The Pirate's Lair
By Mad Jack
Nestled in the tiny hamlet of Swacliffe, there is a quaint llittle pub, 'The Stag's Head'. A pub of some distinction, where Mad Jack would come, hide, have a pint and be fed. The stones are so old, history clings to them like barnacles to a ship. She wears her thatch like a queen, welcoming her subjects home after each trip. Her doors are short, but, not too short, except for the odd giant who had joined the crew. No one suspected this place in the midlands, that she harbored pirates, no one had a clue. The larg oak beam that braces her ceiling, worn smooth, but, still a cubit square, hanging like a giant sentry, protecting the pirates in their lair. They were at home, telling stories, to the pub crowd gathered around the fire. Where nuts were roasted, pints were quaffed and no one, but, NO ONE ever called you a liar.Swacliffe is a village in England, pronounced (Sway-clee) Written January 9th, 2002 © on Jan 09 2002 07:26 AM PST 0 • 10
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"Nestled in the tiny hamlet of Swacliffe,..."