Frank vignette
Nov. 18th, 2006 01:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesA/N: A sad little crack!fic about a lonely little goat, who just happens to be the personification of all things evil.
Warning: Do not take seriously.
Once upon a time in the land of Miscrete there was a small village named Deep Well. It was surrounded on all sides by the forest Shogoth, far inland. Yet the village was dwindeling as all its youths made the forty-day pillgramage to the sea and enlisted with any ship that would take them. None but the foolish ventured into the forest.
The reason was that the forest was the home of Frank, who was a goat, but most importantly, a great evil. The villagers were terrified of the beast, to the point that Old Granny Whimpet died of fright one night right at her doorstep. The next morning, Johnny Oxbow was called to the scene, where he identified the hoofprints that bordered Whimpet's garden as "deer, lamb, or evil spawn."
The truth was it had been Frank. There were no deer in the woods anymore: they'd all run off years before when he'd first appeared. It was the first, and, as it turned out, the last time Frank ventured into the village. He'd tried getting close to the would-be-sailors as they travelled through the Shogoth, he'd tried shadowing the hunters and the occasional logger, he'd even tried bleeting to the town mongrel, but every where he turned, he was shunned.
So one day Frank turned his horns to the very depth of the Shogoth forest until he found the largest tree there was. It was as wide as a man is tall, and had lived through more winters than the old village itself. Frank walked up to it quietly and stood before its hude trunk. Then Frank stared, and stared hard. Above, the tree's leaves shivered in the still air. Frank looked up and narrowed his eyes. The tree shook harder, flakes of old bark falling off the trunk. Frank lowered his eyes, bleeted, and waited for the tree to fall.
Nowadays, the boys of Deep Well stay on and grow up to be farmers. Sailors in far off lands no longer cower in terror at the stories of the latest deck-boy. Johnny Oxbow still claims every deer track to be a sign of evil, but then Oxbow's always been one for the drink.
Warning: Do not take seriously.
Once upon a time in the land of Miscrete there was a small village named Deep Well. It was surrounded on all sides by the forest Shogoth, far inland. Yet the village was dwindeling as all its youths made the forty-day pillgramage to the sea and enlisted with any ship that would take them. None but the foolish ventured into the forest.
The reason was that the forest was the home of Frank, who was a goat, but most importantly, a great evil. The villagers were terrified of the beast, to the point that Old Granny Whimpet died of fright one night right at her doorstep. The next morning, Johnny Oxbow was called to the scene, where he identified the hoofprints that bordered Whimpet's garden as "deer, lamb, or evil spawn."
The truth was it had been Frank. There were no deer in the woods anymore: they'd all run off years before when he'd first appeared. It was the first, and, as it turned out, the last time Frank ventured into the village. He'd tried getting close to the would-be-sailors as they travelled through the Shogoth, he'd tried shadowing the hunters and the occasional logger, he'd even tried bleeting to the town mongrel, but every where he turned, he was shunned.
So one day Frank turned his horns to the very depth of the Shogoth forest until he found the largest tree there was. It was as wide as a man is tall, and had lived through more winters than the old village itself. Frank walked up to it quietly and stood before its hude trunk. Then Frank stared, and stared hard. Above, the tree's leaves shivered in the still air. Frank looked up and narrowed his eyes. The tree shook harder, flakes of old bark falling off the trunk. Frank lowered his eyes, bleeted, and waited for the tree to fall.
Nowadays, the boys of Deep Well stay on and grow up to be farmers. Sailors in far off lands no longer cower in terror at the stories of the latest deck-boy. Johnny Oxbow still claims every deer track to be a sign of evil, but then Oxbow's always been one for the drink.
