Chapter 1. The King

"Your stories are a load of rubbish!" screamed the King,

"You'll have to do a lot better than that if you want to impress me!"

The three storytellers stood looking shocked on the small stage. They were expecting applause for what they thought were their best ever stories. Imagine their disappointment. Especially as they had each worked really hard on them for the last two years.

They looked at each other with pained and disgruntled expressions, but rather than arguing*, they turned to him, bowed, and apologised a great deal.

“Really, your Majesty?” they pleaded, “We are truly sorry...”

“Spare your apologies! Guards!!! Arrest these men, and make ready the execution room. They will die tonight.”

“But Please! You must allow us another chance” one of them begged.

“We vow to make amends by writing three new stories of such greatness as you would not believe possible.” said another.

“They would be stories to make ones heart explode with pleasure upon hearing them," said the other one.

The King sat back on his throne and paused with mouth open as if about to say something in reply. Instead he reached for one of the chicken wings on the table in front of him and began to eat. He had some more of those and then finished off the pork pies. Eventually, he yawned and then spoke.

"Very well then. Come back here at the same time next week and tell me some decent stories. Failing to turn up means my men will find and kill you. And if your new stories aren't any better than that of tonight, then I'll have your heads on big spikes out the front!"

"So it is," replied the three men dejectedly, and then they ran out of the castle as soon as their feet would carry them.

Meanwhile, the King called for one of his servants. "Fetch me more food. I'm bloody starving!" he demanded.

"At once my Lord!" replied the servant. He ran to the kitchens and quickly returned with a large silver plate full of various breads, oils and cheeses.

"This isn't food you incompetent buffoon! Go back and get me some meat!" he demanded. "Oh, and after you've done that, you are to find the chief executioner and tell him that you need something for a headache."

Once the servant had completed his duties, his headache was removed by an axe and placed on a big spike outside for all to see.

The three storytellers headed home through howling winds and torrential rain. They lived in a remote wooden shack on the outskirts of the King's realm. It offered them relative peace and tranquillity and was safely away from all the mud-encrusted peasants. Once indoors, they lit a few lanterns and the stove, and had a cup of tea with some scones. Once warmed up and rested, they each began to recount their experiences from earlier that evening.

"I am convinced the King must be deaf!" said Warren, the eldest. "My story would have made any other man faint with excitement. They would surely collapse upon hearing the opening line alone! My masterpiece, reduced to a common anecdote by an ignorant and fat old man with absolutely no idea about quality stories at all."

"It is distressing indeed," replied William, the middle one. "How are we to better on perfection, if we are to avoid losing our heads? I mean, I too was convinced he would enjoy my story. It had such dynamic wit as had never been heard before. The King is surely a moron."

"Listen," said Wayne, the youngest. "It is obvious that we are dealing with a prat of the highest order. However, he is the King and we must not question his judgement or his authority. Now, I don't want to risk losing my head so we had better start writing something. And soon! For we have only one week!"

So with the wind and rain lashing down against the windows, and a fresh pot of tea on the go, Warren, William and Wayne set about writing their best stories yet. Each went to his desk, pulled out paper and pen, and began.

After five minutes of fidgeting and doodling, William looked around at his brothers and sighed loudly. It had taken two years to write his previous story. Now all he had was seven days, and all that lay in front of him was a fairly average sketch of a big wooden spike with a severed head skewered on top of it.

The others had also failed to come up with anything worthwhile. Wayne had managed to write a possible title but had underlined it so many times, there was no room on the page for the beginning of the story. Warren had drawn a childish picture of the King with no teeth and a black eye.

"Useless! I can't write a thing. Not a sausage. I am to lose my head for sure!" wailed William. "What about you two?"

"Yes please. Sausages would be lovely. I never realised we had any," said Wayne, whose stomach was concentrating more than his brain.

Warren didn't say anything.

"I need to go outside," said William.

*it isn't a very good idea to argue with kings. Especially this one. A few years ago, his secretary attempted to win an argument against him. It was to do with the location of a stapler, about which she was wrongly accused of misplacing. Realising she was likely to lose her job, she tried to argue her case. Sadly, she lost her life and her job later that same day.