INGLEWOOD [PG-13] A Lovely Fantasy

[Davok]

Just a little something that I wrote down. =/ Might continue it, depending on my mood and the comments. Or something. Nevertheless, thought it would be nice to show it to you guys, though don't expect much. I haven't really wrote anything in a long time.

 

[spoiler=Chapter I: The Deer Man]

Inglewood was a mature, resilient man of around thirty who often dwelled within the wide, thick logging woods in the outskirts of the little logging settlement of Bluedale. In fact, he only ended his isolation within the dark and looming cedars once a week to purchase matches, logs, ammunition for his .22 rifle and to wash his hands. These peculiar visits only lasted around three to four hours in which Inglewood non-chantingly walked up the steep hillside trail that led deeper into the woods.

 

Sometimes the youth of the settlement would trail him for a while, only to find that they were ever lost or were actually trailing another youth of the settlement who was thinking he trailing Inglewood.

 

Such a strange isolation brought about a sense of mysticism about the man, a sort of folklore tale spread around the grubby hearths and stone pits of the settlers’ dwellings. Inglewood sightings would become a wondrously fantastical phenomenon; Mr. Pines, the shopkeeper for the general store had become a veritable prophet of all ways Inglewood. And, through the occasional slip or minor exaggeration over time, Inglewood became a folklore hero, savior of the citizens of Bluedale and beyond and mighty harbinger of God’s might and the sheer exposure to Inglewood’s presence granted a sort of sainthood among the populace.

 

“There goes Inglewood again.” Commented Mrs. Pines proudly as the recluse stole silently out of the general store with matches and logs and ammunition, wiping hands on a rag that he drew out of his pocket. “Inglewood likes Georgy’s store so much. He keeps coming back!” And her companion, Mrs. Toby the foreman’s wife slumped back in jealous anguish.

 

Actually, there was no where else for Inglewood to come back to besides the general store. There were no markets, no malls, no vendors, no con artists, no economy within the small logging settlement besides the general store. And, the general store was the only place where one could go and find matches, logs and ammunition for a .22 rifle. But, this strict preference in Inglewood using Pines’ general store in washing his hands is what made him such a celebrity.

 

Inglewood was truly a slim, calm man of about 5’9 who was born to a logging family along the banks of the Fraser River. Mr. Inglewood was a spry old man of eighty who promptly died three days after Inglewood was born, and left his wife to take care of her twenty-five children.

Inglewood’s siblings worked in every profession one could name. Worker, logger, clerk, dancer, laborer, writer, intern, blacksmith, hunter, fisherman, fisherman writer, rancher, farmer, housewife, slave, and the list went on and on. It became so cluttered within the small wooden house that a rule was made: at the age of seventeen all the children must go and seek their fortune in the world.

 

By seventeen Inglewood had a lovely and faithful wife and six wonderful, beautiful children and was so deeply in love with all of them that he divorced and left them in the hands of a creepy old gentleman with a gout and a broken monocle.

 

Inglewood decided to go seek his fortune with his two younger brothers, Monday and Tuesday.

 

Monday was an apathetic, black haired bored young man with a cunning look and mischievous smile and Tuesday was a drunken idiot who thought the Earth was imprisoned within a magical cylinder by a grinning garden gnome.

 

And so Inglewood and his brothers set off to seek their fortune in the world. They rode on fine black stallions until they reached a fine stone bridge, polished and clean.

 

“Careful there.” Inglewood warned. “There might be a troll underneath that bridge.”

 

“But how will we tell?” Monday inquired drearily.

 

Tuesday ignored them and galloped off over the bridge and the troll ate his horse.

 

“There is a troll under that bridge!” Tuesday exclaimed frantically.

 

“There is a troll under that bridge.” Monday stated thoughtfully.

 

“There is a troll under that bridge.” Inglewood nodded.

 

So, Inglewood, being ever knowing of mysticism and folklore, found a holly tree and plucked a piece of holly from it, and handed it to Tuesday.

“Trolls don’t like holly, this will keep it away.” Inglewood reassured Tuesday.

 

Tuesday ran over the bridge and the troll ate both Tuesday and the holly.

 

“The troll ate Tuesday.” Monday sighed.

 

“The troll ate Tuesday?” Inglewood exclaimed, staring at Monday with widening eyes.

 

So, Inglewood, being ever knowing of mysticism and folklore, borrowed a bell from a church and handed it and handed it to Monday.

 

“Trolls don’t like church bells, this will keep it away.” Inglewood reassured Monday.

 

Monday galloped over the bridge and the troll ate his horse.

 

Realization suddenly dawned on Inglewood’s face.

 

“It’s daytime, isn’t it? Shouldn’t trolls turn to stone?”

 

Monday and Inglewood galloped over the bridge and the troll turned to stone.

 

Monday sat behind Inglewood on Inglewood’s horse, and they plunged deeper and deeper into the forest until they met and old shriveled hag.

 

“Beware the Deer Man!” The hag shrieked as they rode past.

 

Inglewood’s ears pricked up worryingly, and was just in time to roll his head to the site as an enormous harpoon impaled itself into Monday’s slouching apathetic body. Unnerved by this, Inglewood dismounted and found himself looking up at a winding wooden porch, It slipped a small cottage like an abysmal boardwalk over hell. On this boardwalk sat the most odd creature he had ever seen.

 

It’s head was that of a deer’s, the same black curious eyes and the funny stick like antlers. But underneath the furry long neck curved down a humanoid form and body. It had human hands, human arms, all covered in deer fur and had the rickety deer legs and hooves. Within the creature’s hands sat the handle of a round china teacup. The deer man’s body was mostly covered by a long scarlet lounge suit, and it was pouring itself some tea. Wrenching his eyes away from the ghastly sight he spied an enormous longbow half the size of the creature itself nestled at it’s feet.

 

“Hey!” Inglewood shouted at the Deer Man so he could hear him.

 

The Deer Man raised his head from his tea and replied in a cordial, cooing tone. “Yes?”

 

“Did you kill Monday?”

 

The Deer Man shrugged and confessed: “I do not seem to recall I know a Monday.”

 

Inglewood pointed at the bleeding corpse of his brother lying on his disgruntled horse.

 

“Ah-h.” The Deer Man laughed. “I do know a Monday. I think I may have killed him.”

 

“So you did kill him!” Inglewood roared triumphantly.

 

The Deer Man sighed in recognition and looked to his black polished hooves. “I did kill him.”

 

“Why did you kill him?” Inglewood challenged.

 

“So I could eat him.” The Deer Man replied in a matter of fact tone.

 

“Why would you eat him?” Inglewood posed, scratching his ears in astonishment.

 

The Deer Man held his hands up into the air. “Why ever not?”

 

Inglewood frowned. For a moment it seemed that the Deer Man had won, and he already spied as the monster reached for it’s fell bow.

 

Then, it struck him!

“Humans eat deer.” Inglewood stated smugly. “Not the other way around.”

 

The Deer Man froze just as he was going to pick up the bow, and frowned. “Why don’t deer eat humans?”

 

“Because,” Inglewood paused for his words to sink in, “God made Man in his image, not animals, and animals are always inferior to Man.” He puffed out his chest, proud of his vast seventeen year old Sunday school teachings from his mother.

 

The Deer Man glared, a glare that pierced through Inglewood’s very heart and soul and would reduce a weaker man to madness, but he held his ground bravely and wrenched the harpoon out of his brother’s carcass. The Deer Man screamed in rage, a scream that seemed to tear the forest apart. The creature leaped and grabbed onto his bow, but too late. Inglewood hefted the harpoon like a javelin and threw it upwards threw the disgusting humanoid body of the creature. It screeched and the forest seemed to light on fire and everything was vaporized. The cottage, the porch, the woods around were all gone.

 

Inglewood buried his in the place where the cottage had been, took his horse and left the horrible place.

 

 

=/

[bury the year]

i dun get it.

 

Shouldn't it be nonchalantly? Also, it seems incredibly oddly paced; the dude gets eaten in the space of five words. Not much dramatic tension their, amirite? It's a bit odd, too, and doesn't have much of a plot from what I can discern.