esmarie

Please enjoy the story and if you can provide me with feedback to improve. Thanks

The Forest of Dilapidated Heads was no pace to find a wandering child. Nor was it a place to find a wandering child with, of all things, a crazed rooster on his head and a plastic guitar strapped to his back. But Kid Fowler is no lost child… at least mentally. He is literally lost, as in no clear path, he is traveling the road less traveled, he is up the river with no fucking paddle and well, you get the idea.
“E-excuse me?” He looks up as though addressing a disembodied voice.
He clearly is losing his mind.
“Not really. I was just wondering, Mr. Voice, if you could skip the bad words. I’m only 8, you know?”
Er. I see. I guess I will then.
“Thanks.”
Anyways, Kid Fowler is lost, which would explain why he is now in a forest full of stones that look like severed heads. The full moon is dressed with the ethereal gown of fog. Trees whose gnarled branches looked as though they could tear a human to shreds within minutes stood menacingly overhead and- Kid begins to cry for some inexplicable reason.
He sniffs. “N-n-no. I-I’m just scarred. A-and you’re not helping me, Mr. Voice.”
Honestly, Kid. I’m trying to tell a story here.
“I know, b-but I’m all alone here and I-I just wish my mom or dad were here and-”
Hoo-hoo-oo. An owl sounds off in the distance as Kid Fowler screams and wets himself?
Did you just wet yourself?
“No!” He turns red. “No I’m not! You can’t even see in the dark, how would you know?”
I’m an omniscient narrator.
“No, you’re just a a poopyhead. C-can we just get on with the story?”
Are you going to let me do my job?
“I will if you’re nicer about things.”
Sigh. For the sake of the reader I suppose we will just have to get along. Change your pants and your tidy-whiteys and we can continue.
He pouts as he gets behind a wrinkly and especially warped tree that rather resembles my third wife. The leaves on this tree and many others had already fallen; piles of dull reds and yellows lay at the bottom of the trunks. The cool night breeze of Autumn blew through the branches in an eerie siren song. But to some it may seem like a soothing melody. Fowler steps out from behind the tree, his backpack remade and his faithful rooster atop his head. He grabs the bird and nestles it in his arms as he attempts to sense his way onto a path. The rooster continues to sleep in his master’s arms.
“We should probably make camp here, huh Cluck?” He coos to his rooster.
Another breeze blows through the forest but there was something rather different about it. Cluck raises his head as both begin to sniff the air. The faint scent of house ale accompanied the breeze. The familiar scent of Kid’s father’s favorite ale was unmistakable now that his attention was more focused. The previous siren song became more alive and in the distance an accordion could be heard playing. Cluck’s eyes begins opening wider as he wriggles free of his master.
“Lead on, Cluck!” Kid straps his guitar for better support.
The rooster frantically weaves in and out of trees but the kid keeps pace. Years of running through the farm with chore work had conditioned both rooster and master to a near-perfect sync. Within a few minutes, Kid begins to see a yellow glow. As the two travelers finally reach the source of the scent and sounds, the two begin to recognize it as an inn. Kid gazes hungrily at the establishment. It had been hours since his last meal.
The inn itself was nothing spectacular. The walls were of local stone and the roof was some sort of hardwood. It was most likely the only imported material considering the quality of lumber in the area. Horses were tied to a front post; most of the mounts were asleep. The two eagerly rushed up to the heavy wooden doors.
As they entered, laughter, music, and drunken song floods over them, a tsunami of cacophony. Each table crowded with heavily drunken men and lap bitches looking for coin. As Kid makes his way through the packed den, he becomes more conscious of his arms, or at least his exposed skin. In the middle of the den, Fowler spots an empty chair. He squeezes his way past several burly men with Cluck on his head. The scent of heavy musk clogs his lungs for several moments as unwashed bodies rub against his own. Drops of man-sweat splash about and a few nearly land in Kid’s mouth. Cluck merely cringes at the thought, safer from the crowd on his perch.
After a few moments Kid finally reaches the seat. He plops down on the lumpy, wooden chair; his feet dangle off the front end and he can barely raise his chin above the table top. He removes Cluck from his head and sets him on the chair, his guitar he hangs on a corner of the chair’s head.. Fowler raises his hand in an effort to gain the attention of a waitress or a hostess, someone to help him relieve his hunger. He can barely see over the shoulders of the patrons. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of a skirt or the back of the waitresses’ head but nobody paid any heed. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he decides to wait patiently for a waitress to come to him; hunger did not outweigh his desire to avoid the sea of unclean bodies. He could wait for a bit, his stomach was not yet resorting to digesting itself. Kid looks around as he waits.
While the outside seemed to be designed with frugality in mind the inside was more costly. The rafters were made or a heavier wood, providing a more stable structure. From where he sat, Kid could see reflections of light possible only after rigorous polishing. The actual bar is rather near to him. A fireplace burns on the opposite side of the room. It didn’t help at all with the already claustrophobic atmosphere. On top of the body heat radiating around him, the waves of flames begin dancing around Kid. He starts to manufacture his own sweat and before long his clothes begin to stick to his skin. Thankfully he is not yet capable of producing odor. Cluck sighed in relief; he would not stand more musk. By the light in the simple glass and steel chandeliers, Kid could see the various alcoholic beverages lining the wall. Each drink was arranged according to price, or so it seemed to Fowler. His father drank several of the ales and whiskeys featured and the ones his father liked to save for special occasions were towards the opposite end of the usual drinks. There was a single bartender catering to a line of at least 20 men. The waitresses (who still were ignoring Kid) were scattered about the den. He counted about five of them. That was when he noticed another individual that they were pointedly ignoring.
It was amazing that Kid barely noticed him before. The man wasn’t as burly as the average man in the room. In fact, he seemed rather twiggy. His hair could have easily been a suitable nest for Cluck. The man had a rather kind face but even Fowler could tell that he was drunk. Every once and a while the man’s curly mustache would flick and seem like it had it’s own thirst to quench. But the most distinguishing feature of the man was his lime green suit. It clashed beautifully with the purple polyester buttoned shirt. The first three shirt buttons were undone but it wasn’t from the several bottles of drink he had. The pendant he wore was a large gold version of the international sign for men. He seemed rather comfortable as he slouched in his chair. There were also several bottles of alcoholic beverages laying about his table.
Cluck begins to feel rather warm and more uncomfortable. For him the wait has gone on long enough. He begins to flail about attempting to get Kid’s attention. Within moments the rooster unseats Kid’s backpack.
“No! Stupid bird!”
It falls and the coin purse slips out. As the bag hits the wooden floor the coins make a high pitch clink as they hit each other. The waitresses’ ears twitch at this near inhuman frequency. Cluck gathers the bag in his mouth, flies/hops onto the table and begins to jingle the bag. Immediately, the waitresses all turn their heads to the source of the clink. Within mere moments Kid is surrounded by all five waitresses including a couple he had missed in his count.
“Welcome, Sir. How may we help you?“
Kid takes the bag back and calms his friend down. “I would like a glass of milk and whatever is cheapest for dinner.”
The waitresses glance at the slightly heavy bag. They give a bow. “Right away, sir.” They disappear as fast as they had arrived.
Kid looks back at the man and for a millisecond it seems as though the man is glaring at him. He blinks however, and the man’s attention is on the behind of a petite waitress bending over to reach a plate at the table beside him.
“’Ey kid,” Kid looks up startled. “Geh outta my seat.”
A large brute, not unlike the others in the den towers over him. His beady eyes squint as if trying to make out the true form of Fowler. As he breathes on the kid, the stench of piss-cheap ale and possible dental disease wafts over the table. A face not even a mother could love inches closer to the boy. In fact when he was born, the doctor must have taken one good look at him and slapped the baby’s mother. Godzilla could have pooped better looking creatures than this freak. In fact the samples from between my great-aunt Muriel’s toes-
“Not now, Voice,” Kid whispered forcefully.
“Wha’s tha‘, boy? You said something about my sister?” The monster inched closer to the kid. Any closer and the rugged stubble could pierce Kid’s baby-bottom-soft cheeks
“See, Voice? I’m gonna get in trouble,” he was nearly on the verge of tears.
I made fun of him and his mom. Not his sister. Definitely a difference.
“Wha’re you tryin’ to say about’ my sister, kid?” He placed his crockpot hand on the head of the chair.
“N-nothing, sir. I- you see. There’s this voice and he was making fun of-”
“Wha’s tha‘? A ‘voice’? Ya see boys,” out of nowhere the monster’s friends show up. “This runt’s hearin’ voices. He’s makin’ fun a’ Louise an’ he’s blamin’ it on his ‘voices’.” He begins to laugh. The other laugh too. But more like beached whales bellowing for the tide to rise.
“Let’s show this boy wha’ happuns when you mess with Ol’ Moby and his crew.” He picks up Kid and throws him over his shoulder. Cluck and all of Kid’s other possessions are left behind. The monsters calmly work their way to the exit, playing “catch the runt” all the while at Kid’s expense.

“Ooof,” Kid grunts as Moby tosses him on the cold dirt.
The moon and trees watch silently as the group huddles around Kid’s small frame. His 3’11” stature was no match against the six and a half foot wall beginning to form around him. At least the breeze was cool against his skin. The sound of large popcorn kernels bursting sounds throughout the wall. The brutes are cracking their knuckles in anticipation. They laugh as Kid fumbles to get up. He looks behind him and sees a gap where they hadn’t closed in on him. A large pebble lay next to his right hand, his good side. He takes it in his fist and throws it with all his strength at the nearest monster.
“ARRRRHHHHHHH,” direct hit to the eye.
As the others flinch in disbelief, Kid bolts up and out toward the tree line. The shouts of anger follow him. He scrambles around trying to find merciful shelter but find no accommodating structures. As he attempts to hide in the brush he hears a loud sort of galloping. The brutes had gone back for their steeds. From the sound of the galloping, they must have been huge horses with lead shoes. They were going for overkill. The coup de grace. The-
“Not being nice,” Kid barely whispered.
It didn’t take long for the brutes to find pale skin within the grey background. The lackeys surround the kid yet again. Their various multi-colored steeds snort at the boy. Moby was the last to arrive on his yellow mustang. As large as he was, it was surprising that the horse was able to move at all. He gives the reins to one of his fellows and approaches the boy.
“Though’ you could geh’ away, eh boy,” he grasps Kid by his collar and waves an elongated bratwurst of a finger. “Nuh-uh. Not until you’ve learned your lesson.”
He raises the boy against the moon and draws back his fist.
A rock flies out of nowhere and clips Moby on the hand. Startled, he drops Kid and massages it. The posse looks around for a possible source. In comes the drunk letch from earlier. He lunges at the nearest brute and goes for the eyes.
“HWOOOOARRRR!” The first brute flails about, blind. The drunk nimbly avoids contact with him and quickly proceeds onto the other men.

Punch, kick,
Parry- jab dodge.



cut 1-2-punch
per
1.2.Jab! Up


Wave after wave of monsters rush him. They each dismount and as they do they all draw their weapons. The drunk weaves in and out of his opponent like a slinkie. Each hit he dodges only serves to give him momentum to send them flying. The quiet watch of the moon is disrupted by roars of giants being followed by drunken giggles and taunts. Each giggle and taunt is followed by a pained grunt and/or a thud. Within a few moments the ground is littered by groaning, moaning beached whales. Only Moby is left.
“One gorilla left,” the drunk man grins and hiccups.
“You fuckin’ asshole. How coul’ ye- how coul’ ye- YAAHHH!” The earth quakes with each rampaging step Moby takes. His outstretched arms searching for the throat of the drunk letch. The veins throb on Moby’s temple, his face red enough to make a tomato jealous, and bits of spittle fly out of his gigantic flytrap. The drunk man only grins wider. He places a hand out and waits for Moby. Just as Moby’s hand grab the drunk, the man slips under the giant to Moby’s abdomen, he shifts his feet for stability and delivers a sharp elbow jab, followed by a jackknife kick to the diaphragm. The air rushes out of Moby quicker than teenagers caught in the bed of their parents. A loud whoosh issues and several trees are actually bent back. The delayed force finally hits Moby and the brutish leader is sent flying. He lands on the ground hard enough to crack the dry ground and make a slight imprint.
The drunk finally notices the kid and flashes a quick thumbs up and sideways smile.
“You know, the cute waitresses prepared a good meal for you. It’d be rude to pass up such an offer. Besides, they were as buzzards when they found your table unattended.”
He gives a hand up to Kid. “Who knows how long your friend can guard against such… enchantresses?”
He begins walking towards the inn. Kid hesitates a second before following. The drunk turns around.
“What are you waiting for?”
Kid nods and rushes next to the man. “Er- thanks, Mr. uh…”
He puts out a hand. “My name is Rico. Rico Sua- huarrgh.”
Fowler has barely enough time to jump back from the torrent of vomit. He nearly joins Rico.
The man just smiles. “Sorry. That’s why I don’t like ‘drunken fist’.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So let’s get back before your food gets cold.” He turns and walks again. Kid walks a slightly faster pace as he attempts to keep up.

__________________
ESMarie... here to help!

astralis

Is it the same thing you posted here?

__________________
How to write a story

esmarie

yes.

__________________
ESMarie... here to help!