-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-
D is for Desmond
by Elisabeth Henry
It had begun to snow.
The wolves were gaining on the sleigh; the horses were in a panic. Six year old Desmond buried himself deeper under the woollen blanket as his father cracked the whip and his mother sobbed softly in the seat next to him. They were still miles away from the nearest village, and the wolves continued to gain ground.
'Get rid of everything!' his father shouted. 'Hurry!' Desmond watched, wide-eyed, as his mother and her maid scrambled to turn out the contents of the sleigh. It was only logical: the lighter the load, the faster they would go. Luggage bounced on the snow before bursting open, sending clothing everywhere. Some of the wolves were hit by flying shirts and trousers. Desmond could hear the mangy beasts' pitiful whines as their paws became tangled in the family's winter wardrobe.
Still, the rabid pack pressed forward. Boxes and bags were tossed from the sleigh, trinkets and souvenirs littering the snow. The wolves smoothly dodged these new obstacles and continued their relentless pursuit.
Desmond's mother removed her heavy fur coat and, with a wistful sigh, flung it from their transport. Three of the smaller wolves pounced on it, tearing it to pieces with their wickedly sharp teeth.
Finally, there was nothing more in the sleigh - nothing left to jettison - but still the chase continued. Desmond's father looked around frantically, while his mother moaned in fear and the maid buried her face in her hands. The animals drew closer, all slavering jaws and gleaming fangs. One of the wolves snapped at Desmond's bright red scarf, and he snatched it out of reach with a squeal of terror.
'Just a few more pounds,' his mother cried, searching fruitlessly for something - anything! - that could be discarded. Curled up on the floor of the sleigh, Desmond whimpered softly.
Everyone turned to stare at him. His mother smiled weakly. 'About forty-five pounds, wouldn't you say, ma'am?' said the maid, advancing on him.
They made it to the village shortly before sunset, but the need for haste had finally passed. The wolves were too busy eating the boy to pay any attention to the escaping sleigh.
D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh...