Old man Withers was a choleric man. He lived by himself in an old derelict house with an also neglected garden. His grass was overgrown, the weeds ravaging the lawn, hedges invading the neighbors fence and wildflowers where blooming everywhere. If it weren’t for the flowers the place would look ominous while the grey house sat decaying in the background behind the overgrowth with it’s dark windows that glared at outsiders.
Old Mr. Withers had lived there for many years, too many to know for sure. He claims he had lived there for a century, before the neighborhood was ever built and he intends to stay there. His home was indeed old and rickety that it made constant noises, but he was accustomed to them, even of the scattering feet of the many mice that inhabited it.
Withers spent his days typing away on his old Underwood typewriter only stopping when the kids outside his window interrupted his thinking.
“Shaddup, ye blasted kids,” he would holler every now and then from where he sat. “Can’t hear myself think with those damn hooligans running up and down the street. Do I need to go out there and threatened them again!”
“I think you’ve scared them enough,” the crow said to Withers.
“Scare them! If I would have scared them they wouldn’t be pestering me with their hollering,” growled Withers as he waved his fist in the air.
“Really,” said the crow. “Sometimes you scare me. Was it necessary to take that boys bike?”
“I warned him. Don’t argue with me, bird,” Withers threatened.
“When will you ever finish writing? You’ve been writing that book for ages,” the crow sighed.
“This takes time,” said Withers.
“150 years is rather a long time,” mocked the crow.
“Agh,” griped Withers. “A great book takes time to write, especially when it’s about my life. Now stop flapping yer beak, I need to think here.”
The crow sighed and raised his shoulders in abnegation.
Withers mumbled to himself as his fingers pressed on the keys in a quick succession. Every now and then he would look up at the crow to ask him a few questions.
“What was the name if that wizard from Ardbracan?” Withers said.
“Which one? There was two of them and how they hated each other.”
“The one that turned people into stones,” Withers said.
“Sarafin, or was it Balor?” the crow said. “How many wizards could there possibly be?”
“Many, I met them all. Now concentrate,” Withers said impatiently.
“I’m certain it was Balor,” said the crow. “He had that strange eye. I couldn’t stop staring at it.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Withers. “There was one that could lit his fingers like a candle. Then there was that one that could make the animals talk.”
“I also remember the wizard that turned you into a monkey,” the crow snickered.
“I don’t know you’re talking about,” Withers grumbled.
“How can I forget,” the crow began to laugh. “The way you threw your egesta at him. Some caught in his eye, his bad eye. He had a stink eye for a day.”
“Enough, bird,” Withers shouted at him. “I don’t need to be reminded of that clod. Must I remind you of Gant.”
The crow stopped laughing.
“He wasn’t a wizard, but an apprentice,” the crow reminded Withers.
“Perhaps,” Withers said. “It’s unfortunate I couldn’t have met his teacher.”
“I’ve heard he was away,” said the crow. “Training someone to be a future king.”
“And what a fool he was,” Withers waved his fist. “He got himself imprisoned by the Lady of the Lake.”
“That was very unfortunate.”