Author's note: This is a Harvest Moon fanfic based on Harvest Moon: A
Wonderful Life. I have written what I think that this game will be like,
not what it will be. Using the given info (which is next to nothing), I
have created personalities, names, places, characters and events that
probably will never exist. "Sepiria" is what the Japanese are calling the
girl with purple hair that looks antisocial. We'll name her Dale. "MuuMuu"
is the one I'm thinking that looks pretty and ditzy, working in the bar
you'll notice in a screenshot. We'll name her Jewel. "Nami" is the pretty
one with Karen's hair and looks really dirty on the box art. We'll name her
Kay. I don't own the rights to these characters or to Harvest Moon, yada
yada, so on and so forth.
I'll shut up now.
Chapter 1
The spring air held an unusual feeling today. It wasn't in the soft rain, the damp ground. It wasn't in the breeze tickling the fresh, green trees. It in wasn't the humid feeling hanging in the morning air; no, it was much more important. It wasn't a song, a sight, a sound; it was a feeling. Although it was a beautiful spring morn, the feeling of a fresh new beginning now was lost in this new feeling, this feeling of loss. As young Jack walked slowly up to Moon Mountain, his head hung low, he heard it everywhere. It was whispered in the trees and the rocks, through the wind and even the old mountain seemed to gossip, Did you hear? Did you hear? And although the waves crashed mightily against the cliffs, they, too, seemed to be sorrowful. Jack stood at the edge of the mountain cliff, the usual brightness in his eyes was lost in this horrible feeling. He watched the dark blue ocean in all its wonder, and didn't wonder a thing. Then again, how could one blame him on such a day? For he, it wasn't a first. A soft clip clop glosh, clip clop glosh, interrupted Jack's thoughtless state. He turned to face the noise of horse hooves, to see Wendell on his horse, wearing his respective black. "A fine day, Jack. I knew I'd find you here, knowing you wouldn't pass up a chance to admire it." Wendell said, smiling. He knew Jack adored a warm spring drizzle. He was mounted atop his great brown horse, all brave and strong. He was a handsome young man, with strawberry-blonde hair and crisp blue eyes, tall and in good shape. Wendell was also a real ladies' man. All the same, he was a good friend, and Jack needed a good friend. Jack smiled best he could. "It's not everyday one gets a spring day beautiful as this." He replied. "And there's not a better day to realize we take advantage of nature's beautiful scenery than a day for thinking." Wendell climbed off his horse and his expression changed to that of a sorrowful one when he said his next words, not looking Jack directly in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Jack." Jack's face then fell, too. A tear rolled down his cheek, but it was hardly noticeable in the morning drizzle. He was almost sure there were a few from Wendell's blue eyes, too. There was not much else to be said in words, so a hug did the trick before he rode off, bidding his farewells. Jack turned slowly back to the cliff, attempting keep back his mournful tears, but to no avail. He fell to his knees and wept a sound that could have distilled time itself, as not a thing moved or made a peep as he cried. The sounds seemed to wash over the whole village, and although they weren't anywhere near, each sorrowful note of it struck like a knife in their hearts. So, If it wasn't the breeze, the trees, or the buzz of the bees, What did bother the town? For in this case, instead of a smile on Jack's face There rested a lonely frown.
Chapter 2
Mayor Stuart and his wife, May, walked slowly up to the old farmhouse. It gave off that unusual feeling like a furnace. It radiated its low spirits for miles around, and being up close wasn't helping. The young mayor rapped three times on the old wooden door and waited for at least some sign of reply. Jack opened the door with a creak and stepped outside to the afternoon's gloom, all beauty had left the day now, and avoided the mayor's glance. The mayor, who wasn't much older than Jack, nodded to him and spoke. "It's a sorrowful day, Jack, I know. It isn't easy when your father passes away. Not just on the town, which he contributed to so much, but on you in particular. I know he was close to you, Jack." Jack still didn't look up at him. The blankness in his eyes dampened the mayor's spirits and stung his heart. The kid was never like this. Ever since he was born he had a laugh to share, a hand to lend. "Jack, I know you know that we're not here just to sympathize." "I know." Jack said almost sheepishly. He straightened up and looked out at the field, his deep brown eyes filed with thought. His tan skin may have been a little dirty, his dark brown hair may have been a little scruffy, but his heart was pure, as pure, maybe, as the heavens themselves. He knew what he had to do. "Jack, you have two options. Take the farm once owned by your late mother and father and restore it to full health, or let it be destroyed and in its place put something profitable for the village." Said Stu. Jack still wasn't looking at him, but out at the tired old field, overgrown with weeds and stumps and littered with rocks. He turned to the pitchfork and picked it up. "What options?" he asked, as he began stacking the hay. A smile spread across the mayor's face. That was the Jack he knew. "Alright, Jack. I'll see you later." He said, walking off hand in hand with his wife down the old dirt road.
The sharp, wet pitchfork dug into the hay and whipped it behind Jack's head, not with regular grace, but with fury and anger. Time and time again he stabbed the damp hay, each time it seemed heavier and heavier, his eyes growing angrier and angrier. The drizzle was now turning to rain, crashing down on Jack. His now wet hair fell down shaggily over his eyes, but the fury still glowed from them. Stab, chuck, stab, chuck until he dropped the pitchfork and fell too his knees. The mud stained his white shirt and slopped on his face. He clenched his hands tightly, squeezing the moist earth beneath him, the earth now his own. Letting go his grip, he pushed himself back up. There was no anger left in those deep brown eyes, but in its place was defeat. But Jack wasn't one to give up. The hay was now cleared, he now put away the pitchfork and began to till the rich soil. Just as he was finishing he noticed someone in the corner, sitting on his fence, watching him through the rain. She smiled. "Hey, Jack." Came Dale's soft voice. Dale was Jack's best friend. She was a pretty girl, with short red hair and crisp blue eyes. He had been waiting for her to show. He dropped the hoe and looked at her. His wet, muddy shirt stuck to his body and his face looked worn enough without the mud and rainwater staining it. "You've been working hard." "Yeah." Jack replied, pushing his wet mop of hair out of his eyes. "I'm glad you showed up, Dale." He told her. She smiled at him. She had a funny was of smiling. Tiny with her mouth bug big with her eyes. "You think I'd leave you alone? You know me better." She told him. It was funny how she could cheer him up in less than ten words, even after his dad died. Jack smiled.
Now, everyone knew the story. Everyone knew that Jack would take the farm. Everyone knew Jack would be the next hero in this adventure. This farm had been passed on for years. Generation to generation, Jack to Jack. This one was a little strange, though. After so many years, hadn't it been Granddad to grandson? So, thought Dale, I'm part of the legend. "What happened to the hat?" she asked him, the rain falling down on them both. Jack just looked puzzled, water dripping from his hair. "I thought you Jacks had hats." Jack just smiled. It seemed the old Jack was shining through. "I don't like hats." * It was late at night and Jack was lying in his bed. It was impossible to sleep. He was a son, not a grandson. No hat, no blue overalls or red hankie. No dad to visit him. He'd pretty much screwed everything else up, so how could the legend keep going? It was midnight and all was silent. Not a breath of wind or a drop of rain, no creak or crack, no footsteps. wait, there were footsteps. The soft, familiar clank of workboots walked up to the door of the little shack, opened and stepped in. There in the porch was a familiar look on a familiar face, that gave him a familiar wink. "Dad?" asked Jack, confused. He looked up into the strong old face of his father, the one before the heart attack. "Jack." Said Mr. Willow softly. "You can do this. I know it. You may not have a hankie, a hat or a beautiful girl, but you have the heart of a farmer, Jack. You can do this." He put his hand on his son's shoulder. A small, innocent tear ran down Jack's cheek. ".Dad." He managed to croak out. He looked into his father's brown eyes and. He was gone. Jack stumbled backwards and landed on his bed. What was tthat? What happened? Was it a dream? No. It was a ghost. But now Jack saw. It was no use to cry. He had his father in him now. So the stern but loving look, the shimmering but still look, returned into Jack's eyes. And he slept.
Chapter 1
The spring air held an unusual feeling today. It wasn't in the soft rain, the damp ground. It wasn't in the breeze tickling the fresh, green trees. It in wasn't the humid feeling hanging in the morning air; no, it was much more important. It wasn't a song, a sight, a sound; it was a feeling. Although it was a beautiful spring morn, the feeling of a fresh new beginning now was lost in this new feeling, this feeling of loss. As young Jack walked slowly up to Moon Mountain, his head hung low, he heard it everywhere. It was whispered in the trees and the rocks, through the wind and even the old mountain seemed to gossip, Did you hear? Did you hear? And although the waves crashed mightily against the cliffs, they, too, seemed to be sorrowful. Jack stood at the edge of the mountain cliff, the usual brightness in his eyes was lost in this horrible feeling. He watched the dark blue ocean in all its wonder, and didn't wonder a thing. Then again, how could one blame him on such a day? For he, it wasn't a first. A soft clip clop glosh, clip clop glosh, interrupted Jack's thoughtless state. He turned to face the noise of horse hooves, to see Wendell on his horse, wearing his respective black. "A fine day, Jack. I knew I'd find you here, knowing you wouldn't pass up a chance to admire it." Wendell said, smiling. He knew Jack adored a warm spring drizzle. He was mounted atop his great brown horse, all brave and strong. He was a handsome young man, with strawberry-blonde hair and crisp blue eyes, tall and in good shape. Wendell was also a real ladies' man. All the same, he was a good friend, and Jack needed a good friend. Jack smiled best he could. "It's not everyday one gets a spring day beautiful as this." He replied. "And there's not a better day to realize we take advantage of nature's beautiful scenery than a day for thinking." Wendell climbed off his horse and his expression changed to that of a sorrowful one when he said his next words, not looking Jack directly in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Jack." Jack's face then fell, too. A tear rolled down his cheek, but it was hardly noticeable in the morning drizzle. He was almost sure there were a few from Wendell's blue eyes, too. There was not much else to be said in words, so a hug did the trick before he rode off, bidding his farewells. Jack turned slowly back to the cliff, attempting keep back his mournful tears, but to no avail. He fell to his knees and wept a sound that could have distilled time itself, as not a thing moved or made a peep as he cried. The sounds seemed to wash over the whole village, and although they weren't anywhere near, each sorrowful note of it struck like a knife in their hearts. So, If it wasn't the breeze, the trees, or the buzz of the bees, What did bother the town? For in this case, instead of a smile on Jack's face There rested a lonely frown.
Chapter 2
Mayor Stuart and his wife, May, walked slowly up to the old farmhouse. It gave off that unusual feeling like a furnace. It radiated its low spirits for miles around, and being up close wasn't helping. The young mayor rapped three times on the old wooden door and waited for at least some sign of reply. Jack opened the door with a creak and stepped outside to the afternoon's gloom, all beauty had left the day now, and avoided the mayor's glance. The mayor, who wasn't much older than Jack, nodded to him and spoke. "It's a sorrowful day, Jack, I know. It isn't easy when your father passes away. Not just on the town, which he contributed to so much, but on you in particular. I know he was close to you, Jack." Jack still didn't look up at him. The blankness in his eyes dampened the mayor's spirits and stung his heart. The kid was never like this. Ever since he was born he had a laugh to share, a hand to lend. "Jack, I know you know that we're not here just to sympathize." "I know." Jack said almost sheepishly. He straightened up and looked out at the field, his deep brown eyes filed with thought. His tan skin may have been a little dirty, his dark brown hair may have been a little scruffy, but his heart was pure, as pure, maybe, as the heavens themselves. He knew what he had to do. "Jack, you have two options. Take the farm once owned by your late mother and father and restore it to full health, or let it be destroyed and in its place put something profitable for the village." Said Stu. Jack still wasn't looking at him, but out at the tired old field, overgrown with weeds and stumps and littered with rocks. He turned to the pitchfork and picked it up. "What options?" he asked, as he began stacking the hay. A smile spread across the mayor's face. That was the Jack he knew. "Alright, Jack. I'll see you later." He said, walking off hand in hand with his wife down the old dirt road.
The sharp, wet pitchfork dug into the hay and whipped it behind Jack's head, not with regular grace, but with fury and anger. Time and time again he stabbed the damp hay, each time it seemed heavier and heavier, his eyes growing angrier and angrier. The drizzle was now turning to rain, crashing down on Jack. His now wet hair fell down shaggily over his eyes, but the fury still glowed from them. Stab, chuck, stab, chuck until he dropped the pitchfork and fell too his knees. The mud stained his white shirt and slopped on his face. He clenched his hands tightly, squeezing the moist earth beneath him, the earth now his own. Letting go his grip, he pushed himself back up. There was no anger left in those deep brown eyes, but in its place was defeat. But Jack wasn't one to give up. The hay was now cleared, he now put away the pitchfork and began to till the rich soil. Just as he was finishing he noticed someone in the corner, sitting on his fence, watching him through the rain. She smiled. "Hey, Jack." Came Dale's soft voice. Dale was Jack's best friend. She was a pretty girl, with short red hair and crisp blue eyes. He had been waiting for her to show. He dropped the hoe and looked at her. His wet, muddy shirt stuck to his body and his face looked worn enough without the mud and rainwater staining it. "You've been working hard." "Yeah." Jack replied, pushing his wet mop of hair out of his eyes. "I'm glad you showed up, Dale." He told her. She smiled at him. She had a funny was of smiling. Tiny with her mouth bug big with her eyes. "You think I'd leave you alone? You know me better." She told him. It was funny how she could cheer him up in less than ten words, even after his dad died. Jack smiled.
Now, everyone knew the story. Everyone knew that Jack would take the farm. Everyone knew Jack would be the next hero in this adventure. This farm had been passed on for years. Generation to generation, Jack to Jack. This one was a little strange, though. After so many years, hadn't it been Granddad to grandson? So, thought Dale, I'm part of the legend. "What happened to the hat?" she asked him, the rain falling down on them both. Jack just looked puzzled, water dripping from his hair. "I thought you Jacks had hats." Jack just smiled. It seemed the old Jack was shining through. "I don't like hats." * It was late at night and Jack was lying in his bed. It was impossible to sleep. He was a son, not a grandson. No hat, no blue overalls or red hankie. No dad to visit him. He'd pretty much screwed everything else up, so how could the legend keep going? It was midnight and all was silent. Not a breath of wind or a drop of rain, no creak or crack, no footsteps. wait, there were footsteps. The soft, familiar clank of workboots walked up to the door of the little shack, opened and stepped in. There in the porch was a familiar look on a familiar face, that gave him a familiar wink. "Dad?" asked Jack, confused. He looked up into the strong old face of his father, the one before the heart attack. "Jack." Said Mr. Willow softly. "You can do this. I know it. You may not have a hankie, a hat or a beautiful girl, but you have the heart of a farmer, Jack. You can do this." He put his hand on his son's shoulder. A small, innocent tear ran down Jack's cheek. ".Dad." He managed to croak out. He looked into his father's brown eyes and. He was gone. Jack stumbled backwards and landed on his bed. What was tthat? What happened? Was it a dream? No. It was a ghost. But now Jack saw. It was no use to cry. He had his father in him now. So the stern but loving look, the shimmering but still look, returned into Jack's eyes. And he slept.