Story maps or plays are outlines for fiction writers. You
can “map” the main parts of the stories or plays: setting, characters, major events, problem (challenges), and solutions. Story maps can be laid out
in many different ways. Unlike outlines, you don’t have to give the map a title
(although this can be useful in keeping focus on main idea), or use numerical
sections. But to be useful, the map should include all the main parts of the
story or play. These main parts should be organized around a plot or action line.
TITLE:
Canine Crusader
AUTHOR:
Kendra Leigh Ealy
Title:
Canine Crusader
Author:
O. O. Worrell (an original story)
It was a beautiful
summer’s day in Sunnyglade, Grass Valley County, Colorado. Mom and Dad left
early for the hour-long drive to purchase the monthly supplies from Springville
Mall. I opted not to tag along this time. Shopping with your parents is getting
a bit lame these days, especially when your friends at school happen to see you
pushing the shopping cart, as your parents sift through the shelves for
bargains. A process that could take forever and a day.
Besides, I had my
dearest friend to cuddle with while my parents were seeking a cure for their monthly bargain fever. Mr. Trumpy, our
local Methuselah, was repairing his rackety old picket fence, pieces of which
were falling away from the frame, somewhat like the old man’s picket-fence
teeth, which too were falling away in disrepair. I remembered, or rather, Mom
reminded me that I had promised to help Mr. Trumpy. This happened to be the
lesser of two evils—to go shopping with my parents or stay
and help Mr. Trumpy. I opted for the latter.
When I arrived at his
gate, there was already a gathering of neighbours. It seemed everyone had also
promised to help Mr. Trumpy repair his fence. I quickly discovered that this
was not the case. The assembly was called to discuss the disappearance of Milky
Bones from all the neighbours’ houses. All fingers pointed to the new addition
to the neighbourhood. Forch.
“Hello Sally, your
parents said you would be coming over”. Mr. Trumpy seemed elated to see me as
he announced my presence.
“I guess you won’t be
needing me?” My response equally elated.
“Why do you say that?
Oh, I see, you think the others are here to help me!” Mr. Trumpy seemed amused
for no apparent reason. I was only interested in returning home to be with
Homer.
It soon became clear
that the posse was called to round up the new neighbours and have them stand
trial for the theft of Milky Bones. I guess that’s what happens when you live
in a neighbourhood where the most action you get is the annual lighting ceremony
of the neighbourhood Christmas tree. No
arrests, however, were made, but the whole neighbourhood was abuzz with
suspicion against the new neighbours’ dog. Forch.
I did not know that
Homer had made friends with Forch, until the mystery of the missing Milky Bones
had been solved.
It happened a few weeks
after the neighbourhood posse had met at Mr. Trumpy’s front yard. The old timer
reported that he heard the whimpering sound of a dog outside his front porch.
On investigation, he saw Forch, stuck under his still-to-be-mended picket
fence, right next to an empty bag of Milky Bones. It was incontrovertible
proof. Forch was the thief. The new neighbours had to pay. Either keep their
dog on a leash or consider living elsewhere. Not to mention the compensation
owed for all the stolen Milky Bones.
Shortly after these
deliberations, Homer seemed anxious to go for a walk every morning. Earlier
than usual. On one such sunrise spree—an even earlier outing—Homer hastily trotted
along the avenues, seemingly fixated on reaching a specific destination. It was
the same trail he took each morning, yet he seemed bent on navigating the trail
faster than before.
Not far from the
central Christmas tree, is a vacant lot. On nearing the lot, Homer gathered
more pace, and was almost galloping towards the lot. He had rushed on ahead of
me. I followed his trail and caught sound of his whimpers. Then I understood
his eagerness to reach the lot before the sun flooded the neighbourhood with
its billows of amber. Homer had proven that Forch is innocent of the crime.
There, under a small
wooden box, located in the yard of the vacant lot, was the shaggy outline of a
little poor pup. He seemed not to have been cared for for months. His ribs
could easily be numbered. His hair, a dingy, almost mud-stained white. He was
asleep on a bed of Milky Bone bags. Homer looked at me with eager anticipation.
His eyes spoke the words.
The morning was soon
abuzz with the excitement of a Christmas-tree-decoration frenzy. Everyone knew
of Homer’s Sherlock Holmes-like skills.
The vagrant thief
became the new addition to our family and the Milky Bones no longer disappeared.
OOW
2010
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