The Crying Pennant

Prologue

The computer hummed its high pitched hum. It was bright and early and the sun flickered bright then dim through the kitchen door window. The author had just put some toast into the toaster and was thinking of what he could type. He sat down and looked at the screen, the familiar blue stripes of the windows package glowed and the cursor blinked at him.

  Blank.

  What could he write?

  He began, “The plaited see-saw rocked to and fro in the wind. A seagull screed and the door to a chalet banged like a drum on its hinge. The small boy stepped inside and closed the door. After covering himself with a blanket he began to read.”

  Looking at the screen the author wondered what to write next, he felt his chin then went to margarine his toast. Still nothing, just a little boy reading a book. He munched and drank and waited.

  Suddenly, two characters appeared and began to argue, a blonde bearded man at arms dressed in patchy leather armour, a lion’s head blazoned on his shield and a battle chieftain in studded leather armour with a surcoat of red also with a lion embroidered upon it.

CHAPTER ONE

“Biggs, why have you come to this gloomy and dismal place, it is rumoured to be the haunt of dark and dire monsters,” Arthur quipped.

  “Stop quipping Arthur, you’re getting on my nerves,” muttered Biggs.

  “Well if you stopped muttering maybe I wouldn’t have to quip!” quipped Arthur again as he sidled up to Biggs.

  “That’s it, I can’t stand it when you sidle.  Look at that you’ve sidled right up to my side. You side sidler you,” Biggs retorted to Arthur’s quipping and sidling.

  “You’ve got about as much courage in this place as a hypochondriac hamster, you filibustering philanthropist,” Arthur again quipped forcefully.

  “Stop getting verbose with me or I’ll take your quip off you,” Biggs parried, thrusted and came to rest upon a metaphor.

  “Just what kind of English do you think that is,” said Arthur, talking this time to the author.

   I did not wish to answer my creation so I continued typing, hoping that the latter could be as good as the former.

  “He’s just pig ignorant,” suggested Biggs, I resenting it as, even now, I typed it.

  “That fellow on the word processor has put us into this dark and dismal place and I don’t like it,” blubbed Biggs with a kind of big blubbing noise.

  I decided to speak up, “Look you two, I’m in charge of this book so just do what I type!” (I thought that would tell them.)

  “Of course you know we can read Mr. Author sir, so we know what you think on paper,” whined Arthur.

“Well he’s left a few lines free so maybe he’s not going to interject in our lives anymore,” Biggs said.

  Then Arthur said, “Okay then Biggs, let’s explore this dark and dismal place, have you got the lantern?”

  “Of course I’ve got the lantern,” Biggs struck the flint against the stone. “I wouldn’t strike the flint against the stone, my character just wouldn’t do such a silly thing,” said Biggs in a self righteous tone.