his stomach, and crawled underneath the porch. He wriggled through the dirt, trying not to hit his head on the wooden boards above, and got to the thing. It’s coat was strangely light for a wild animal. He placed a gloved hand on it, and turned it over. It’s head lulled to the side. He gasped in surprise and the rancid fetor filled his lungs and made him choke.
It was a yellow Labrador retriever. There was a collar around it’s neck.
“This coyote really means business,” he said sadly. He read the metal inscription.
It said “Rufus”.

Jeff returned inside the house, dirty and in low spirits. He had dragged the corpse into the front yard and examined it as much as he could stomach. There was no doubt that it was his dog. He had left the body there, wondering what to do with it. He was heartbroken, and had no idea how it could have happened; he was positive he had left Rufus in the living room and had shut all the doors.
He headed to the bathroom, threw his dirty clothes into a pile, and took a shower.
Jeff left his bedroom, clean and wearing a change of clothes. As he was in the hallway a noise nearly made his heart stop: it was a ticking, like the soft clattering of nails on the floor. He saw something leave the kitchen and leap onto the couch.
Jeff went into his room and grabbed a baseball bat from out of the closet. He walked slowly down the hallway and into the living room. His grip on the bat tightened, and he rounded the couch. Lying on its cushions was his Labrador Retriever. He shot his glance out the window; the corpse still lay in the yard.
He turned slowly to face the dog on the couch. Its head was raised and it was staring at him, staying perfectly still.
“Rufus?” Jeff whispered.
A crimson light filled the dog’s eyes and it began to snarl.

I'm not sure I understand the story. And maybe that's just because I'm running on zero canine or something, but...
I'm not sure what happens at the end. I was thinking some evil force took the dog over? But then I don't understand the whole dream thing. Or the body under the porch...maybe.
Um..so, I'm just going to make some general comments for now and maybe I'll get it later.
First off, I realize that you're going for the more subtle workday horror style of our esteemed Mr. King but seriously, the way the neighbor talked about finding his dog with the throat ripped open was inadvertently hilarious. It was like "I spilled some milk, stubbed my toe, and also found a the mutilated corpse of our family pet, boy, this day just isn't all that good."
Unless of course you're going for that...comic timing thing...but the rest didn't feel like it matched then.
I also found the husband (Jeff?) to be strangely patronizing to his wife. He kisses her brown, tells her to hush, and says "now, dear..." or whatever her name was. Was that intentional. Because part of me feels like I want to relate to any protagonist who clearly loves his dog but at the same time I'm thinking he's kind of a dick to his wife. He dismisses her nightmares like she's six years old and focuses back on the dog. Is this one of those guys who makes his wife sit in the back while the dog rides shotgun? LOL.
I do feel that there are some good segments it's just that instead of tying them all together, the end (for me) just lets them sit out alone.
Maybe if you explained a little more of what you're going for here I could make some more constructive comments.
I hate how negative critiquing sounds and I usually try to come up with something positive but like I said, the story has me a little confused. I will say that I was able to picture the house and the interaction between the husband and wife quite well despite a lack of description. So whatever you're doing there, you're doing it well. :}

I think "sounding negative" is the point of critiquin'. Otherwise, you wouldn't be doing it right!

Methinks this "puppy" is going back to the drawing board. Truth is, I don't think "minimal style" works well for me - and could very well provide many moments that are, as you said, unintentionally hilarious. I just like using a narrator too darn much to leave on out - perhaps it's one of my strong points.

Thanks for the input, Rad! I'll post the next draft on here soon as I can work on it. This one's a bit of a stinker

After reading this story (finally got some time to do it!), I have to say I'm in agreement with you. This just isn't your style. However, I do commend you for giving it a go. (In all honesty, I'm not very good at writing in third-person, but go figure I'm doing it for my damn NaNoWriMo!) The only way you can grow as a writer is by experimenting with different styles and figuring out what works best for you.

That being said, it seems to me like you prefer to write in a psychologically-stimulating, more formal and personal way (like Poe, the greatest American author next to Vonnegut in my humble opinion). Distancing yourself from the action as a casual observer just leaves something to be desired. It left a bad taste in my mouth, mostly because it seems like you tried to take a Stephen King story and make it your own (then again, I've done that too...remember the story I put on UR about the teacher who killed all her students and went crazy? Based off a Stephen King story!). However, the reason I say this is because it just isn't your style! Your first-person is extremely effective (Like the one about the guy who wakes up to find eyeballs in every available space in his house! I really enjoyed that one!) and I want to see more of that on here, if only for the sake of nostalgia.

There you go. So long, and thanks for the fish, asshole.

Based on only two comments (from people I damn well trust, mind you) I have decided that I actually do have a writing style; I don't know how it happened but it did. That being said, after experiments such as this which did not turn out well at all, I'm gonna write in that style and give it all I got! My "Snake Cult" story I'm currently working on is very much in the vein of Aqueous Humor, and I look forward to posting it.

Set your expectations skyward! Fill yourselves with hope and eager anticipation! There ain't no way it can be any less than that shining star which literary dreams are made of!

It should be up this weekend. In the meantime, I'm going to purchase a hemp rope, sleeping pills, and a toaster to decorate my bathtub for reasons completely unrelated to how invested I am in your potential reactions.

Now who do I talk too to get a will written up...

Eye remember that story about the I's.
Wait...hold on. Something there seems off.
Eh, who knows.
I do think you had a certain style with those types of stories. I'm thinking of the preacher one as well. And I guess that's a good thing. Although I've always been of the opinion that really good writers try to challenge themselves with each book, the publishers and (sadly) the public really seem to f'ing hate when you switch styles.
I mean, I'm just a lowly bookstore clerk who managed to sell a few hundred copies of my books but when I jumped from fantasy to historical fiction..man, the reactions some people had!
They were like...you...can't...do...that! It's against protocol. I still have a ton of people who won't read one or the other book because it's not the genre they first read me in. How stupid is that?
Anyway, long and the short of it is, I guess, that if you want to be an artist, wright whatever the hell you want. If you want to make money. Do one thing well but do it over and over and over and over and...

Aw, look at that! He trusts me! He really trust me!

Hallelujah! Bring out the champagne!

Raduvad wrote:

if you want to be an artist, wright whatever the hell you want. If you want to make money. Do one thing well but do it over and over and over and over and...

I completely agree with this statement Rad, but I don't believe that the latter part of "do it over and over again" is synonymous with having one's own style.

Poe, as Yaz said, had his style. Oscar Wilde had his. E.R. Eddison, the least known member of the fantasy trinity (which includes Tolkien and Lewis, of course) had his as well. You could read one paragraph from any of these authors and instantaneously know who wrote them.

Did they do this for the money? No: Eddison certainly did not; Poe was mostly just a crazy alcoholic who did whatever he felt like; Oscar Wilde probably did it for the popularity, but still.

Are you saying these men were not artists?

In my own case, there are times when I write something because I feel like I should write it as a wannabe author: like the poor dismal tale above, for instance. I thought "You know what? Most popular authors use strict third person limited views, or whatever the hell that French one is. I should try it." And I did. And lo, it sucked mightily. I probably was "stretching myself" by doing so, but I think I might have pulled a joint in the process.

Now, when I write "whatever the hell I want" my view point is fairly consistent. There's always an extremely opinionated narrator, whether he's a character or not. The plot remains similar too: the hero's a bumbler; the heroines are absent; and some sort of supernatural entity tries to stick his nose in our world's affairs.
That certainly sounds like Lovecraft done parody style. Perhaps it is: but what writer can say that the authors he grew up on didn't influence his style? That's like saying your own personality isn't affected by the friends you spend the most time with, or the family members you grew up with. This is why my writings are akin (but never matching of course) to the aforementioned Lovecraft, Pratchett, and even a little Gaiman. I accept that my influences pour through my fingertips when I type and remain firmly lodged within my mind when I formulate ideas. Why wouldn't I let them? They were wise and caring friends to a boy who had grown accustomed to being lonesome. The voices and feelings of my favorite authors comfort me; they shaped me; when I write, it's because I know the influence they had on my own life, and it's something I wish to extend to others.
When I write in this attitude it is what I refer to as "my style". This is what made me want to be an author in the first place - the feeling that I'm picking up the mantle of a great legacy and learning how to wear it.

Must I be a blank slate to be an artist? Must I leave my personality at the wayside in order to create something beautiful? If that truly were the case, I may as well kill myself; for my soul departed carcass would be the equivalent of writing without style, without affection, without the gently whispering voices of the ones who guided me through a troubled adolescence.

Damn, that's deep...and depressing...but mostly deep...sounds like something I would have written, though...

I would ague that while that while Wilde etc. had a recognizable writing style (although Dorian Grey kind of breaks the mold as far as darkness/ levity goes when it comes to Oscar) they perfected that style through different scenarios and not through downright repletion. Poe, for example, often used an awestruck narrator who would bumble through a macabre garden where ghastly discoveries violently bloomed, but each of these discoveries wore a separate, horrible face. The Black Cat is hardly the same as Usher, nor does "Masque" bear much resemblance to "Telltale Heart" aside from the fear and darkness inherent in both tales.
My purpose in deriding repetition in modern fiction was to focus more on practitioners who introduce too many constants. The detective drama where the same lead PI has the same interaction with his same supporting cast and solves a mystery very similar to the last twenty books with only the name of the villain changed. The fantasy novel about the young hero finding the magic sword/ dragon/ orb etc. and going on a quest to save the world, along the way meeting a very similar cast of characters included in nearly every other fantasy book on the market. The absurd vampire/ werewolf teen love triangle that has been done to death, with a codependent female, an alpha and a beta male. They even have similar names to other books: Lots of Edward, Stephano, etc.
I'm complaining about the cookie cutter stuff. The books you can't tell apart by reading the back of any of the seventeen installments. Poe and Edison had their styles sure, but if you said, "that one about the guy with the pendulum swinging over," him you'd have far more luck than if you said, "that one where the tough hero kills the bad guys with the machine gun and then...has sex!"
You know what, that rant (and my point..did i have a point?) got away from me there. Maybe I'm just beings snobbish but it really seems that modern authors no long try for anything new, they find one story and cut and paste it eternally, inserting different names. I swear there used to be more to the art, you know, like themes.
God I miss themes.

A work with a theme... it does seem like I only find those in my readings from the 18th-19th centuries. People just don't seem to have enough of a personality or self-awareness nowadays to craft such a thing. Ah, the "Era Vulgaris", where any man can be an author as long as he has two fingers to type and one of those "plot creator" wheels you can buy at Barnes and Noble.

I agree with all your points Rad. I thought your last statement about "doing a thing over and over..." was a response to me saying I was going to stick to my style. It looks like we were talking about two different things altogether. When I mentioned Poe &c. I was distinctly talking about their writing voice, and not that they used the same old hashed plots over again. Though sometimes they did; but when you write as much as they did, I suppose it's inevitable.

Yaz: Didn't I mention that we were the same person? I'm you from four years in the future; but through a strange occurrence involving black holes and flying polyps I have become trapped in your time stream.
Also: avoid Rebecca. Seriously. Crabs was not fun.

Shit! She has crabs!? How did I not see that from a mile away!? Thanks for the tip!

Although if you still have 'em...shit! I'm gonna fuck up again!

Really though, the point of writing is to enjoy yourself in the process. Don't do it for the money or the fame or the notoriety...do it for yourself. In the end, no matter how many critics or fans you have of your works, you're still the author in control. It's your damn world, and damn skippy you're gonna do what you damn well please with it!