William
William
was used to disappointment. He was born uncoordinated and had
suffered many bangs to the head as a child. But his determination to
succeed drove him on against the opposing constraints of bad luck and
consistent failure. The King had annoyed him, but he'd decided not to
get angry about it. Instead, he slipped through the back door for a
bit of solitude and fresh air. He needed inspiration; something to
stir his creative juices. He needed to be distracted, he thought; and
his new story unfold in due course.
The
garden was an overgrown mass of weeds, vines, trees and shrubs. Not
one of the three storytellers had much concern with horticulture, and
consequently, none of them had discovered what was at the bottom of
the garden. Until now that is.
He
brushed past branches and chopped down plants and marched on through
the unexplored growth. Only a few minutes had elapsed, when suddenly
("oof!") there it was. A shed. He got up off the floor and
inspected his grazed and bloody knee.* The rusty padlock
disintegrated in his hands, the door squeaked open and in crept the
inquisitive William.
Wayne
Wayne
was a pessimist, and had decided that his fate was no longer in his
own hands. He took a couple of sleeping pills, laid down on his bed
and thought about the week ahead; arduous days and nights of writing
and rewriting, the long road to the King's castle, the embarrassing
reading, probably followed by some form of torture and then death. He
slept soundly.
He
was a dreamer, and found the boundary between consciousness
and sleep a very fine line indeed. He would switch off without
warning.
"Wayne?"
"Wayne?"
"Wayne!"
"Mmm?"
he mumbled.
"Have
you not heard a word i have been saying?"
"Mmm?"
he replied.
"Just
look at me for God's sake!'
"Hey
Wycliffe. You....."
At
that moment, Wayne came to his senses. He saw his dog, Wycliffe,
staring back at him.
"I
can speak and its weird," explained the dog.
"No
shit."
Whether
he knew it or not, Wayne wasn't dreaming.
Warren
Warren
was irrational and head-strong. He had the inability to weigh up the
pro's and con's of all situations. Quickly deciding that it would be
too difficult to write another story in such a short space of time,
he started to pack his travel bag. He'd concluded that no matter
what, his story would be badly received, and he would most likely die
if his head was cut off. He hadn't concocted a plan as such, but knew
the best course of action to take.
'Simple',
he thought, 'I'll kill the King myself'.
Warren
burst out of the house and ran back to the extremely well-guarded
castle.
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