The sixth disgusting day of Christmas

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
six compound fractures
five violent farts
four oozing gashes
three exploding boils
two snotty nostrils
and the chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

The fifth disgusting day of Christmas

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
five eggy farts
four oozing gashes
three exploding boils
two snotty nostrils
and the chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

The fourth disgusting day of Christmas

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
four oozing gashes
three exploding boils
two snotty nostrils
and the chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

The third disgusting day of Christmas

On the third day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
three exploding boils
two snotty nostrils
and the chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

The second disgusting day of Christmas

On the second day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
two snotty nostrils
and the chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

The first disgusting day of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
chronic squits
from eating too much sweets

Why can't every day be Christmas?

Why can't every day be Christmas?
it would be so cool
to open gifts in winter and
in summer by a pool

Oh why can't every day be Christmas?
make our dreams come true
like having snow on Christmas day
and eating till you spew

Oh why oh why can't every day
be full of Christmas cheer
at least they come round annually
and not just each leap year

The unstoppable sleigh

Twas the day before Christmas
and a heavy snow fell
in answer to the prayers
of Nick and Joelle

Bedecked in woollen hats
they braved the great chill
with a wooden sledge in hand
they traipsed up Clatto Hill

The sledge they had came recommended
by Nick's friend Rob Parry
who said he'd read online that it was
faster than a Ferrari

Through the deep and fluffy snow
at speed they did descend
unable to slow down their sledge
they wound up at Land's End

Rocket powered reindeer

To make his Christmas Eve go quicker
Santa had a great idea
to tie explosive rockets to
the legs of his reindeer

It was the best invention
he had ever had by far
for he delivered presents round the world
and even out to Mars

Far too many lights

Becky's parents were obsessed
with outdoor christmas lights
they said Santa won't find their house
unless it's lit up bright

But on the night of Christmas Eve
Whilst tucked up tight in bed
it wasn't a sleigh landing on the roof
but an aeroplane instead

Morris the turkey

Morris the turkey had one christmas wish
to not be carved up on a plate
so he vowed to himself he would try to escape
from his most feared December date

As he hid in his pen concocting his plan
he kept his friends wrapped in suspense
but he just couldn't think of a way to fly over
the six foot perimeter fence

With all options spent he turned to a friend
who gave him some welcome advice
she said that his weight was more likely to get
the farmer a much better price

Like a light bulb an idea flicked on in his mind
it rolled around inside his head
rather than plump up before Christmas day
he stuffed his face after instead

Attack of the snowmen

Down the snow fell,
one winter's day
and laid thick on the mountain
ready to play.

But when the wind picked up
and the snow swirled around
an army of snowmen
rose up from the ground

With sharp coal eyes
and icicle teeth
they marched fiercely down
the mountain heath

The town in their sights
And mischief on their minds
they threw giant snowballs at
anyone they could find

But they met their match
With a boy called Trevor
Though little and thin
He was cunning and clever

He lured them to his garden
And opened fire
With gusts of hot air
from a plugged in hairdryer

Santa's jelly belly

Santa sat one Christmas Day
Snoring by the fire
When Mrs Clause past comment
That he really ought retire

'Good heavens, no,' cried Santa Claus
As he leapt out of his chair
'There's no-one else who'd do the job,
there's no-one else who'd care.'

'Then if you must continue this,'
said Mrs Claus, sincere
'I must insist you lay off gorging
on this Christmas cheer'

'Christmas cheer, what do you mean?'
asked Santa in reply
'The pies you scoff' said Mrs Claus
'from houses you pass by'

'It's not my fault' said Santa
As he rubbed his bulbous tummy
'They make me such delicious treats,
they taste so awfully yummy.'

'You can abstain you know,'
she said. 'No need to be a slob'
'I know,' said Santa Clause
but it's the perk of my long job.'

'Then when you fly next Christmas Eve
please recognise the merit,
in Rudolph scoffing the mince pies
and you having the carrot.'

Naughty little Rudolph

Rudolph he had had enough
Of leading Santa's sleigh
So from today he's flown off
To sunny San Jose

With only seven days til Christmas
Santa's in a rush
What will he do now Rudolph's gone
To sun his furry tush?

Jack Frost

Old Jack Frost was a mischievous chap,
He dreamed of the perfect crime,
So when he woke one cold winter's morn,
He froze the hands of time.

Second sight

Gemma fidgeted in the back seat of the car. She peeled off her jacket and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck in the hope of cooling herself from the sudden flush of heat coursing through her body.
"What's wrong?" asked her mother as she turned the car into the driveway of their house.
"It's Jenna. Will you tell her to stay away from the radiator. I'm too hot," said Gemma as she loosened the collar of her shirt.
"What are you talking about, your sister's with your grandmother?"
"I know but she's sat real close to the radiator and it's burning me."
Gemma's mother huffed as she reached for her mobile.
Gemma could hear the melodic beeps ringing out over the muted drawl of the music on the radio.
"You and your sister will be the death of me, you know," said her mother as she waited for call to be answered.
As Gemma sat in the back breathing heavily from the oppressive heat that seemed to engulf her a pungent smell of charred wood drifted across her nose.
"That's strange," said her mother. "There's no answer."
"Does Nanna smoke?" asked Gemma.
"Why do you ask that?" said her mother as she fiddled with the phone.
"Cos I can smell it," she said as the coloured suddenly drained from her mother's face.
"No. She doesn't."

The Great Postie Challenge

Matilda loved her postman Louis. He was the friendliest postman in the world, delivering mail to her house for as long as she could remember. He always greeted her with a warm smile in the morning, even when it was grey and raining and not the cheeriest of days. On her birthday he always gave her a bar of chocolate, which he expressly said she wasn't to share with anyone else, and at Christmas he gave her an even bigger bar. But he wasn't just friendly to her, he was friendly to her dog Cherry. Every morning Louis gave Cherry a biscuit and if nobody was home he'd leave the biscuit on the door mat in the porch. He was that kind of person.
But one day the mail was delivered by someone new; someone who wasn't as friendly as Louis. He never smiled. He was always in a bad mood, grunting at Matilda when she greeted him in the morning. Once he even slapped Cherry on the head when she bounded up to him, wagging her tail like she always did when she was happy. Matilda couldn't understand where her favourite postman had gone. Had she done something wrong. Why didn't he deliver letters to her anymore? The new postman didn't have an answer. In fact when Matilda asked him his gruff reply was, "If you don't want your mail I don't have to deliver it to you."
Matilda was angry. She thumped her fists on the kitchen table.
"He's mean mum," she said.
"Who?"
"That new postman. He doesn't like me or Cherry. Why would anyone not like her?" Matilda said as she stroked Cherry's blonde curly fur and patted her head. "And he said he didn't have to deliver our letters."
"Of course he has to. That's his job."
"Well he doesn't much like it."
"Perhaps you need to give him a challenge then. Make him work a bit harder."
Matilda mulled over the idea. 'It might be quite fun' she thought. 'But what could I do.'
Over the weekend Matilda worked on some ideas as to how she might put the new postman to the test to see if he would deliver her letters and came up with a master plan. She decided to send herself some letters, but not just any old letters. She was going to disguise the address on the envelope.
She sent herself ten letters. On the envelope of the first she created a crossword with questions down the side, the answers to which gave her address:
Q 1. Complete the song title Waltzing ....... (7 letters)
Q 2. The number house the Prime Minister lives in (3 letters)
Q 3. A famous english Highwayman from 1700s (6 letters)
Q 4. Another word for street (4 letters)
Her other envelopes had the address disguised as a join-the-dots game, a word search game and an anagram game. She wrote some in ultraviolet pen, backwards or upside down. She even folded one up into an origami swan with the address hidden under its wings. But not one of her letters was delivered.
"He's lazy," said Matilda one morning the family clink of the letterbox signalled the delivery of the post.
"Aren't you going to even look and see if he's made an effort?" asked her mother.
"No. Because I know he hasn't."
"Matilda I really think you ought to have a look. You never know."
Matilda dragged herself up from the sofa and schlepped across the lounge to the hall. When she looked down at the doormat she spotted something familiar. One of her letters. The one decorated with gold stars.
"He's delivered one," she said with disbelief.
She bent down and picked it up and discovered underneath were all the other letters she had sent.
"He's delivered them all!"
As she scooped up all her letters she found something else. A dog biscuit.
"Louis!" she screeched. "Mum, Louis's back."
She flung open the front door, tore down the pathway and just caught sight of Louis opening the door of his red van.
Matilda waved frantically at him. He gave her a beaming smile back.
"Did I pass the test then?" he asked pointing to the letters Matilda was clutching tightly in her hand.
"You deserve a huge gold star!" she replied, then scuttled inside to plan more challenges for Postman Louis.

Magic legs

It was a long journey. The longest my mother had taken. With me hanging onto her back, my stumps sticking out from the cloth sling she tied round her body to support me, I was sure I made it harder. But she didn't grumble. She continued to put one foot in front of the other, walking the dusty track to the city.
"You're getting magic legs today," she had said as she buttoned up my dress, my 'best' dress. She had a broad smile on her face-not the one she wore when she laughed, the one she could hide behind, the taught smile that looked like it had been painted on. That was her way of protecting me. But the crack in her voice and the well of tears in her eyes said it all.
"Why are you so sad, mama?" I asked.
She took my face in her hands.
"I'm not sad, Dafina. I'm happy. You have a real chance of a life now, and that makes me more happy than I could possibly explain."
Magic legs. I wondered throughout our journey what the words 'magic legs' meant. They bounced through my mind, surrounded by the twinkle of promise. Would I be able to tell them what to do? Would they grant me wishes? Could I fly with them? The possibilities seemed endless to me. But when I asked mama what my magic legs were she said she didn't know. I believed her. I could tell when she wasn't telling me everything. She was always lost for words when she knew something and didn't want to tell me. The surprise of my magic legs would be for both of us, and that made me happy. I was happy my mama was going to get a present aswell. I clamped my arms round her neck tighter.
"Careful, Dafina, you'll strangle me."
"Where are my magic legs, mama?" I asked.
"The hospital. We have to find Dr Abasi," she said.
When we got to the hospital there were many other children there. They didn't seem to be waiting for magic legs like me, but they did need the doctors for something. Some were coughing, some were crying, some weren't doing or saying anything. But I didn't have time to worry about them. Dr Abasi call me into his room.
"Time for my magic legs, mama?" I asked.
She picked me up and nodded.
Dr Abasi was nice, but he smelt funny, like the hospital. It was a kind of smell that stung the inside of your nose, that made you want to hold your breath. But as soon as he showed me my magic legs I forgot all about the smell. He let me hold one of them. It was hard and shiny, nothing at all like my mama's leg but it had a brand new shiny shoe on the end. All I could think about was how that shoe would match my dress. Did the doctor know my dress was pink?
He sat me on his doctor bed and strapped the magic legs to my little stumps. I didn't know what to expect at first but when he picked me up and stood me on the floor I felt like I was a giant. I was so tall I could see over his desk, I could see out of his window. Better than that I could walk. My steps were a little wobbly at first, mini steps, but as I got better I was striding round the room. I even managed a little skip and jump, which made the doctor and my mama laugh.
When we left the hospital with my magic legs, mama asked if I wanted to be carried home, because it was a long way. I told her no. I told her my magic legs were magic because she didn't ever have to carry me again. I told her I wanted to walk home, putting one magic foot in front of the other.

The impossible dream

Every Christmas Eve she sat in front of the Christmas tree staring at the twinkling lights, admiring the coloured baubles.A different colour scheme every year-once red, then green, then purple, then pink and white. Her pilgrimage to the lounge, from the comfort of the attic, had become an annual ritual. She lost count of how many times she'd done it-was it ten, twenty, a hundred years?
Although dazzled by the opulence of the decorations, she wanted nothing more than to taste the mince pie on the plate and the glass of warm milk beside it. She wanted to relish the sweetness of the fruit, the delicate hint of warm spice, the crunch of the shortcrust pastry. She wanted to feel it tickle and tantalise her taste buds and send her gliding round the room on a sugar merry-go-round, before sliding down her throat. If only she could have it.
But alas when she reached out her wispy, white hand it swept clean through the pie, like a drifting mist, for she was nothing more than a forgotten ghost.

The worst morning...ever

Eleven fifteen and twenty seconds. That was the time that Lucky Dae arrived at school on Friday. She didn't plan on being late, she just was, and judging by the state of her, she wasn't too happy about it either. Her hair was deshevelled, her blue school skirt torn and her woollen jumper riddled with holes and so sodden it hung about her shins like a dress. Most kids would have been delighted to miss half the mornings lessons, but Lucky wasn't.
She schlepped, exhausted and defeated into the girls locker room.
"Woah, you're lookin' a bit...rough," quipped her best friend, who was dragging a paddle brush through her long blonde hair.
"Don't even dare to make another comment, Ange," snapped Lucky as she threw her rucksack onto the floor. Water dripped from the straps, forming a small puddle of water that spread out across the grey linoleum. "I'm so not in the mood."
"You know the teachers are looking for you? I think they've been on the phone to your mum, wondering where you are."
"Typical," she spat and plopped herself down on the bench beneath her locker.
"How come you're so late anyway?" asked Ange as she peered into a mirror and diligently applied layer after layer of deep red lipstick.
Lucky leaned forward and with her elbows on her knees she rested her heavy head in the palms of her hands.
"It's the last day of that 'walk to school week' competition today. You know the one the Rector talked about in assembly last week, where you could win an ipod if you completed it," Lucky said. She pulled the shoe off her right foot and poured out a trickle of dirty water.
"Oh, yeah."
"Every day I've walked to school."
"That's five miles!" exclaimed Ange.
"I know!"
"You never said you were gonna to do that."
"You never listen. Anyway, I was doing great until today."
"I can see," said Ange.
Lucky could feel Ange's eyes scrutinising her appearance. She was used to it. Ange scrutinised anyone that wasn't as well turned out as her; sometimes with pity but mostly with derision.
"So what happened? Or shouldn't I ask?" asked Ange.
Lucky took a deep breath and then let out a long drawn out self-pitying sigh. "I knew I should never have left the house," she said. "As soon as I saw the heavens open this morning and the rain beat off the road I should have just gotten a lift in with mum."
"But you had your eye on the prize."
"Yeah at a cost though. I completely forgot the main road into town was closed for resurfacing. It wasn't until I got to the Chapel and saw the roadsigns that I realised."
"So then what did you do?"
"Tried to take a shortcut. Stupid idea."
"I didn't know there was a shortcut from your place. It's so far out, in the middle of nowhere, you'd have to cut through the fields to take a short cut."
Lucky gave her a knowing stare.
"Oh you didn't do that did you?"
"I tried, but I got lost when I came to Bishop's Woods."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing. I just stood there looking around, trying to get my bearings while the rain beat down all around me. Fortunately Mr Orr spotted me. You know, the farmer. He was trying to round up his sheep himself cos his dog was sick. I told him I was trying to walk to town, with the road being out, so he gave me directions. Of course I couldn't just walk off, what with him struggling an' all so I tried to catch a couple of his sheep. I climbed over the wall and almost rounded one up when I stood in a damn muddy patch," said Lucky, holding up her muddy sodden shoeless left foot. "I sank down over my ankles in the stuff. But when I managed to pull my foot out my shoe didn't come with it."
Ange clamped a hand to her mouth and sniggered.
"You can laugh. It was awful. I was so embarrassed I hid my foot behind my leg so he didn't see. I scuttled off, out of the field and hobbled along the path down to the river. I was so fed up. Soaking wet with only one shoe. But to get to the river path I had to cut through another field."
"Not more mud," Ange giggled.
"No. A bull," said Lucky.
Ange clutched her stomach and bent over laughing. "You got chased by a bull, in a field."
Lucky leapt up and thrust her hands upon her hips. "It ain't funny, Ange. You wouldn't have liked it."
Lucky paced the locker room. "I was terrified. That damn thing was tearing after me. It's nose snorting, it's hooves pounding the ground. Tbought I was gonna die."
"But you didn't."
"No, I tore my clothes instead," said Lucky. She pointed to holes in her jumper, and the torn threads of her skirt. "Tryin' to get over the damn fence."
"Could have been worse."
"It was. When I reached the road a bus screeched past me. Drove straight through a muddy puddle and soaked me to the skin. At that point I'd really had enough. I screamed at the top of my voice as that bus drove off. I grabbed a stone and threw it at it. Probably shouldn't have but I was so mad. Only problem was I startled a gaggle of geese."
"A what?"
"Geese. A whole damn flock of them. They flew up, out from behind a wall. All around me they were. All beaks and white wings. One flew right at me. So heavy it knocked me off my feet. I fell to the ground, out cold. The next thing I knew I felt something rough and wet rubbing the side of my face. When I came to there was a cow's face right beside my head. It's huge pink tongue was licking me."
"Euew," Ange said recoiling. "That's gross."
"Yeah, well. I took a look at my watch and saw it was just before eleven," said Lucky, shaking her head. "Couldn't believe it. After all that I never made it to school in time."
No sooner than she said it but Mrs Gillory, the Rector, appeared in the doorway of the locker room.
"Lucky," she said. "You're here. You had the teachers worried. I was just about to call your mother."
"Yeah, well, no need. I'm here...of sorts," said Lucky.
"And a little worse for wear."
Lucky looked down at her mud splattered, sodden and torn uniform. "That'll teach me for walking to school in crappy weather."
"I believe you completed the five days then."
Lucky gave a dejected nod. The mere mention of why she walked in the first place made her jaw clench. Self-inflicted torture. Never again, she thought.
"I'm glad I found you as I have something for you. You're name was drawn out of the hat."
Lucky looked up as Mrs Gillory dug her hand into her trouser pocket and pulled out a clear plastic box. Lucky's eyes opened so wide she thought her eyeballs might fall out. There in Mrs Gillory's hands was the prize she'd been hoping for; the reason she put herself through what was most definintely the worst morning ever. An Ipod.

So you think you can pull a sleigh?

It was fourteen days before Christmas eve when a postcard popped through the letterbox of Santa Claus's house.
"Looks like you've got a late christmas list from someone, Santa," said Mrs Claus as she bent down and picked it up the lonely card from the doormat.
"It probably got lost in the mail, poor child. Let's hope we can deliver what they've wished for," replied Santa peering up from his newspaper.
Mrs Clause paused. She stared down at the writing on the back of the postcard.
"I think you'll struggle to deliver any presents this year," she said with a crestfallen frown on her face.
Santa stood up from kitchen table. "What do you mean?"
"Rudolph's done a bunk!" stated Mrs Clause.
Santa snatched the card from her hands. On one side was a picture of a sandy beach with clear blue waters lapping the shore, and on the other side was a scrawl of text that read, "Dear Santa,
Gone to Oz for Christmas this year as it's much warmer than the North Pole. See ya soon, Ruddy."
Santa screwed the postcard into a tight ball.
"That impetuous deer. Now what am I to do? I have no lead reindeer. No-one to guide the way," he said as he paced the living room with the flap of his thick red coat fanning the flames of the log fire.
"You'll just have to hire another one, won't you?"
That afternoon Santa set about recruiting Rudolph's replacement. He placed an advert in The Daily Pole and within minutes an army of Reindeer were gathered outside his igloo. The thump of their hooves on the compact snow sounded like a herd of elephants.
When Santa stepped outside to greet them, into the freezing night air, they snorted and grunted with excitement. Two of them got so excited, prancing on the spot, they ended up locking horns with each other. Mrs Clause had to grease them up to pry them apart.
"Erm, welcome," said Santa, hesitantly, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of applicants. "Thank you for answering my call. As you know I'm looking for a new leader to guide my sleigh on the busiest night of the year."
As Santa looked out at the sea of expectant furry faces, one in particular drew his attention.
"Well, well, what have we here then," he said, crouching down onto the fresh layer of snow falling from the sky. "What would your name be then?"
From between the spindly legs of the reindeer stepped a grey husky dog. It stood bold and proud and looked Santa straight in the eye. "Santa," it said. "I am Bruno. I know I may not be the applicant you expected but I could do the job just as good as any of these reindeer."
The reindeers scoffed and chuckled at the husky's brazen confidence.
"Well, let's find out shall we," said Santa. "I've devised tasks that have to be completed. Each one represents a different quality I think is critical for the role of sleigh leader. The first task is a simple test of flying ability. I would like you to harness up and fly about my home. Nothing fancy. Just a simple display of ability."
No sooner had he said it every one of the reindeer disappeared in a puff of snow and were swirling around the night sky in a blur of red fur, banging and crashing into each other. One by one the unsteady ones fell from the sky and into snow drifts, their bony legs sticking out and flailing around. Bruno didn't follow them. He stood in the snow, watching and waiting. Then when the last of the airborne reindeer tired and landed, he leapt into the air and took flight, soaring round and round Santa's home like a eagle.
"My, that is impressive," said Santa.
The reindeer didn't think so. They huffed and grunted and muttered amongst themselves.
When Bruno gracefully landed before Santa, Santa announced the next trial.
"Another important part of the job is the ability to land safely, accurately and quietly," he began. "Over by that cluster of conifers is a wooden shed. It's where I keep my spare sleigh. I would like you to land on the roof."
The ten that managed to get through the first round, one by one, fly toward the shed. Half of them managed it but the other half, being gangly, didn't quite judge their speed. They skidded off the edge and tumbled into a heap of reindeer manure.
Bruno once again triumphed and completed the task with ease.
"And then there were six," said Santa. "That leaves just one final task. Given I must travel far and wide, delivering presents to children all over the world it is important to have a good sense of direction. Your final task may take some time to complete. I ask you to travel using your sight and instinct to find and bring me back a haggis from the land they call Scotland."
Three of the reindeer were so perplexed by the request they shrugged their shoulders and walked off. The other two and Bruno took to the air.
Santa smiled and stepped back inside his igloo.
"How's the interview going, dear?" asked Mrs Claus.
"We're down to two reindeer," he said. "And a husky."
"A husky, did you say?"
Santa let out a deep belly laugh. "I did indeed. He's quite a feisty thing and rather talented, for a dog."
"Well I'll be darned. What a turn up. So where are they at the moment then?"
"With any luck they're on their way to Scotland to fetch me a haggis."
"Oh, Santa, that's a little wicked of you. Send them off on your errands. I asked you to do the same thing for me last week," said Mrs Claus.
"It's called efficiency, my love. You gotta get with the times."

A week past and Santa saw or heard nothing more of his remaining candidates. He began to loose all hope of finding a replacement for the errant Rudolph when he heard the patter of feet outside his home. He heaved himself up from the comfort of his armchair and shuffled outside to find Bruno sat outside his door, with a plump, uncooked haggis at his feet.
Santa looked down at him. "You're alone?"
Bruno looked about him and then nodded his head.
Santa rocked back on his heels and rubbed his belly.
"Well then, Bruno, I think you're hired," Santa said with a broad smile. He held out his hand and Bruno lifted a paw.
"Glad to be of service," said Bruno.

Letter to B

You came in, uninvited. I was fast asleep upstairs.
Did you know?
Did you care?
I don't think you did. You had your eye on what you wanted. Nothing was going to stand in your way. What I want to know is why? Why did you take him? You must have seen him before, out walking through the park or was it on the beach or in the woods. You must have been watching. That thought gives me chills. I try to block it out but it's the only clue I have to make sense of it all. To see that this wasn't just a random theft, that there was a reason for it. If I can believe there's a reason I can believe he's safe and well.
Is he?
I imagine he's of value to you. He must be worth some money, for breeding perhaps? He's certainly not a racer, not anymore. You must have seen his limp; an old injury. He never quite recovered from that. Not that it bothered me at all. I loved him for what he was. A loveable, soft, calm dog. He was so sweet natured he used to follow me everywhere I went, and pined when I wasn't around.
Is he pining now?
I can't bear to imagine.
I'm hurting so much if I think that he's unhappy my heart will break into so many tiny pieces that it can never be put back together. Even now as I write to you tears are pouring down my cheeks.
How could you do this to me? How could you do this to Winston?
If you have any mercy left inside you, you'll bring him back to me. You'll bring him back home.
Do you?

Chilli, Nippy and McCoole

In the middle of a freezing February night, as the moon shone down on the blanket of snow that covered the town of Dartminster, something stirred in the garden of Number 52 Hartley Street. Three snowmen, plump and white, were awake. They were alive. They looked left and right. No-one was in sight. They looked down at themselves, at their compact, rotund bellies and chunky white arms that made a crump, crump sound when flexed, then they looked at each other.
"Chilli, is that you?" said the one with the tweed flat cap on its head.
"McCoole!" replied the snowman with the stubby carrot nose. "Good to see you again. Like the hat."
Chilli flicked his cap proudly. "I'm a proper country gent this year."
"You look a proper fool," snapped the third snowman. He was thinner than the others and wore a holey, red woollen hat on his head.
"Oooh, hark at you," replied McCoole. "Feeling a bit bitter this year are we, Nippy?"
"He's never happy," said Chilli. "Every year he has something new to moan about. 'Oh they've only given me twigs for arms this year' or 'Oh they've made me out of dirty snow again'. Nothing is good enough."
"No, it isn't," said Nippy. "And I tell you something else that bugs me. Every year we're here and every year we only get to see the ravages of a cold, bleak and grey winter. It's depressing. I want to see a bit of sun, a bit of colour. Have either of you two heard of a thing called Spring?"
McCoole and Chilli frowned at each other.
"What's Spring?" asked Chilli.
"Isn't it a kind of vegetable," said McCoole.
"No, you're thinking of Spring Onions. I think it's something bouncy, isn't it?"
"Oh, quit it you two. Jabbering away like...like, a pair of jabbering things. Spring is neither a vegetable nor a bouncy thing. Spring is the next season. It's the time when everything comes alive," Nippy explained, waving his arms around in a theatrical fashion. "The trees bud deep green, glossy leaves, the flowers bloom in sprays of red, yellow, orange, purple and pink, the birds sing to the heavens from dawn to dusk, and the sun shines like a radiant ball of life."
"Oh boy, you've been dormant for far too long, Nippy," said McCoole.
"I think he's delirious," replied Chilli.
"If you two don't believe me perhaps we should have a challenge to see who can stay alive until Spring. What do you say?"
Chilli and McCoole glanced at each other, then shrugged their shoulders.
"Sounds easy enough," said Chilli.
"Oh you think so do you? You do realise that when Spring comes it gets warmer. And when it gets warmer, you will melt," said Nippy.
"So, er, how long do we have to wait, until Spring's here?"
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks?"
"It's doable," said McCoole. "All we have to do is stay cool."
All day the three of them sat as a gentle flurry of snow fell from the leaden sky above, and thought about how each might survive until the buds of Spring.
Nippy was the first to stand up. "I, have the perfect idea."
"Which is?" asked McCoole.
"Why should I tell you? You might copy me."
McCoole stood up and made a cross sign across his chest. "Cross myself and hope to melt!" he said. "Anyway I have my own idea."
"Me too!" squealed Chilli, jumping up and down.
"So let's hear it then, Nippy."
Nippy paused before he answered. McCoole sensed his mistrust.
"If I'm going to stay cool I have to be where the snow is," Nippy began. "So when the snows recede, so will I."
"Eh?" said Chilli.
"It means he's going to follow the snow."
"Up the mountains. It'll be cooler up there."
"Well, I've got a better idea than that," said Chilli as he laid down on the thick snow and began to roll around. "Extra padding will make sure I don't melt quite so quickly."
Nippy rolled his eyes.
"It's better than your idea," said McCoole.
"Oh and what's your idea, then?" asked Nippy with his hands thrust so far into his hips his arms disappeared.
"I don't know, yet."
"I thought you had an idea!"
McCoole clamped his snowy lips shut. He knew exactly what his idea was, he just wasn't sure he would be able to pull it off, so saved face by keeping quiet about it.
"It was something I was mulling over but I don't think it'll work."
A week past by and when the sky skies cleared and the sun shone through, millimetre by millimetre the snows began to melt. Nippy had left, in search of snows on higher ground.
"It's not looking too promising is it?" said Chilli, who was now a couple of inches shorter.
McCoole looked back at him. "I'm gonna have to go, Chilli. I have a plan and I need to see if it works. I'd really like to see if Nippy was right. About Spring and the colours."
"I understand," said Chilli. "I'll see ya next year then. Same place."
"Same time!"
With that McCoole left Chilli in the garden. He walked through the night, when it was coldest, and took shelter beneath bushes or bridges during the day to stay out of the heat of the sun. Every back garden he passed he checked in the shed, until he came across one that suited him perfectly. It couldn't have happened at a more opportune time as he too was shrinking, with every passing day.
Fortunately the shed he found was open and judging by the amount of dirt and cobwebs it wasn't often used. At the far end was a large chest freezer. The humming sound coming from the back was indication enough that it was working. He lifted the lid and a gust of frosty air blew in his face.
"Perfect," he said. He climbed inside, snuggled up and fell asleep.
When finally he woke his lifted up the lid of the freezer and poked his head outside. The light streaming through the dirty window of the shed was bright and warm. He could feel it on his face.
He climbed out and saw flashes of colour through the window. With a spring of excitement in his step he bounded outside and was dazzled by the sight before him.
Flowers as bright as the sun, grass so green he couldn't compare it, and trees so abundant with leaves they no longer looked skinny, but full and flowing.
McCoole sat down on a wooden bench and marvelled at the sight before him.
"Nippy was right," he said as a fleeting image of Nippy in his holey hat, passed by his minds eye.
He looked up at the hills, wondering if he was still up there, admiring the sight, but saw nothing but green fields and fluffy trees. A pang of sorrow twisted his gut. He knew if Nippy was no longer around, neither was Chilli.
He glanced down at his white feet and noticed an ever widening pool of water form beneath them. He knew what was coming, but rather than run back to the safety of the chest freezer he sat where he was and admired the glory that was, Spring, after all, he'd be back next year to see it again.

Charge of the mice brigade

Slick crouched behind a mound of straw in the strawberry patch to eavesdrop on the Mouse Council meeting. He wanted to know exactly what was going on and exactly how the elders proposed to rid the land of the vile Ratscal and the rest of the rodent population.
"You're going to get us into trouble, Slick," whispered his sister as she nestled herself amongst a twist of golden straw.
"I don't care, Tawny. That rodent killed our brother and I want to know what's going to be done about him," Slick yipped as he stamped a paw down into the small squishy strawberry, half eaten by birds, that lay at his feet.
Slick pricked his ears and listened as his father spoke from on top of a rock pedestal beneath the canopy of a pink-veined rhubarb leaf, down to the elder mice that gathered on the ground below him.
"Alas, I have to warn you, fellow residents of Mousewell Hill, that we are indeed under threat," announced his father with his head hung low.
The gasps from the growing crowd of mice that scurried in from every direction was clearly audible.
"We will have to evacuate the house. The rats are closing in on us, lured in by the abundance of food, and we are powerless against them. They are too many and too mighty. The death of my beloved son, Twitch, is a sad testament to that fact. So I urge you now, one and all, to pack your belongings and move away from this place."
Slick was indignant.
"He's giving up?"
"Don't be sore, Slick," said Tawny as she reached out a paw to comfort him.
"I'm not sore, I'm angry. How can he just give up? Why should we be the ones to leave."
"Dad just probably thinks it's for the best."
"He's a coward."
Tawny gasped. "How could you say such a thing?"
Slick sighed and twiddled the end of his whiskers, the way he always did when he realised he'd either said or done something wrong.
"I'm sure dad didn't take that decision lightly. I'm sure he just thought there was nothing else that he could do."
Slick gave her a sly look and then sat up on his haunches. "He might not be able to do anything, but we can," he said before bounding through the straw away from the elders.
"What do you mean we?" shouted Tawny behind him.
Slick had a master plan. All he needed was help to carry it out. It didn't take long to convince Littlefoot, the promise of food was enough to assure his allegiance, and Woody was easily swayed to Slick's way of thinking too, anything so that he didn't have to move "yet again". With them on board Slick knew that other kinlings would join them. Soon he would have an army.
That afternoon, whilst the elders were busy sorting their own affairs, Slick gathered his troops beneath the kitchen floorboards. With just a faint light streaming through a crack in the oak above him, Slick delivered his manifesto for the defeat of the rats.
"Are we united?" he shouted.
"Yes!" everyone cried.
"Are we gonna let them drive us out?"
"No!"
"Can we defeat them?"
"Yes!"
The air was thick with optimism and as Slick explained the various parts of his plan he was envigorated by how excited everyone was. But whilst he was riding on a cloud his sister quietly pointed out the dangers he was exposing everyone to.
"Someone might get hurt, Slick. Are you really prepared to carry that weight on your shoulders? the responsibility? You saw how deflated dad looked just now in front of the elders. He blames himself for Twitch's death. It was him that ordered Twitch to guard the entrance to the den."
Slick stretched out his neck and stood as tall as he could. "This is different. This is attack, not defence. We have the advantage of surprise. And besides, there's safety in numbers."
Nothing could dissuade Slick from carrying out his master plan. It was now or never.
As the sun began to set and the house they lived within quietened Slick gathered his army.
"Woody, you're in charge of the trap. Scratch, you need a wooden spatula and a rock. Whiskers you get to the windmill, and Littlefoot you're with me."
Littlefoot raised a paw. "Slick, how do we know when to start, the assault?"
"You'll see them."
Littlefoot frowned and scratched his head. "But where are they coming from?"
Slick tapped his paw impatiently on the dusty earth of the house's foundations. "The first rule of combat. Know your foe. The rats live in the sewer. That grate in the yard on the otherside of the back fence leads to their home, their present home. They don't like the sewer as it's smelly, which seems strange to me because they stink. Anyway, they want to move. They want to move to somewhere nice."
"Like here!" chirped Littlefoot.
"Exactly, Littlefoot," said Slick, shaking his head. "But here is nice. Here is dry and warm and cosy and not smelly and wet. But if they move in, we have to move out."
"But we don't wanna move out," retorted Littlefoot.
Slick clapped his hands. "Exactly, we don't want to leave. So the only want we can stay here is if we fight them, to the death...or as close as we can get to it."
"Yeah!" everyone cried and barged past Littlefoot, sending him into a spin.
Slick climbed up the drainpipe beneath the sink and broke through into the kitchen cupboard behind everyone, except Littlefoot.
Slick heaved him up. "Aw Littlefoot you need to lay off the nuts. You're turning into a real porker," he said.
"I can't help it. I don't burn it off as quickly as I used to," replied Littlefoot.
"Well, you'll have plenty of opportunity to shrink that waistline tonight. That's for sure."
By the time they climbed out of the cupboard and into the kitchen everyone had disappeared. With only the stream of silvery moonlight shining in through the kitchen window to guide him Slick skidded across the smooth linoleum to the cupboard on the other side.
"What are we lookin for, Slick?"
Slick squeezed himself through the narrow gap between the door and the unit, feeling grateful that the owners of the house didn't have cupboards that closed properly. "We're looking for an incentive," he said just as he spotted something that would work perfectly.
With his jaw clamped round the bag he pulled and heaved and dragged it out of the cupboard, practically crushing himself beneath it.
"Peanuts!" whispered Littlefoot, with eyes as wide as marbles.
"They're not for you, so keep your grubby little paws off," Slick said and dragged the peanuts out through the cat flap and across the lawn.
On route they passed Scratch who'd swiped a wooden spatula from the jar in the kitchen and was resting it over a rock amongst the grass. Then they passed Whiskers in the flower bed. He'd tipped a miniature windmill over until it rested on the concrete edging. Just ahead was Woody and a few others. They's just finished digging a large hole and were busily lining it with black, plastic bin liners.
"On schedule, Woody?" asked Slick.
"Just about, Slick. Few more minutes I think."
"Excellent," he replied before gnawing a large hole in the bag of peanuts.
"I thought we weren't supposed to eat them," said Littlefoot.
"I'm not," said Slick. He spat out a lump of clear plastic and carried on gnawing.
"He's making a hole," said Woody.
"So are none of us getting to eat the nuts then?" asked Littlefoot.
"No," replied Woody.
Before Littlefoot could ask yet another question about the purpose of the nuts, Slick dragged the bag toward the fence at the back of the garden, leaving a trail of them on the grass, as they slid out of the bag.
When the bag was empty Slick tossed it to the side and scurried back through the grass. Behind him he could hear the pitter patter of fat paws and the grating sound of plump tails dragging through the grit. It was them. There were on their way.
Slick was so busy making sure he was out of harms way he forgot about Littlefoot. But when he turned to find him he heard a squeal and then saw a plump, brown rat with black beady eyes and sharp white teeth clamped round the pink tail of Littlefoot.
"Ratscal," hissed Slick. "Let him go!"
"Or what?" spat another Rat. It stepped out from behind Ratscal and sneered at Slick.
All Slick could think about was his brother. The sight of Ratscal clutching Littlefoot made his blood boil and his stomach twist itself up into a knot. As Ratscal advanced Slick puffed out his chest to make himself bigger and meaner.
Ratscal tossed Littlefoot into a clump of dandelions and let out a wicked chuckle.
"There's no escape, Slick, brother of Twitch," he sneered.
"You're right there," Slick said and turned towards Whiskers. "Let 'em have it, Whiskers," he yelled.
Slick ducked as Ratscal and his followers were pelted with rocks. They smacked off their heads, their rumps, their stumpy legs and anything else that was in their path.
Slick could hear the yelps and squeals of Ratscal's cronies as they tried to shield themselves from the stony missiles. But as they darted to and fro some ran headlong toward Scratch. The moment one of them stepped onto the end of the spatula, Scratch jumped down onto the other end and propelled through the air. Others headed toward Woody who was waiting, the string of the plastic bag clenched between his teeth and when two rats fell into his hole and into the bag he pulled the drawstring tight, sealing them inside the bag.
Ratscal narrowed his eyes and skulked towards Slick. He ran a rough tongue over his pointed nashers. Slick stood his ground. He wasn't about to run away. But just as Ratscal crouched down, ready to pounce at Slick a clear bag was pulled over his head causing Ratscal to stumble forward. He knocked his head against a large rock jutting out from between two dandelions. When he got up his eyes seemed as though they were rolling around in his head and he staggered two and fro before tipping over and passing out.
Everyone began leaping and jumping about, celebrating their victory over their foe, everyone except Slick. From behind him approach Tawny.
"I heard the fracas from inside the house," she said. "So you got what you wanted then?"
Slick stared at the still body of Ratscal. "Not everything," he sighed. "But then the biggest Mouse Army in the world can't give me that."
Tawny raised a paw and placed it on his shoulder. "You avenged him. I think he'd be pretty darn pleased with that," she said.

One moment in time

With thick waves of ebony hair and a voice as smooth as warm honey it was difficult to see why anyone wouldn't fancy Carson Nicoll, but Astrid didn't. Whilst other girls swooned and followed him around every lunch time like love-struck zombies, Astrid sat in the locker room eating her ham sandwiches. She tended to avoid him, she didn't want to get sucked into the swirling vortex of sexual tension that seemed to encircle him. So she averted his gaze, paid no attention when he spoke in class, walked the other way if walked towards her, and gave him a wide berth in the school yard. Half the time though the swarm of girls with fluttering eyelashes put enough distance between them to render her attempts as pointless.
From her distant vantage point she could chuckle as girls made futile attempts to attract his attention with rising hemlines and blood-red pouts. But his eye would not be turned.
When the nip of winter was welcomed with posters advertising the Christmas Dance the race to net the 'new' hunk cranked up into high gear. With competition high, the battlelines were drawn. One by one the girls retreated to the comfort of toilet cubicles with their suitcase sized school bags containing an arsenal of decorative weaponry designed to beguile the most asexual of boys. But whilst they trowelled their faces with orange goo and marinaded their skin in cheap perfume that could easily strip paint, Astrid sat quietly with a book in one hand and a Granny Smith in the other. She watched as they paraded like cattle in front of Carson. Astrid couldn't help but snigger. He was more interested in his football or chatting with his friends to notice them flicking their hair and draping themselves over benches in front of the footy pitch. But although Astrid was sure, from her observations, that he had not been bewitched by anyone, his eye had been drawn.
The rainbow of girls around him was dim in comparision to the brilliant beacon of beauty he struggled to attract the attention of. She was clumsy, for sure, always dropping her books, or walking into doors, walls or any obstruction in front of her but that made her all the more dazzling to him. She had an identity all of her own, a uniqueness that set her apart from the gaggle of girls he couldn't get rid of. All he wanted was a look, a glance, but whenever he saw her she seemed to turn away.
One afternoon a chance presented itself. She was sat on the steps outside the school, with her coat buttoned tight and her gloved hands clutching a book. As he walked towards her dodging, girl after girl, she looked up and locked eyes with him. The first time.

No Story Today

Sorry folks, I've succumb to the 'return of the bug'. This strain of cold/flu seems to be particularly stubborn and is the kind that doesn't like to give you a break. I think it likes me. Typical. But worse than giving me a runny nose and sore throat it completely zaps my creative energy. What a total bummer! Anyway I hope to be back on par soon.

The hungry toy thief

Deena Motherwell was convinced that ghosts were stealing her toys. She could come to no other conclusion. Her house was haunted by a mischievious thief.
"How do you know it's ghosts?" asked her brother, Corbin, as he stuffed his football gear into his backpack.
"Because if it's not ghosts, it's you," Deena said, her arms folded with conviction.
"I haven't touched anything of yours. What would I want with stupid dolls, anyway?"
"So you believe me then?"
"I don't believe in ghosts!"
"How do you know if you've never seen one before?"
"Neither have you," Corbin sneered and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
"Yeah, well I will tonight," she retorted. "I'm gonna stay awake and catch that tricksy ghost in the act. I'll make sure it doesn't steal another of my toys ever again."
That night Deena sat up in her bed with her favourite teddy bear, Bob, beside her. With her bedclothes wrapped around her shoulders she nibbled on nuts and crackers with one hand and held a torch in the other, sweeping the bright beam across the room whenever she heard a creak or crack. But as the hours ticked by she saw nothing, only the silent darkness of her room. Deena tried to stay awake but her eyes became heavy with tiredness and her head kept slumping to the side. Before she knew it she was asleep.
When she woke the next morning she was horrified to discover Bob was missing.
"It's taken him," she cried as she burst into Corbin's room. "That pesky ghost has taken Bob."
Corbin stared at her from over his duvet with a sly smile on his face.
"What are you smirking at? It's not funny, unless you took him," she said.
Corbin held up his hands. "I never touched that stinky bear."
"Then it's that ghost. I stayed up all night, waiting for it and it never appeared. It must have waited until I fell asleep and then snatched poor Bob right out from under my nose."
Corbin climbed out of bed. "Let's examine the evidence shall we," he said and walked out of his room and into Deena's.
"Look here," he said pointing to a trail of crumbs leading from her bed out of her room.
"The ghost must have stolen my snacks too," exclaimed Deena.
"So we have a hungry toy thief," Corbin said. "Let's follow the tracks."
Deena followed the trail of cracker crumbs down the stairs, along the hallway to the cupboard under the stairs where they came to an end.
Deena gulped and hid behind her brother. "It must be in there," she quivered. "The ghost."
Corbin reached a hand out and turned the handle. "Be careful, Corbin. It might get mad."
Corbin chuckled and pulled open the door. A pile of brushes, a dustpan and the hose of her mother's vaccuum cleaner tumbled out of the cupboard. Deena jumped back in fright. Corbin stepped inside. A moment later Deena saw her two dolls, her mechanical dog, Rufus, and her bear Bob, flung from within the cupboard.
"Bob," Deena cried as she hugged her beloved bear."So that's where that ghost was hiding all my toys."
Corbin pulled his mobile phone from his back pocket and showed the screen to Deena.
"Watch this," he laughed.
Deena watched the grainy, dim video clip that Corbin played, and suddenly gasped.
"That's me," she said. "And I have Bob in my hand."
"And your crackers in the other."
"When was this?"
"Last night, dopey. You woke me up in the middle of the night. When I opened my door there you were walking across the landing and down the stairs dropping crackers on the floor. You were completely out of it. I don't think you were awake."
"Where am I going?"
"Downstairs. To the cupboard."
Deena watched as she walked down the hallway, her arms at her side, her eyes closed, and opened the cupboard under the stairs.
"YOU put Bob in the cupboard," said Corbin. "You are the ghost you're looking for."

Fairy fight

Cassidy Claypole couldn't sleep. A tapping noise coming from the back garden was keeping her awake.
"I bet it's cats, or foxes, or rats," she huffed as she folded her arms and thumped them down against her chest. "If it is I'll turn dad's hose on them and douse them with water. That's what they'll get for keeping me awake."
In a fit of defiance, she yanked the duvet off her, pulled on her slippers and dressing gown and stomped down the stairs.
"Wretched animals, keeping me awake," she mumbled, as she unlocked the kitchen back door.
Standing on the threshold Cassidy squinted through the still and silent darkness, looking for the culprits but couldn't see a thing. All there was before her was trees, bushes and flowers. Dormant and immobile as though frozen in time.
'Nothing,' she thought. 'But that tapping noise is bound to happen again.'
TAP, TAP, TAP.
'There, I knew it,' she thought. 'And it's coming from my geraniums.'
"How dare they?" she sneered. "I'll show 'em."
Cassidy grabbed the end of the coiled hose and pulled, unravelling it as she crept toward the explosion of yellow flowers growing at one end of her mother's flower bed. But just as she was about to turn the hose on, she spotted, only briefly, a pair of tiny white feet poking out from beneath the foliage. Then they disappeared.
Cassidy got such a fright she leapt backwards. Her breath caught in her chest.
"Tiny white feet, tiny white feet," she mumbled as she stared, goggle-eyed, at her flowers.
Whatever it was hiding beneath the canopy of petals wasn't as startled as Cassidy. It peeled back the leaves and stepped forward, as bold as a shiny copper penny. Cassidy peered closer. It was a tiny person, pale and thin, with shimmering white skin and hands covered in dirt.
"Who are you?" asked the tiny person in a deep, gravelly voice.
"I could ask you the same question," replied Cassidy.
"I asked first."
"I'm Cassidy. Cassidy Claypole and I live here."
"I'm Palian and I don't. It's nice to meet you," he said, bluntly before disappearing amongst the leaves again.
Cassidy rushed toward her flower bed and rummaged through the geraniums, searching for Palian.
"Palian, Palian," whispered Cassidy before locating the mischievious imp grubbing about through soft lumps of earth beside the stem of one of her flowers. "What are you doing?"
"Searching," replied Palian as he continued to dig though the mud.
"Searching for what?"
Palian stood up and thrust his hands on his hips. "My wings of course," he snapped, as though Cassidy ought to have known it.
"Are you...a fairy?" she asked.
"Not at the moment I'm not," said Palian as he clambered over mounds of earth so he could dig in a different spot. "Oh where are they?"
"A fairy without wings. Doesn't that mean you've been bad, if you lose your wings?" enquired Cassidy.
Palian stopped digging. He stomped towards her with a deep frown across his forehead and his rosy-pink cheeks puffed out.
"What do you mean? Bad?" he said. "I've not been bad."
"You have in my books," said Cassidy, indignant. "You've kept me awake and you've been digging round my flowers."
"Well how else am I supposed to search for my wings? Magically wish them onto my back."
Cassidy shrugged her shoulders. "Sounds like a good idea to me."
"Well it doesn't work that way."
"I had no idea they were detachable anyway. I thought fairy wings were, like, stuck to your skin or something."
"Don't be stupid," sneered Palian as he sat down, breathless on a smooth stone. "They have to be detachable. We don't just have one pair you know."
"No I didn't know that," said Cassidy as she sat on the bricks bordering her flower bed and pulled her dressing gown tighter round her body.
"Oh yes, for different conditions you see. When it's snowy we have heated wings that melt the snow if it lands on them. That way we don't get weighed down. When it's sunny we have reflective ones so they don't heat up and when it's rainy we have ones with lots of tiny holes in them so the water drains away."
"So what ones did you have on today?"
"My favourite ones. My aerodynamic ones," Palian sighed. "They cost me five gold nuggets. That's why I took them off, to stop them from getting damaged. Top of the range they are. I won the Annual Fairy Dash with them on. Everyone was really jealous, especially my cousin, Damate. I could see his eyes were green."
"Envious eh?" said Cassidy.
"Yeah. He's not used to losing races."
"And was your cousin with you, today?"
"He couldn't have done it. Fairies don't steal, we give."
"Is that what you were doing today, giving?"
"As a matter of fact I was. Your pretty flowers have come to the attention of our Floral Guardians. They're so impressed with how well they've been tended they assigned me to protect them."
To be continued...

Dream a little dream...come true

Skye had a problem; a big problem. Every night she had a dream and every morning that dream came true. But with an imagination as vivid as Skye's that wasn't a good thing. She couldn't help it. She couldn't stop it. She dreamed her house was made of jelly, her feet were the size of marrows, fairies were nesting in her wardrobe and that chickens could breakdance, amongst many other things. Every morning Skye would open her eyes and wonder what she had done to the world.
Her parents had long since gotten used to the constant changes that Skye would inflict, although the jelly toilet was a challenge, especially when her dad sat down and squashed it. But the town of Hanker hadn't. Discussions were already under way at the town's pink and sparkly town hall (another of Skye's subconscious creations) to have Skye relocated.
"Preferably to the other side of the world! Let them deal with her," chimed Mrs Cillings as she tried to wrestle a gamepad from the paws of her poodle."My poor Hubert has never been the same since she dreamed that dogs could play with games consoles. All I hear morning, noon and night is him playing Zombie Mayhem."
"Yeah," chimed Dr Deakins. "And chewing gum streets are the final straw. It took me two hours to get to work yesterday. The tyres of my car kept getting stuck in the stuff. That girl's a menace."
The bitter complaints upset Skye. And when she felt sad her dreams got worse. That night, after overhearing the town meeting, Skye had a dream that solved her and the town's problem completely. She dreamed she'd relocated the town instead; to Mars.

Fireproof

Aidan was completely unaware his house had burnt down with him in it, until he awoke and found himself in a hospital bed surrounded by his anxious parents.
His mother was clutching his hand, her face was ashen, drained of life. His father was standing behind her resting his hands on his mother's shoulders. A shadow of stuble covered his chin. It wasn't like him to be unshaven.
"How ya doin', kid?" his father said.
A weary, listless smile drew on his face. "Okay, I think," Aidan replied before taking stock of his surroundings. Full hospital beds, plastic chairs, floral curtains drawn, nurses padding up and down carrying clipboards and trays of medicine. "What happened? Why am I here?"
His mother looked away, resting her head on her shoulder. She took a deep breath in and let a shaky, lip trembling one out. His father reassuringly rubbed her shoulders and cleared his throat.
"Ah, Ahem...there was a fire, son," he said hesitantly. "At the house."
"Fire!" exclaimed Aidan. "When? What happened?"
"It was a faulty plug in the hallway on the landing. Nobody's fault," he said. The shake in his voice indicated otherwise.
"You're both okay?" Aidan asked.
His father couldn't give an answer. All he could do was bite his trembling lip and nod his head.
"We thought we'd lost you," whimpered his mother as she gripped his hand tighter. Tears poured down her cheek.
Aidan looked down at his arms. No bandages. There were no drips. No machines. He brushed his fingers over his face. Nothing. He didn't even feel any pain. "I feel fine though," he said. "Why am I here?"
"The doctors just wanted to check you over," said his father. "Before you come out."
"But how come I'm in here. I must have gotten out of the fire. I'm not injured. I don't have a scratch on me," Aidan said with increasing frustration.
"You were trapped, son," explained his father. "In your bedroom. I...I couldn't get you out. The fire...it was so intense. The heat. I thought I'd lost you. I thought..."
"I don't understand," Aidan cried, shaking his head. He pulled the covers off his bed. "There's nothing wrong with me."
Aidan's father tried to calm him by easing Aidan back into his bed. "I know Aidan. I know. You are fine. But that's exactly what's got the doctors perplexed. You're survival is nothing short of miraculous."
Miraculous. The word was lost on Aidan. It seemed to hover on the periphery of his brain, failing to sink in. But it was all he thought about. When his parents left and he was alone in his bed he tried to rewind his memory, back track to the fire, but there was nothing to see. Just black. It was as though someone had erased it.
Even when his parents took him home from the hospital to his aunt's house he could claw back nothing of the incident.
It seemed he wasn't the only one stunned by the event. His entire family spoke nothing of the fire. They treated it as though it never happened. It if wasn't for the fact that his father had to deal with insurers and recover what belongings weren't destroyed they would have blanked it out completely. But nothing was said of Aidan's escape. Aidan garnered what little information he could from newspaper reports which showed pictures of the burnt out shell of his parents home. It frustrated him. He wanted answers but ever time he asked about that day his parents would clam up. So one afternoon, whilst his mother and father had an appointment at the bank and his aunt was out grocery shopping, Aidan rifled through draws in the kitchen, hall and lounge, and found a gas lighter is aunt used to light candles. He clicked the button and a little blue flame ignited at the end. With a deep breath he closed his eyes and held a finger over the flame. Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing. The only conclusion Aidan could draw was that he was impervious to fire, inflamable.
The notion of being different for unexplainable reasons filled him with horror at first. He felt like those people on telly that were afflicted with incurable and disfiguring conditions. But the more he thought about it the more he came round to the fact that there could be many upsides to being fireproof. He could become the world's best firefighter, or be like that guy that plugged blazing oil wells. He could be a hero.
Suddenly his reclusive, confused self was shattered and made way for supremely confident Aidan.
He strode into the school grounds, bracing himself for a barage of questions from other kids eager to know how he cheated death. But instead of being venerated he was shunned. The kids looked at him as though he was a freak. They muttered and mumbled to each other before giving him a wide berth, as though his condition was contagious.
Even his best mate, Ronnie-his friend since primary school-wouldn't go near him. He kept giving Aidan lame excuses to avoid being near him, like he had detention, or had a dentist appointment, or had football practise.
And the teachers were no better. They gave Aidan top marks in all his essays just so they didn't have to coach him on how he could do better.
He felt like a pariah. At lunch time he sat outside on the lawn beside the football pitches and listlessly flicked the gas lighter he stole from his aunt's house. He'd planned on wowing his classmates with flame tricks, but as no-one was interested he entertained himself. One by one he held each finger in the centre of the flame, silently wishing his skin would burn just so he could be normal again. When on the last finger he heard a scream coming from the school. He looked across at the main building. A plume of white smoke was snaking up into the clear blue sky from the back of the school.
Instantly Aidan leapt up, dropping the gas lighter to the ground, and ran toward the building. The alarm was blaring and kids were running out of every door followed by anxious teachers trying to usher them to the appropriate fire points. Aidan paid no attention to repeated calls for all children to evacuate the school. He ran inside,darting between panic-striken kids, following the acrid smell. It got stronger and stronger until soon Aidan could actually see the smoke. It was coming from one of the chemistry labs.
With his hand over his mouth he ran down the corridor, through the thick, grey swirling smoke. The lab door was open. Inside one of the benches was alight, burning brightly, strongly. Behind the teachers desk, laying on the floor, unconcious, was Miss Hartley. She was his science teacher. Nice but a bit of a pushover when it came to dealing with unruly kids. But that wasn't her fault. Without a second thought he dived into the room just as a glass jar on the flaming table exploded. Flames shot through the air, in front of him and behind him. But Aidan didn't worry. He knew he'd be alright, but Miss Hartley wouldn't be if he left her in here much longer. He grabbed her arms and pulled her over his shoulder. Although she was only slight she was still a dead weight on his back. He wavered, struggling to stay upright in the midst of the choking smoke. He staggered out of the lab and down the dark corridor, searching for a break in the smoke, searching for fresh air. He twisted and turned down every corridor, completely disorientated and by pure luck, found the back door that lead to the sports block. Outside he dropped Miss Hartley to the ground. He coughed and spluttered, breathing deeply the fresh clear air to cleanse his charred lungs. His eyes were stinging, blurring his vision but he could make out bodies running toward him. It was the Headmaster and Miss Higgins, the School Secretary.
"Aidan," screamed Miss Higgins. "What are you doing? You could have got yourself killed."
"Is she okay?" Aidan spluttered. "Miss Hartley."
The Headmaster was administering CPR to the stricken science teacher, pounding her chest, trying to get her to breath.
"I'm sure she'll be fine. She owes you a great deal of gratitude, as stupid as your actions were," said Miss Higgins as she stroked Aidan's shoulder. It was the first time anyone had come so close to him since the accident.
Aidan smiled.
"What about you? How are you? Or is that a stupid question," asked Miss Higgins.
Aidan laughed. "You know, obviously."
"About your...talent? Yes," she replied.
Aidan glanced down at Miss Hartley and then back at the burning science wing of the school. He smiled, meekly. "I'll be fine. Just fine."

Blessings or curses

Jamie jammed on the brakes of his mother's car as he turned into Lakeview Road. He wasn't quick enough. The tyres hit a patch of black ice. They juddered beneath him and then set the car into a freestyle glide. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't regain control. 'Turn into the slide' was what he'd been told to do if he ever skidded, but the words were lost on him now. They never even entered his head. His mind was blank, his body tense with fear. He gripped at the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as the screams of his younger brother pierced the chill of the evening. The car spun round, crashed through a wooden fence and rolled down, down into the icy lake below. That was all he remembered.
When he awoke he was lying down. All around him was misty white. Was he in heaven?
He looked down and saw his arms bandaged, his body hooked up to bleeping and blinking machines by a criss cross of tubes and wires. Had he been abducted by aliens? Was he being tested on? Was he dreaming?
A woman in dressed in white, with a white cap on her head suddenly appeared at his feet. She examined a clipboard, then looked across the bed at Jamie. She smiled warmly, comfortingly. "Wakey, wakey," she said.
Before Jamie had a chance to reply an image flashed through his mind. It was an image of a blonde woman, with a tattoo of a crab on her wrist. She was stepping into the path of an oncoming bus. Jamie jerked in his bed so severely he almost wrenched the drip from his arm.
The woman ran round the bed and placed her hands reassuringly on his shoulder. "You okay there," she said
"I think so," Jamie mumbled, slumping back against his bed, not feeling at all sure what he'd just seen. Was it a memory?
The woman reached down and took Jamie's wrist between her fingers, obviously feeling for his pulse. Jamie peered down the length of his arm, watching her and noticed, to his horror an outline drawing etched into her skin. It was a crab.
Jamie stared at her wrist, wide-eyed.
"You have a strong pulse," said the woman. "You're going to be just fine."
Jamie looked away. He tried to focus his mind on something other than the disturbing vision in his head, but ended up focusing on an equally disturbing question.
"My brother? Is he here? Is he okay?"
The woman didn't reply at first. She fiddled with Jamie's drip, reassuring herself it was fixed securely to his arm.
"Do you know anything? Please tell me," he asked again trying to make eye contact with her but she refused to look at him.
"You need to get some rest. I'll make sure Doctor Prinse stops by on his rounds."
Her reticence was a sign of hopelessness. Protection from the truth. The truth being that his brother didn't survive the crash.
As the woman walked away from his bed a lone tear escaped Jamie's eye and dripped passed his ear and onto the pillow. He was numb. He glanced up at the heart monitor beside his bed and watched it beep. Willing it to slow down and stop. Willing himself to die before he had to embrace the pain of what happened.
"You're not goin' anywhere yet," said a voice beside him.
Jamie glanced over toward the best next to his. An elderly man with thin wisps of white hair was resting on the edge of his bed, looking directly at Jamie.
An image flashed, once more, through Jamie's minds eye. The elderly man was lying in a bed surrounded by lots of photographs; photographs hanging on the wall, photographs propped up on the beside cabinet, photographs from an album strewn across the bed sheets. His eyes were open, his mouth was open, but there was no breath, no life.
Jamie shook the vision from his head.
"You're a young sort. Strong an' that," said the old man. "Better than me. My heart'll give out soon enough. That's for sure. But I suppose you know that."
Jamie frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man stared back at him. His eyes were steely and hard, as though they were looking not just at Jamie but inside him too. A wry smile drew on his face before he turned and climbed back into his bed.
"Blessings or curses, ma lad, blessings or curses," he said.
What was he talking about? Blessings or curses? Jamie didn't know. As he pondered the words, lying back in his bed and staring up at the polystyrene tiled ceiling, he felt his eyes get heavy. His body slumped, his muscles relaxed and gradually, gradually the lids closed over his eyes like a black cloak.
When he awoke the ward was dark. The lights were out and the curtains drawn. Through the silence he could hear sobbing coming from outside the ward.
"You awake lad," said the old man next to him.
Jamie looked over. The man was sat up in his bed, looking over at Jamie.
"Yeah," said Jamie. "Is someone crying?"
The old man flicked his head, motioning for Jamie to look toward the ward door. On the other side were a couple of nurses. One was consoling the other with an arm around the other's shoulder.
"A nurse was killed, couple of hours ago when she left the 'ospital. But yer know that don't yer?"
"What do you mean? How would I know?"
"You know 'ow she died, don't yer. Or do I need to tell yer."
Jamie turned away from the old man and stared down at the white sheets of his bed.
"What did you mean when you said blessings or curses?"
"You came back from dead. I over'eard the doctors talkin' about yer."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Everythin' ma lad, everythin'. You survived. Yer brother didn't. Some people say that sometimes, sometimes them that survive an accident, disaster, whatever you want to call it, come back from dead with either a gift or a curse. The question is which one?"
Jamie leaned over the edge of his bed, closer to the old man. "I saw her death, in my head. I saw it as though I was standing right in front of her," he whispered.
"I know, lad."
"How do I know if it's a blessing or a curse then, these visions?"
The old man's expression turned serious, stern. His eyes widened and his mouth drooped. "Where you in the visions, lad? Did you 'elp?"
Jamie shook his head. He never saw himself in either the vision of the nurse or the old man. He was always looking at it through his eyes.
"Then there's yer answer," the old man said before lying back down and turning his back to Jamie. "God be with yer, lad."

Holly, on ice

Holly raised her hand to stop the badged prefect, striding toward her, from delivering her with another verbal assault. She'd had enough for one day.
"I know, I know," said Holly, preferring to stare at the linoleum than look into the prefect's eyes. "I've just come from the Deputy's office. That's why I'm out of class, so save your breath for someone who's really bunking off."
Holly huffed as she readjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, waiting for the prefect to let her continue on to her geography class. An eternity seemed to pass before the prefect finally spoke up.
"Are you okay?"
Holly locked eyes with the prefect; the statuesque girl standing in front of her. Her blue badge glimmered in the sharp fluorescent light of the locker room. She was well turned out with not a blonde hair out of place and her blazer buttoned fully; just the kind of goody-two-shoes that Holly had no time for.
"What's it to you, anyway?" Holly snapped.
"Just trying to help that's all. You seem upset," replied the girl.
"Yeah, well, so would you be if you'd just been given detention."
"What did you do?"
Holly was indignant. What gave her the right to ask these questions?
"Like you care," said Holly. "You're as bad as them."
The girl folded her arms. "You're just sore because you got caught doing whatever it was you were doing," she said.
As much as Holly hated to admit it, she had a point. She wasn't mad at the teachers, she was mad with herself.
"I was caught smoking, in class, if you're that interested," Holly sneered and waited another remonstration. Like she needed to hear it. The Deputy's words were already rolling inside her head: 'disappointed', 'disrespectful', 'bringing the reputation of to school into disrepute'. Every 'dis' word ever invented was laid on top of her like a hundred ton weight, and to add to her burden was the knowledge that her parents were sure to hear about it, if not from her own mouth but most assuredly in letter form from the school. She was 'blackmarked' something that had never happened before.
"Well, if it's any consolation, I was caught smoking once too," proffered the prefect. "It wasn't in class though. I was outside the school grounds. The teacher strode up towards me, snatched the ciggie from my mouth and stamped it out. I was more pissed off that it cost me a quid, than getting caught."
A sympathetic smile curled the corner of Holly's tightly drawn lips.
"When was that then?" Holly asked.
"A few years back. I was in first year," said the girl as she sat down on one of the rows of benches beneath the lockers. Holly sat on a bench opposite her. "You in first year too, yeah?"
Holly nodded. "My folks just moved up here."
"Ooh, that's tough."
Holly nodded.
"What's your name?" asked the girl.
"Holly."
"I'm Janie," said the girl offering her hand.
Holly took it. Janie had a firm, self-assured, confident shake, the kind that gave you comfort, that let you know exactly where you stood.
"You a sixth year?" Holly asked.
"Yep. And still sane. How about that? Though to be honest I've shocked a fair few teachers on the way."
"Why?"
"They thought I wouldn't amount to much. I sure showed them," Janie said, flicking her badge with her finger.
"Why did you change?"
"It wasn't a conscious decision," Janie said with a frown, as though she'd never been asked the question before. "It just happened."
"There must have been a reason."
Janie's shoulders slumped. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her self-assuredness seemed to waver as she struggled to find an answer. "I dunno. I s'pose I was like that all through first year. You know, unsure. I didn't have many mates or at least none I could rely on. They were all deadbeats like me. I s'pose I just gravitated toward them, like a magnet, you know."
Holly felt her skin tingle. What was that? Sympathy? Empathy?
"I was loyal though, to a fault. Like, at the start of second year, this new girl came into the class. A geek, I s'pose you'd call her, you know, hair in pigtails, books clutched to her chest like they were a life preserver. She was an easy target, easy to break. I never teased her, like, but my mates did. Systematically broke her down by daily taunts. She moved schools in the end. Although I never said a thing to her, I s'pose I felt...responsible."
"Then you changed?"
"Not instantly no. By the end of second year most of them had been given so many suspensions from school I hardly saw them. I drifted. Again," said Janie.
Holly was so preoccupied with the resonance of what Janie had confessed to she didn't realise she was staring right into Janie's eyes.
"Looks like I've just scored a turkey!" Janie said, tilting her head to one side.
Holly frowned at her. "Whadda ya mean?"
"Third strike!"
Holly stared, still confused.
"I guessed you were upset, that you're a first year and now I think I've just tapped into the contrite and introspective part of your brain."
"I'm not feeling guilty," snapped Holly.
"Maybe not for something you've done to someone else, but you're definitely feeling guilty for wronging yourself."
Holly jumped to her feet. "How do you know?" she spat.
Cool and calm. Janie smiled at her. "Because you're just like me. Except you're currently on ice. In limbo. You have two choices, head down that clear rocky road you're at the head of, or take a leap of faith into the dark unknown."
Holly readjusted the bag on her shoulder and strode out of the locker room. Janie's voice echoed all around her, "What'll be Holly, on ice?"

The Gingerbread Village

It was the worst winter storm the town of Honnigskake had ever seen. All night the blizzard howled round houses on the top of Honnigs mountain and by the time the townsfolk awoke in the morning their homes and shops were buried beneath ten feet of snow. Whilst the adults fretted about digging their way out of the deluge, Erik Lars fretted about something else.
"But what about the village, ma," he said, tugging at his mother's jumper.
"Village? What do you mean, Erik?" his mother huffed as she pulled on her boots.
"The gingerbread village!"
"Oh Erik, I think it's safe to say its gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"Erik I don't mean its moved I mean..." she paused and looked down into Erik's eyes. With a soft hand brushing his cheek she said,"Erik, I think it'll be destroyed. The weight of the snow will have crushed it."
Erik fought to keep the lump from rising in his throat. His lip quivered. He knew how much effort he and his school mates had put into creating that structure; the weeks of planning, the baking of the six hundred and fifty houses, the snow frosting painted on each roof and each window pane, the delicate and precise arrangement of them on a bed of inch thick icing sugar, even the moulded sugarpaste people. The idea of it being lost was too hard to contemplate.
"Your father and I need to help everyone with the dig, Erik. I want you to stay here and keep warm by the fire," his mother stated before climbing out through a first floor window onto the thick drifts of crystal white snow.
Erik sighed as he stared into the licking flames. Images of the crushed village flashed across his minds eye. They tormented him, mocked him until an idea exploded in his mind like an enormous firework and blocked out his sorrow. He grabbed his jacket and a trowel and crawled out into the crisp morning air.
On route to his school he met with other kids. All were equally saddened by the thought that their village had been crushed, some more disappointed that they'd never had a chance to eat it before the weather claimed it.
"I have an idea," Erik beamed. "Go and get trowels or whatever you can find to dig with."
One by one Erik amassed a small army of kids all wielding shovels, spoons, trowels or anything that they could use to scoop snow.
Through a rise of trees Erik could make out the snow capped roof of his school. Sweeping drifts banked up against its side, most touching the guttering. Blunt confirmation to Erik that the gingerbread village was certainly consumed.
"What's your idea, Erik? What are we gonna do?" said one girl.
Erik looked out across the smooth snow where the gingerbread village used to be.
"Are we gonna dig out the village?" asked a small boy. From the year below him, Erik thought.
He glanced across at the sea of expectant faces, poised for his response.
"We're gonna recreate it," Erik announced. "If the snow wants to claim our gingerbread, let it have it. But we can build our miniature Honnigskake in snow."
Erik's recruits exchanged confused looks. He could hear them muttering to each other. All except the boy in the year below. He stepped forward.
"I think that's a brilliant idea," he beamed.
One by one the others stepped forward too until all were united in Erik's master plan.
Within a couple of hours the miniature snow village was taking shape. The spire of the church was pointing, majestic and proud into the blue sky and the snow school was complete. The more the snow village resembled Honnigskake the louder the laughter became until they attracted the attention of the rest of the residents.
Erik saw his mother climb up through the trees. He felt his feet suddenly take root in the snow and his heart sink into his stomach. But as she trudged through the snow toward him, she spotted the snow sculpture beside him and the rest of his classmates. A wry smile drew on her face.
"I might have known I couldn't trust you to stay inside."
Erik smiled. "I think this is better than the gingerbread one," he said.

Help!

Rufus was standing in the middle of Broomfield Park. It was the height of summer. The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky above, the trees were abundant with deep green, glossy leaves, the grass under his feet was like a thick velvet carpet and all around him were happy, smiling faces, all except his.
"Help! Help!" he cried out.
Almost instantly he caught the attention of kids and parents close to him. One woman, young, with long dark hair, rushed toward him. A panicked look of concern washed the colour from her face.
"Are you okay?" she asked, crouching before him, gently grasping his arm, rubbing it as though to sooth him.
Rufus, confused by her question and concern, frowned back at her. "I'm fine," he said, matter-of-factly. "It's my dog I'm worried about. He's run off again."
"What's your dog called?" asked the woman. "Perhaps I could help you find him."
"Help!" replied Rufus, poker-faced.

Hugh Dunnit and the giant cupcake

Sweet Tooth had struck again. Hugh was sure of it. There was only one thief in the country that would consider stealing the World's Largest Cupcake and that was Sweet Tooth and his AbSconeders. They were notorious not only for being the only gang of sugar thieves in the world but for having eluded police and detectives for the last decade.
"Found something of interest in there, Hugh," said Hugh's mother as she cleared the breakfast dishes from the kitchen table.
Hugh peered up at her from the top of the newspaper. "Just reading the cartoons, mum," he said. Hugh knew that no Private Investigator spoke about the cases they were working on; discussion might compromise their investigation and in the seedy underworld of thievery everyone was a suspect.
He turned his attention back to the newspaper.
'World's Largest Cupcake Missing,' was the news headline. Hugh read on.
'Police were last night called to Bunn's Bakery on the High Street following an alleged robbery. Detectives, expecting to find the office safe empty and computer equipment missing, were astonished to discover that all that had been taken was Mr Bunn's famous Blueberry Cupcake. Recently bestowed with the coveted title of 'World's Largest Cupcake', the baked good stood at six feet high, with a circumference of ten feet, and weighing upwards of one hundred and twenty-seven kilos. It was a sizeable haul that has left police baffled as to how, why and who stole it. Mr Bunn, having had the news broken to him, was understandably distraught. "I put my heart and soul into that cupcake. Months of planning and preparation it took, not to mention the cost of the ingredients." Mr Bunn later went on to say, "That cupcake was supposed to go to the children's ward at Berkly Hospital. I can't bear to think about how disappointed the children will be when they hear of this."'
Hugh closed the paper. All he could think about were the words 'police baffled' . They ran through his mind, tickling the part of his brain that controlled his urge to investigate. If the police couldn't solve the case, he, Hugh Dunnit, would have to. A buzz of excitement electrified him and he dashed upstairs to his bedroom. In his excitement he yanked open his wardrobe door, nearly pulling it off its hinges, dug out his rucksack and checked its contents: high resolution digital camera, check, sample bottles, check, magnifying glass, check, latex gloves, check, video camera, check. He was set.
When Hugh turned down onto the High Street he saw it was heaving with police. They were diverting nosy townsfolk, who Hugh presumed had read the same news article he had, away from the tape cordon they'd placed around the shop. But Hugh, however, was more than an eager onlooker. The police of Berkly were so used to seeing him at crime scenes they called him 'Hugh the Gumshoe'.
"A'right Gummy," said one suited policeman to Hugh. He was standing beside the tape with his hands behind his back rocking back and forth on his heels. "Come to take a look 'ave ya."
"If you don't mind," stated Hugh.
"Sarge," the policeman called out. "Gumshoe's here."
"That didn't take long," said a voice from inside the shop.
A moment later a man with half-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and a long brown mackintosh draped over his shoulders appeared in the doorway.
"Hugh Dunnit. What a surprise?" he said. "Come to solve my crime, have you?"
"You know who did it don't you, Detective," said Hugh as he ducked under the tape and approached the man.
"If I didn't I know you'd be the first to tell me."
"Sweet Tooth strikes again," said Hugh.
"But was he working alone? That's the question."
"A hundred kilo cake? No. Moreover Sweet never works alone."
"The AbSconeders, eh?"
"Victoria Sponge, Current Bun and T.Cake, no less."
"You know them well?" asked the detective.
"I've followed their alleged crimes, yes," said Hugh. "But they've never tackled something this big before. I reckon they've been planning the theft of that cupcake for as long as poor Mr Bunn has been planning the baking of it."
The detective didn't reply. Instead he drew in a sharp intake of breath and then exhaled it steadily. Hugh was sure he'd touched a raw nerve; hit on something the detective hadn't considered. That was the only explanation.
"So what would be your opinion of the crime?" asked the detective.
"May I go in and have a look?" asked Hugh.
"Be my guest," said the detective with an open arm.
Hugh stepped inside Mr Bunn's bakery. The podium, in the middle of the shop, where the cupcake sat, was empty, save for a few crumbs and chocolate chips. Muddy footprints, being photographed by the forensic team, led from the podium through to the back of the bakery. The rest of the glass counters in the front of the shop were untouched.
Hugh studied the footprints by the podium.
"They slid the cupcake off the podium onto something low and flat. They had hold of it either side, you can tell because the footprints are facing each other," Hugh peered closer at the mud. "But they didn't carry the cake, which would make sense, given how heavy it would have been."
"They must have wheeled it out them," said the detective.
Hugh shook his head. "There are no tracks. If they did there would be tracks through the footprints."
Hugh walked toward the door that lead to the back of the bakery, swung it open and examined the floor.
"But they did have something on wheels here," said Hugh, pointing to two sets of black lines. "Skid marks."
"They could have been there before."
Hugh shook his head. "I doubt it. It's just a hunch but they look fresh to me. Very clear and very black. I reckon they had something on wheels that had an extending platform that reached across toward the cake podium. Sweet's henchmen then gently slid the cake onto it and the device retracted. Easy as that."
"Well, that's remarkable," said the detective scratching his head. "But that doesn't solve the problem of where this missing cake is. I'm under huge pressure here, especially from the Mayor, to find it. A ward full of kids are depending on me and my boys in the force."
Hugh looked out toward the scatter of crumbs on the podium. Images of disappointed, sunken faces, tears and the sadness of all those sick children plucked his heart. As his eyes cast down he noticed sparkles on the floor, like little diamonds. Something was catching the light. He stepped closer and realised it was the mud that was glimmering. He crouched down and pinched a few grains between his fingers. It was fine, and gritty. Not at all like the clay mud that appeared in gardens in Berkly. With the spark of an idea in his mind he pulled off his back pack, reached inside and pulled out a sample bottle.
"What have you found, Gumshoe?" asked the detective.
"It's just a hunch I have," said Hugh as he scooped up a few lumps of dirt, stepped into the back of the shop and poured a little water into the vial from the tap. He gave a few taps and shakes and waited for the grains to settle to the bottom, then poured out as much of the water as he could.
Staring at the sediment he gave the detective a wry smile.
"What do you think that is?" Hugh asked.
The detective stared dumbfounded at Hugh's vial. "Dirt?"
"Wrong," said Hugh. "It's sand."
"So, the AbSconeders have been at the beach so what?"
"That's exactly what. The soil in Berkly is clay. They've been walking in sand. There's a beach nearby with a large, abandoned air raid shelter."
The detective's eyes lit up. "You reckon that's where they've taken the cupcake?"
" Undoubtedly. And moreover, despite Current Bun's reputation for gorging on anything sweet I reckon the cake is still in tact. If he'd been let loose at it there'd be far more crumbs and possibly dollops of frosting on the linoleum."
The detective beckoned, with the flick of a forefinger, for one of his officers to approach him. Out of earshot of Hugh he whispered something into the officers ear.
"If you're going out there I want to come too," said Hugh. "That's only fair. I solve the crime I want to capture the criminals."
The detective laid a heavy hand on Hugh's shoulder. "You're too young and its too dangerous."
"That's not fair. I've been following Sweet Tooth's work for as long as I've been alive. I know him better than you. I've proved that today."
"That may be the case. And believe me I'm extremely grateful for your expertise, but as I'm sure you also know, criminals are extremely unpredictable, especially when threatened with exposure. Now, Officer Crabtree will take you home."
The suited officer took Hugh's arm and led him out of the shop.
"It's not fair. It's just not fair," snapped Hugh.
"Why are you so sore, Gummy?" asked the Officer. "You solved the crime. If it weren't for you those kids would 'ave no cake. Isn't that enough?"
As much as Hugh didn't want to admit it, the Officer did have a point. But it was only a small consolation. He knew now he would have to wait to face his foe.

Mr Cropley's jars

The moment his parents' car entered the grounds of Brooks High School for Boys, Jacob Martin sensed there was something peculiar about the place.
It was classically spooky looking; a lone mansion with turrets and ramparts and aged ivy snaking up its sandstone exterior, all surrounded by acres of trees and open grounds.
"You'll get a good education here," said his father.
"I'll get murdered here, more like," Jacob mumbled as he stared out of the window.
"Oh Jacob, don't be unreasonable," snipped his mother from the passenger seat. "Your father has paid through the nose to get you into this school."
"It's the best in the country, Jacob," his dad said as he parked the car on the driveway in front of the school. "Regularly tops all the league tables. So use your time wisely. Who knows. In ten years time you may end up running some multinational corporation. You could earn millions,"
Jacob wasn't in the least bit interested in getting rich. Fun was all he wanted, although he knew that was the real reason his father was transferring him to another school. It had nothing to do with improving grades or providing a 'better quality of education'. It was his last prank with the water balloons that sealed the deal. With a resigned sigh he clicked open the car door and stepped onto the gravel drive just as the heavy wooden front door of Brooks High creaked open.
"Look's like we're getting a personal welcome," said his dad.
"I should think so too," tutted his mother as she smoothed down her hair and straightened her suit.
Jacob stared at the entrance and waited. An eternity seemed to tick by before anyone appeared. His mother grew so impatient she began walking toward the door when out stepped a solitary figure dressed in a kilt and green tweed jacket.
"Welcome, welcome," said the man as he stepped down on to the gravel and approached Jacob and his parents.
He was incredibly tall. Even taller than his father, and was very lean. He looked like a bean pole, with black, slicked back hair.
"Welcome to Brooks." he said with a beaming smile on his face. "I'm Mr Cropley, Nathan Cropley. I'm the Headmaster here at this magnificent school," he added with outstretched arms.
Jacob's father shook hands with Mr Cropley and introduced himself, his wife and Jacob.
"Ah, you're Brooks's newest addition," Mr Cropley said, taking Jacob's hand in his and eyeing Jacob up from head to foot. "Yes, yes. Perfect. You have a strong spirit. I reckon you'll do well here. You can count on that Mr and Mrs Martin."
Jacob's father pulled Jacob's trunk out from the back of his car and placed it on the gravel.
"We can take that inside," Mr Cropley said before turning toward the door and calling out. "Cases, please."
In an instant two boys , immaculately dressed in blue trousers, a blazer, a white shirt and striped tie scuttled outside, grabbed the handles either side of the case and carried it inside.
"We won't keep you any longer," Mr Cropley said to Jacob's parents. "I'm sure you're very busy people. It was pleasant to meet you and do call anytime if you wish to receive an update on young Jacob's progress."
Before Jacob's mother was even able to plant a goodbye kiss on Jacob's forehead, Jacob was whisked away by the headmaster and led into the lobby of the mansion.
Inside it looked just as Jacob predicted. Lots of dark wood panelling on the walls, a wide sweeping staircase in front of him and enormous portraits hanging on the wall of men with long curly white hair, wearing old fashioned clothing. The two pupils that brought Jacob's trunk inside were standing, rigidly, like soldiers on parade, either side of it.
"That'll be all," Mr Cropley said, dismissing them with a flick of his hand.
Obediently they nodded and walked in silence, side by side, toward a door to the right, from which more pupils emerged. They marched across the hallway, in front of Jacob, in pairs. Not a word left their lips. They didn't even acknowledge that Jacob was there.
Jacob had a sinking feeling that he was going to find it hard to make just one friend here, let alone many.
"Come this way, Jacob," said Mr Cropley, guiding him up the grand staircase. "Your room is ready for you. I've taken the liberty of giving you a single room, just until you've acclimated to the school. Then you can move into the dorms with the other boys."
Mr Cropley showed Jacob an empty room at the top of the stairs. It was sparsely furnished with a desk, chair, wardrobe and single bed. The walls were bare and grey and the carpet a flecked brown colour. It wasn't the most inspiring of spaces.
"Make yourself comfortable, Jacob. I'll have the boys bring your trunk upstairs shortly. After that I'd like to see you in my room. You'll be briefed on your timetable and the rules and regulations of my school."
With that Mr Cropley pulled the door to and left Jacob alone.
One thing Jacob hated was rules; they were restrictive, like having his hand bound with invisible rope. He ground his teeth in frustration at that fact that his father had sent him off to a prison. If he had any notion Brooks would be like this he'd sooner have run away than get in the car.
The more he thought about it the more it became apparent in his mind that escape was his only option. He didn't want to end up like those kids: automatons, rigid robots, a fragment of themselves.
He jumped up and grabbed the handle of the door just as it swung inwards, almost knocking him off his feet. There standing in the doorway were two pupils. Their uniforms neat, their hand neatly combed back in almost exactly the same style as Mr Cropley's. They were clutching Jacob's trunk.
"Your belongings," one of them said.
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Jacob. "I'm not staying."
"Why?" said the other.
"Why? Because you're all carbon copies of your headmaster," said Jacob.
"You cannot leave. It is forbidden."
"Not for me it isn't," Jacob said. He barged past the two pupils and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. But when he reached the bottom he saw Mr Cropley standing in his way, in front of the main door.
"Going somewhere, Jacob?" Mr Cropley asked.
"Fresh air," Jacob replied, hurriedly. "It's...stuffy...in my room. I get chest problems, if the air's stale."
The corner of Mr Cropley's mouth curled into an amused smile. "You're tenacious. I'll give you that. But I'm afraid the door is locked now. I think you'd best come with me."
Jacob felt Mr Cropley firmly grip the top of his arm and he was led across the hallway and down a corridor toward an open door at the end.
"Step into my office," he said as he pushed Jacob inside the dimly lit room.
At one end was a large, heavy wooden desk, inlaid with red leather. Behind it were bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with glass jars that contained swirling silvery clouds.
"Take a seat, Jacob," said Mr Cropley as he turned the key in the lock and then pocketed the key.
Realising he had no choice, Jacob jerked the chair away from the desk and thumped himself down on it.
"What do you want from me?" Jacob snapped.
"What makes you think I want something?" Mr Cropley asked.
"Why else am I here? Why else won't you let me leave unless I have something you want."
Mr Cropley sat on his leather chair and rocked back and forth. "Intuitive as well as tenacious," he said tapping the tips of his fingers together, as though deep in thought. "Interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"I like a challenge, Jacob. How about you? Yes, I think you do too. I think you're the kind that doesn't take the easy option. I expect that's why you came here."
"I'm here because my father won't let me be who I want to be. He won't let me be myself."
"And who would that be then?"
"A free spirit. To do what I please. Say what I want."
"You don't believe in rules then?"
"No," snapped Jacob. "Rules are for fools."
"I'm afraid I don't share the same opinion, Jacob."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Mr Cropley swung his chair round and admired his jars.
"Do you know what's in these jars, Jacob?"
Jacob regarded them with as much contempt as he felt for Mr Cropley. "Nuh," he said.
Mr Cropley looked back at Jacob with narrowed, calculating eyes. "They contain the essence of each and every student in this school. No good can come of unruly behaviour or lack of direction. By removing their personality they become clean slates that I can rewrite, fresh lumps of clay that I can mould. I control everyone of them."
Jacob jumped up and backed away from his desk.
"You're mad!" he cried.
"I'm not mad. I'm shrewd. I'm sculpting the cream of the crop. The ones that will rise to the surface and shine professionally and financially amongst a sea of dross, which is what you will be without my help."
"You're turning those kids into machines so they can make money for you."
"You sound surprised."
"You'll never get away with it. I'll escape and tell everyone what you're doing."
Mr Cropley pulled open a draw in his desk and reached a hand inside. Jacob watched with anticipation. His heart was thumping in his chest. From within the draw Mr Cropley pulled out a large syringe.
"Resistence is futile, Jacob," Mr Cropley said as he stepped out from behind his desk and walked towards Jacob.

Jacob ran toward the door. Frantically he turned the knob , hoping he'd be able to break the lock but it wouldn't budge. Behind, he could hear Mr Cropley creeping toward him. Then felt a cold hand on his shoulder and something sharp stick in his throat. His muscles suddenly relaxed, his mind fogged and then he fell against the door. There was no escaping Nathan Cropley.