The Prince

A short story

Deep in the middle of an English moor on a misty afternoon, two shambolic characters could be seen running across the muddy lawn of Shacklesbury Manor. One trailed behind the other in fits and bursts like an excitable puppy.

Under the misapprehension that they would reduce the likelihood of detection by doing so, they compulsively hushed each other at the top of their voices.

‘Shush!’

‘Shhhhh-!’

Kevin, the excitable puppy, tripped and fell head first onto the damp ground mid-hush. He had the pleasure of sampling a fresh mouthful of grass. To him it tasted green and brown.

Kevin had excellent taste.

He endeavoured to stand, his rear end in the air as he shuffled up onto his elbows and heaved himself aloft.

He was as coordinated as a sick giraffe waking up from an anaesthetic.

He regained verticality, clasping his hand to his mouth. He retrieved a tiny white pebble from between his bloodied lips.

‘Fink I lost a toof dad,” shouted Kevin with a gaping grin on his face.

‘Shush! Do be quiet!’ bellowed back Christopher.

Christopher didn’t like to be called Christopher. This was understandable given that he had decided upon another…