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Hey Muppeters! I am new to the site (joined today actually!) and I conceived this little story idea about Rowlf. It's only 2 and 1/2 pages, and as the title states, incomplete, but I would like some initial input for what I've got so far. I'm not good at writing (fiction or non-fiction) but I would like to get better. And if you guys like where I'm going with this, I'd love to make is a story 
. So, here goes nothing:
“It’s The Muppet Show with our very special guest star Mister Milton Berle!” shouted that iconic frog from the giant sign showcasing the program’s name: The Muppet ShOw.
The music roared with that same band playing that same theme song every week: Nigel, a bland character orchestrating the bunch; Floyd Pepper, an eccentric creature strumming at a bass; that wild Animal seeming to pound aimlessly on the drums and still make a beat worth dancing to; forgetful Zoot blowing a sax; a mangy mutt named Rowlf perched on a piano bench, flinging his head about and checking the sheet music every now and then; and an unknown girl on trumpet. It seemed too repetitive, but only one creature thought so: Lady Charlotte.
“It’s time to play the music; it’s time to light the lights! It’s time to meet the Muppets on The Muppet Show tonight.”
Lady Charlotte glared at them from across the stage. What purpose were they trying to fulfill? The interest and entertainment of America? She couldn’t see how. By the way they entertained they all had to have been oblivious to pure, natural, genius entertainment like acting and dancing. These guys wouldn’t dare be seen in her neck of the woods.
They continued to sing, old Statler and Waldorf cracked the same heckling nag, and the frog marvelously ended the theme. Lady Charlotte had only met with him, the frog, Kermit, once a couple months ago about becoming the new wardrobe designer. He informed her that the previous gal to withhold the job, Hilda, returned to her home in Russia to be with her family. “Things are a bit crazy around our set, Miss,” Kermit told her. “I’m surprised she hadn’t left earlier.”
She’d ignored his latter statement. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not too much, Mister the Frog.”
Boy, was she wrong.
Numerous creatures passed her by (half of them being unknown species to her), mumbling and grumbling. She could hear Miss Piggy singing (about Kermit, or “Kermie” as she’d sung) loudly and rather off key. That bear Fozzie kept pacing and telling himself jokes near the stairs, only laughing a few times. A flock of chickens clucked by and that freak Gonzo was holding onto his “favorite” chicken Camilla. Lady Charlotte was in the wrong place. She didn’t belong there.
“Alright, monsters, stand by for the first number!” Kermit alerted into the intercom. He seemed so cool and collected – a master at suppressing stress. Lady Charlotte made her way over to him.
“Oh, excuse me? Mister the Frog?” He turned to face her.
“Oh, Lady Charlotte!” he exclaimed, throwing his thin arms up. “Surprised to see you!”
She uneasily smirked. “I was wondering if that wardrobe job was still available.”
Those monsters pushed by. “Oh, sorry boss,” a few muttered.
“Will you get out there!” Kermit hurried them along. “Geez.” He looked back at her. “Oh, yes, uhm… Yes! It sure is and it’s yours! All yours! Now if you’ll excuse me…” he trailed off as he hobbled onto the stage, ready to present the first act of the show.
Lady Charlotte guessed it was the wrong time to consult the amphibian on her pay, work days, the lot. Not wanting to leave to simply return after the show’s closing, she walked towards the back of the building, following a sign directing her towards the props. Rats skittered along the hardwood flooring, squeaking as her paw nearly nicked their tails.
“Watch it!” one warned, and continued on its way.
The entire floor of the prop area was covered in, well, props. Most were miniscule trinkets, but the most prominent one was a large wooden upright piano, perfectly positioned near the stage. No dust was collected on it and no scratches donned it. Someone clearly loved this instrument. Lady Charlotte hadn’t a clue on how a piano worked, let alone what keys were which. Walking closer to it, she noticed sheet music on the stand: “Piano Concerto Number 14 in E-flat major by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. That mumbo-jumbo meant nothing to Lady Charlotte’s knowledge, but it sounded old. Old and fancy.
“I wonder what this one sounds like,” she said, striking the very last key on the right end of the keyboard. It echoed very high pitched but, rather quickly, faded out.
“That’s a high C,” informed a gruff, but friendly, voice. She turned to face it. “And the one at the other end’s a low A.”
It was that decrepit dog, Rowlf.
“You shan’t need to educate me in the art of piano,” Lady Charlotte advised, speaking as if she understood the lump of wood with ivory keys.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, a slight smile creeping onto his calm face. “Huh.” Rowlf walked over to the piano and sat before it. “The name’s Rowlf, Rowlf the Dog.”
She backed away from the instrument. “Charmed.”
“And you?” he asked, not acknowledging her movement. “I ain’t e’er seen you around here before.”
I shouldn’t ever have been seen here in the first place.
“Lady Charlotte,” she replied. Rowlf nodded. “I was named after a famous British businesswoman and translator.” Rowlf nodded again. “I’m a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”
“I noticed!” he smiled.
“My father’s great-great-great grandmother belonged to King Charles the Second of England.”
Lady was waiting for an awe or ooo, but it never came. All the other dogs she spoke to always marveled at her diamond collar, envied her history, or grew jealous of her pristine tan and white coat. Rowlf seemed uninterested completely. But he was smiling. She didn’t understand.
“You say yer educated in the piano art?” Rowlf inquired, placing his paws carefully on specific keys.
Her stomach released a few butterflies. “Of course! A dog like me wouldn’t be without the knowledge of such an amazing instrument.” (She hoped for a gawking stare from this mutt).
“Wanna play a duet?”
“I beg your pardon,” she firmly stated, backing away from him even more.
Rowlf chuckled, “A duet. Ya know, we play a piece of music together.”
A nervous laugh escaped her jowls. “Oh, uhm, I don’t know… I’ve got this thing tonight and I don’t want play all day and ruin my evening, you know.”
His brow furrowed. “Well, okay Miss! Whatever floats yer boat!”
At that, he pounded the keys, releasing a beautiful tune.
. So, here goes nothing: Rowlf the Dog: Incomplete "One Shot"
“It’s The Muppet Show with our very special guest star Mister Milton Berle!” shouted that iconic frog from the giant sign showcasing the program’s name: The Muppet ShOw.
The music roared with that same band playing that same theme song every week: Nigel, a bland character orchestrating the bunch; Floyd Pepper, an eccentric creature strumming at a bass; that wild Animal seeming to pound aimlessly on the drums and still make a beat worth dancing to; forgetful Zoot blowing a sax; a mangy mutt named Rowlf perched on a piano bench, flinging his head about and checking the sheet music every now and then; and an unknown girl on trumpet. It seemed too repetitive, but only one creature thought so: Lady Charlotte.
“It’s time to play the music; it’s time to light the lights! It’s time to meet the Muppets on The Muppet Show tonight.”
Lady Charlotte glared at them from across the stage. What purpose were they trying to fulfill? The interest and entertainment of America? She couldn’t see how. By the way they entertained they all had to have been oblivious to pure, natural, genius entertainment like acting and dancing. These guys wouldn’t dare be seen in her neck of the woods.
They continued to sing, old Statler and Waldorf cracked the same heckling nag, and the frog marvelously ended the theme. Lady Charlotte had only met with him, the frog, Kermit, once a couple months ago about becoming the new wardrobe designer. He informed her that the previous gal to withhold the job, Hilda, returned to her home in Russia to be with her family. “Things are a bit crazy around our set, Miss,” Kermit told her. “I’m surprised she hadn’t left earlier.”
She’d ignored his latter statement. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not too much, Mister the Frog.”
Boy, was she wrong.
Numerous creatures passed her by (half of them being unknown species to her), mumbling and grumbling. She could hear Miss Piggy singing (about Kermit, or “Kermie” as she’d sung) loudly and rather off key. That bear Fozzie kept pacing and telling himself jokes near the stairs, only laughing a few times. A flock of chickens clucked by and that freak Gonzo was holding onto his “favorite” chicken Camilla. Lady Charlotte was in the wrong place. She didn’t belong there.
“Alright, monsters, stand by for the first number!” Kermit alerted into the intercom. He seemed so cool and collected – a master at suppressing stress. Lady Charlotte made her way over to him.
“Oh, excuse me? Mister the Frog?” He turned to face her.
“Oh, Lady Charlotte!” he exclaimed, throwing his thin arms up. “Surprised to see you!”
She uneasily smirked. “I was wondering if that wardrobe job was still available.”
Those monsters pushed by. “Oh, sorry boss,” a few muttered.
“Will you get out there!” Kermit hurried them along. “Geez.” He looked back at her. “Oh, yes, uhm… Yes! It sure is and it’s yours! All yours! Now if you’ll excuse me…” he trailed off as he hobbled onto the stage, ready to present the first act of the show.
Lady Charlotte guessed it was the wrong time to consult the amphibian on her pay, work days, the lot. Not wanting to leave to simply return after the show’s closing, she walked towards the back of the building, following a sign directing her towards the props. Rats skittered along the hardwood flooring, squeaking as her paw nearly nicked their tails.
“Watch it!” one warned, and continued on its way.
The entire floor of the prop area was covered in, well, props. Most were miniscule trinkets, but the most prominent one was a large wooden upright piano, perfectly positioned near the stage. No dust was collected on it and no scratches donned it. Someone clearly loved this instrument. Lady Charlotte hadn’t a clue on how a piano worked, let alone what keys were which. Walking closer to it, she noticed sheet music on the stand: “Piano Concerto Number 14 in E-flat major by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. That mumbo-jumbo meant nothing to Lady Charlotte’s knowledge, but it sounded old. Old and fancy.
“I wonder what this one sounds like,” she said, striking the very last key on the right end of the keyboard. It echoed very high pitched but, rather quickly, faded out.
“That’s a high C,” informed a gruff, but friendly, voice. She turned to face it. “And the one at the other end’s a low A.”
It was that decrepit dog, Rowlf.
“You shan’t need to educate me in the art of piano,” Lady Charlotte advised, speaking as if she understood the lump of wood with ivory keys.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, a slight smile creeping onto his calm face. “Huh.” Rowlf walked over to the piano and sat before it. “The name’s Rowlf, Rowlf the Dog.”
She backed away from the instrument. “Charmed.”
“And you?” he asked, not acknowledging her movement. “I ain’t e’er seen you around here before.”
I shouldn’t ever have been seen here in the first place.
“Lady Charlotte,” she replied. Rowlf nodded. “I was named after a famous British businesswoman and translator.” Rowlf nodded again. “I’m a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”
“I noticed!” he smiled.
“My father’s great-great-great grandmother belonged to King Charles the Second of England.”
Lady was waiting for an awe or ooo, but it never came. All the other dogs she spoke to always marveled at her diamond collar, envied her history, or grew jealous of her pristine tan and white coat. Rowlf seemed uninterested completely. But he was smiling. She didn’t understand.
“You say yer educated in the piano art?” Rowlf inquired, placing his paws carefully on specific keys.
Her stomach released a few butterflies. “Of course! A dog like me wouldn’t be without the knowledge of such an amazing instrument.” (She hoped for a gawking stare from this mutt).
“Wanna play a duet?”
“I beg your pardon,” she firmly stated, backing away from him even more.
Rowlf chuckled, “A duet. Ya know, we play a piece of music together.”
A nervous laugh escaped her jowls. “Oh, uhm, I don’t know… I’ve got this thing tonight and I don’t want play all day and ruin my evening, you know.”
His brow furrowed. “Well, okay Miss! Whatever floats yer boat!”
At that, he pounded the keys, releasing a beautiful tune.
But I really like your name because it reminds of when frank Oz performed that song @ Jim Henson's memorial, so good for you!! *Waits patiently for more*
. I always change things and scratch the idea all together. But, I'mma try *real* hard because I'm very determined to finish a story this New Year