First Fantasy - Then the World!

Once there was a small forest on the outskirts of the crumbling town of Deneson. The forest shined with the bright beams of sunlight which reflected across the leaves and bubbling stream. At the bottom of the forest’s hill, on a flat piece of ground, skipped a young man, eyes wide, grin across his face, old broken wooden instrument in his hand. Strumming and skipping, grinning and hopping, he wandered about in the forest. To him, the forest was an old friend who he shared his happenings with, and who responded with a helpful word of encouragement with its peaceful swells of powerful yet soaring gales and quiet rhythmic chirps and squeaks.
At the top near a large decaying oak that smelt of burnt chicken, stood, like an old man hunched yet stiff, a thin, no, skinny, yes, horrifically lanky gentleman with a different sort of instrument by his side. Now, when I mean gentleman, I mean not of a man who was pleasant to see, and who abided by the rules, no, I mean a fellow who once tried quite hard to live according to society and his mentor’s rules, but seeing the faults in this as one could the flaws in the “perfect” and “beautiful”, yet polluted and stagnant, streams that riddled the hills, he had given up on caring, and had begun to see life as suffering. He was an inventor, and he desperately hoped that his newest invention would work; he’d bet his life on it. Adjusting it significantly and aiming it upwards, he smirked down and glared upon the hills of Cash Valley, those which he could remember roaming aimlessly for years. He remembered.
“The forrrrresst! Is yoooours, oh Loor-dd!” shot the loud gruff voice from the center of the trees. The inventor hadn’t noticed as he was far too busy reminiscing upon the trolls who had once beaten him with massive wooden clubs for three hours in this picturesque valley. He could almost feel the bashings and taste the blood again. Sivle Rekord, the oddly disproportionably voiced bard with an old, but as he said, rather quant and sentimentally valuable lute had begun talking to the trees again, telling them about his day. Unbeknownst to him however, the, er, let’s call it music for lack of a better word, yes, music that he played not only really didn’t translate to the trees but also was so bad that it had claimed four lives already. The trees had begun shivering in fear, and had blown a hefty gust of wind to try and scare the bard away, but he didn’t get the message and continued to rhyme awfully and yell out loud. This, legend says, is the cause of the term Weeping Willow.
“With its bright greeeeen beauuuu- tyyyyyyyy! I love it with my entiiiiiiiiiirrre heart, and so sing this mello – dyyyy!” He then stopped his simple rhythm, and played but a single long held note. He became a gargoyle. His looks did not change. When the note’s echo finally had faded away he stopped his statuesque quality and sprung into action, grinning wildly, and throwing open his arms to the forest, “Hello me mossy, rustic jungle o’ lumber! How do ye’?” He mimicked his previous note, but instead quickly stifled it after a quick burst into the air. “Me? I do well.” He put on an expressionless expression, coyly waiting until he sparked into an ecstatic mask of joy as he shouted, “They le’me do it! I … ‘m writing a ballad! –“ He spread his arms apart as if witnessing the mountain of heaven itself, slowly with hesitance to take his eyes away, “about you. Ha Ha!” He strummed slightly. “When I finish it they’ll gi’me some stage time.” He raised his arm quickly in triumph, he wasn’t usually so quick on raising his arm, but this he had practiced on numerous occasions. “I’ve gotten in!” He laughed and smiled like an ugly baby finally being given some affection, falling down like a peaceful snowflake that’s been given the gift of love and now can truly die happy. He laid down on the soft green dewy grass, peering up into the bright blissful blue, while playing little ditties without focus. “Yep, now I just need some inspiration.” He grabbed the soft grass blade with his unemployed hand and felt not only it but the entire world, and it was breathtakingly sweet.
The damn itchy dry blades reminded him of the fools, the lazy drunkards, the still-hot blazing suits of the posy of copy cat knights, those damn painted tarts that spat towards him in voices like broken parrots. Damn nature, the inventor steamed as he turned to something more pleasant to his sight – the long dark barrel of his newest machine, which had a mysterious allure to him, calling him like a moth drawn towards a torch. If only he could squeeze into it, perhaps he would go wander through, hoping for a new land at the end, instead of the black abyss which science told him would be there. He turned away again and focused on his torn and tattered old shoes, which, yes, were as comfortable as ever. That would be a sight – no flashy accountant’s garb, or the robe of a king – dressed as a peasant, but with more class than either party. They will not cry, he thought, for the old dirty shoes. They will cry for the labor that comes with it. To others he will remain nameless, a crumbling autumn leaf flying through the air elegantly on its own, landing on the ground gently and peacefully, but only to be stepped on by some poncey overdressed nobleman with a crunch that ruins the vision. He shakes his head and tries once more to forget about both ends of the hourglass, and focuses solely on the small intricate rotating machinery inside. That was his only peace for now. He listened to it turn, trying not to remember the land. He stood straight once more, ready and waiting. Counting down, he smiled.
He smiled as loud as a trumpet as he played his soft tune, singing along with the slow steady rhythm, “Grass grows and trees bloom/ the sea sparkles like her crown/ The rose grows while I smile/ that lovely touch of the warm red ground!” He waits for the last note to echo through, then admires it proudly, looking off at some children and women jumping up and down in joy and pleasure at the sound of his wild mad playing. Years of practice ladies, all in a days work. He stops. He scratches his dark greasy hair and waits. As if waiting for a cue from a far away land. He blinks and the wave of hypnosis is broken. He grins like a demon, grabbing his lute roughly and beginning to peck at it like a chicken; the soft lazy float of music turns quicker and more violent, the current picks up and tosses the notes around like a tornado. Once the steam was picking up effortlessly brilliant rhymes began forming like, well, like effortlessly brilliant rhymes in the middle of the great wide forest. The sounds, all ranging from strangely holy to holy strangeness, became louder and more acoustically audible to the entire forest, waking up the poor buggers who lived there – the wolves howled complaints, the wind tried desperately to shhh him, but he was in his own musical and magical world as he hollered and screamed with a sense of primal delight, like a Neanderthal banging on a rock. The sound, or noise as more classically trained bards might have observed, rushed upwards into the sky like a concentrated cannon blast and spread out like the scattering of a shot gun blast to hit every part of the forest when he came to the final note, wailing out “Soooooooooooowaaaaaaaaaaa!” like a banshee at dawn. His power of acoustics broke many an animal’s ear, and his wild flailing of his fingers like a cat with the chicken pox tore at his strings. Quicker than it had formed, his magical and musical bubble had popped, and he was left in the silent forest. The forest was now trying to recover from the sonic blast it had experienced, while Sivle tried to recover from his broken dreams. Sniff. Sniff. Looking on the brighter side of things, he grinned down at the lute like an old war hero gazes at his badge of honor – at least he had the memories. He slowly strummed at his invisible lute strings as he was once again lost in his daydreams. Crash, crumple, crumple, shake, stomp, stomp, stomp went the background while he was starting again to build up his steam. Glancing up towards the higher hills, he saw a figure quickly moving through the trees approaching him. Sivle wondered who it could be, and what they wanted. But more importantly, this is where he differed from most others, he wondered if they had heard him – how could anyone not? - and if so, what did they think of his playing? As he stood there sweating in anticipation with his benevolently innocent grin on his face, the figure approached.
“You saved me!”
Sivle couldn’t believe his ears, this didn’t usually happen to him … mostly.
The sky was bright blue and clear now, the sun shining down intensely, but only a few moments ago, it had been dark and dreary. The sky was lovely once; but then you learn what it is really like. Crowded with uninhabitable gas and birds which are as cruel and hateful as the scavengers on the earth. Science ruins it doesn’t it? Knowledge. Learning. To only be dumb and dull, as thick as a brick, but happy as a fool. Then I could drool from bliss and inactivity, and not from thinking too …. action! Now’s the time! Go! Go! Yet the arrow did not move, not an inch. This invention was not under his control; it was as dumb and lazy as the rest. He did have doubts, but …. they weren’t important. He held bravely, still waiting. Always waiting. Trying not to think anymore, trying not to look. He was in a deep silence. Dark. Cold. Dark. Cold. Dark. Noisy. Loud? Noisy? Noise?!! Since when?! His eyes shot open like a spring to examine the place and saw nothing, but heard too much. Damn! He thought, and tried to go about with his business, trying not to think about the noise, yet its volume increased louder and louder until finally he had to … Whoosh! Dink. Weeawing. The noise was gone, but he was there still, on the ground, waiting. Looking at the tree, he saw the arrow plunged deep into the wood. He had ducked and covered his ears, crying on the ground, in an attempt at muffling the noise. He could hear it ringing deeply, and saw the sky become lighter and bluer as if mocking him. In a fit of rage and despair, he threw the crossbow against the smoking tree; it bounced off and assaulted his shin.
“Bastard!” he cried aloud. “Baaastarrrrrd!” Like an enraged bull he was fed up, seeing red; for stopping his death, cleverly planned he might add, he would enact revenge upon the source of the horrid and stupid noise. The distant snap of strings gave him both a location and a purpose. Focusing all of his past, present, and soon to come hate he was like a rage rocket burning through the forest towards his victim.
And there he was, the stupidly smiling slouch of a fool, with his old rusty antique in hand. Just as he was out of the thicket, he let the bastard have it by yelling in his loud shriekish voice at him, explaining to him the harm he’d caused –
“You saved me!” It shook the bard like an atomic blast, leaving him confused and embarrassed. Is that a bad thing, the bard wondered, or is his face always like that? Confused, the bard started to stagger,
“Uh …. I didn’t know.” when he was jumped by the inventor who shook violently like the sea for answers.
“You stupid bastard! I was close! So close! I could’ve ended it all by now! …. I could be out of this hell hole!” He whined fiercely. Then the slight bashings stopped as he at on the itchy grass, glum and with a lack of purpose; staring at nothing, caring about nothing. A silence followed, awkward and strange to the confused and afraid bard. He waited patiently for his chance to speak, wary of the statuesque gargoyle of an inventor. But finally, he had had enough, and spoke up,
“What’s wrong with the forest?” He looked around, admiring its beauty and wondering how anyone could call it a hell hole. Namxat, the inventor, looked up slowly with the glare of an oppressed madman, and fiercely like a ninja’s slash, bore into him with his shriek,
“Not the forest you fool …. life!” His screech echoed through the forest to the birds which flied above. The birds were horrified by the sound and flew away as quickly as they could across the green valley, towards the mountainous kingdom raised atop all the land, as hard as stone, a deep reddish brown castle that has come to represent prominence. Ironic as the king and queen are always changing. The birds flew towards the castle to get away, looking back to make sure the screech was not following them. When they looked back … Smack! Screeeeeeech … the window was dirty again. The fourth time in the same day.


TO BE CONTINUED - Please rate and comment! I have written a bit more, and am still forming the entire story in my head, figuring out which pieces to leave in and cut out and which way I should connect them together. There are of course other important characters such as a pompous deluded warrior knight, a young, unfortunately well-meaning witch, a lazy and dim-witted king, a crazed villainous prisoner who has had it rough and many other zany characters. Thank you for reading and don't forget to comment! I need the motivation to continue!