*Shortlisted for Wattys 2018*
It all began so innocently, two friends who wanted a real adventure in a world apart from the harsh and mean existence they knew. But every story has...
No. That's a fantasy.
Every story needs a villain.
This is the sto...
The first time I put on the hook, it stopped being a game.
I knew then with certainty that I hated Peter Pan with every fibre of my being. I vowed that I would not rest till I had severed his head from his shoulders as surely and cleanly as he severed my hand. I could've almost forgiven him, if he had not fed the thing to that foul beast that has plagued my every step ever since.
After all, it was only a game. And he was my best friend. A horrible accident, a miscalculation, it left me disfigured in body. But when he sent my hand to that crocodile, when I saw it disappear into the maw of that reptile, I became disfigured in spirit.
No, it wasn't always thus. I wasn't born a villain. Few villains are, I suspect. Evil. I mean truly evil. In truth, I had donned the garments of a lost boy nearly as frequently as I had those of a pirate. Little did I imagine in the early days that eventually a captain's raiment would become my daily dress.
Perhaps you have heard the tale of Pan, or some variation. But I'd wager none have heard how it really began. See you now, and see well, down on common ground under the glimmer of two stars brightly shining in the night sky. See two boys, sullied but not sullen, picking their way through the streets and alleys of Liverpool, long ago.
See them well. See me as I was. My shabby clothes, smudges of ash and mud on my face and hands.
Look past my poverty, see my innocence and my grace. We were sweet and full of optimism, despite the bitter harshness of our little local world. Look past a grimy industrial place of progress and see my wildness. Come imagine with me.
"Yer Highness. I've slain the dragon, and now I return to collect the payment you promised. Where is the jewel?" Peter called.
"Fair Knight," I replied. "The jewel is none other than my lovely daughter. Now you shall take her hand."
I held a stick in my hand like a sceptre, an old horseshoe resting jauntily upon my head like some pauper's crown. But Peter and I imagined them both to be encrusted with rubies and sapphires.
It was a great game of ours, and we played it and many others as we walked along.
"A princess?!" he shouted, incredulous. "Never! I am a wanderer, and a wanderer I shall remain."
"You dare refuse your king?!" I bellowed. "Guards! Place him in a crow's cage and see if he changes his tune!"
"Get your paper! Liverpool Echo! Only a hae'penny!" a boy our age cried out from a street corner.
"Hey, Peter," I whispered, conspiratorial. "Let's be highwaymen."
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The boy wasn't much cleaner than we were. Perhaps he stood a bit closer to the face cloth than we had, but there were at least several layers of grime behind his ears to be sure.
