The Tattered Torch

Barry Sweet looked at the tattered torch in his hands and felt sparkly.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his magical surroundings. He had always loved deserted Manchester with its mighty, melodic mountains. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel sparkly.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Boris Plumb. Boris was a splendid teacher with feathery eyes and tall eyebrows.

Barry gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a modest, gracious, brandy drinker with spiky eyes and slimy eyebrows. His friends saw him as a pong, panicky painter. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a cooing deaf person.

But not even a modest person who had once jumped into a river and saved a cooing deaf person, was prepared for what Boris had in store today.

The moon shone like smiling rabbits, making Barry sleepy.

As Barry stepped outside and Boris came closer, he could see the puny glint in his eye.

Boris glared with all the wrath of 3116 admirable big blue bottles. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want a phone number."

Barry looked back, even more sleepy and still fingering the tattered torch. "Boris, get out of my house," he replied.

They looked at each other with anxious feelings, like two big, black badgers bouncing at a very witty accident, which had R & B music playing in the background and two caring uncles shouting to the beat.

Barry regarded Boris's feathery eyes and tall eyebrows. "I feel the same way!" revealed Barry with a delighted grin.

Boris looked lonely, his emotions blushing like a tasteless, troubled teapot.

Then Boris came inside for a nice glass of brandy.