The vampire's costume

It was a convincing costume that Sylvia Leibovitz's brother bought, so much so that it made her jealous; she wished she'd gotten hers from Harper's Costumery too instead of cutting two eye holes into an old white sheet.
"So how much did that cape cost, Samuel?" Sylvia asked her brother.
"That's for me to know," Samuel replied as he swung the black velvet cloak over his shoulders and slid the row of false pointed teeth into his mouth. "But it was a good deal. The owner was desperate to get rid of it."
"Why?"
"I dunno. What difference does it make?"
"None, I suppose," said Sylvia as she slipped her holey sheet over her head and followed him out of the house.
It was a particularly cold night. An ill wind blew from the west, fluttering Sylvia's costume, and a full moon cast an eerie silver glow over every house, tree and bush in the village. But in spite of the conditions Sylvia and Samuel had their most successful night of guising ever.
"It was my vampire costume that did it," said Samuel, grinning with smugness. He held his cloak just beneath his eyes and flickered his eyebrows. "I'm going to wear this all the time. In fact I'm going to sleep in it."
As he dashed upstairs to his room, with his cloak tail flapping behind him, a chill ran down Sylvia's back. Something was amiss. Was Samuel gliding above the stairs, carried along by the wings of his cloak?
She shook her head, convinced it was an illusion, a trick of the eye. She was tired.
The next day at breakfast her mother's face was ashen. "Something terrible has happened," she said as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table. Sylvia leaned over toward her mother, curious but at the same time chilled by her mother's demeanour. "Mrs Tindle's daughter, Lucia, was attacked last night, whilst she slept. She was bitten on her neck."
"Is she okay?" Sylvia asked.
Her mother gave a hesitant nod. "I think so. It's early days. She's very weak apparently. They reckon it was their dog."
Sylvia looked across the table to her brother who was busily pouring cereal into a bowl. "Did you just hear what mum said?" she said.
"Yeah, so what," he replied. "She was a snob anyway. She never liked me so why should I be concerned about her."
"That's a really mean thing to say."
Samuel shrugged his shoulders and struggled to hold back the heavy folds of his black velvet cloak as it slid down his arm and into his bowl.
"Hadn't you better take that off now, Samuel," said his mother. "It's not halloween anymore you know."
"I know," Samuel grunted. "I like wearing it."
"I hate it," bristled Sylvia. "It makes you look mean."
Samuel grinned slyly at her, as though he was hiding a dark secret.
That night Sylvia was awoken by a clattering sound coming from Samuel's room. She sat bolt upright in her bed listening to it for a moment or two before summoning the courage to investigate. With her dressing gown wrapped round her shoulders to keep the night chill off, she crept across the landing and cracked open his bedroom door.
"Samuel," Sylvia whispered. "Are you awake?"
She opened the door fully and peered into the room. His window was wide open, the wooden shutters flapping in the night breeze, and his bed was empty, the covers pulled to one side.
"Samuel, where are you?" she asked as she scoured the room for her brother, looking in the wardrobe, under the bed and in the large toy chest. There was no sign of him. It was as though he'd just floated out of the window.
The next morning as Sylvia munched through her breakfast, her mind plagued by questions over Samuel's bizarre disappearance, Samuel appeared in the doorway to the kitchen wearing his vampire cloak and a pair of sunglasses. She wanted to challenge him there and then but didn't want to worry her mother.
"Samuel, that thing's going to start to smell if you keep wearing it," Sylvia's mother said. "And you can take those glasses off whilst you're at the table too."
"Hell will freeze over when I stop wearing it," Samuel said as he slumped down on one chair and rested his feet on another.
"Samuel, I'll have less talk like that, thank you," his mother bristled.
"So...ere...did you sleep well last night, Samuel?" asked Sylvia.
"Like a baby," he said as he devoured a rasher of raw bacon.
"You woke me up. Your window was open. The shutters were banging," said Sylvia.
Samuel's eyes widened, his brow knitted and he leaned closer toward her.
Sylvia swallowed the lump of terror that was rising in her throat, threatening to choke the life from her. She knew she was treading on very shaky ground as Samuel was clearly alert to her prying into his affairs.
"And?" he said slowly, steadily.
"And, nothing," she replied. "I...I just thought I'd mention it."
Samuel sat back and rocked his chair.
Sylvia had never been terrified of her older brother before, but now, as he sat grinning at her from the edge of the kitchen table it was all she could do to avert his gaze.
She never went to school that morning. Instead, she took a detour to Harper's Costumery, curious to know about the provenance of the cloak. The idea that it was responsible for the change in her brother's behaviour fluttered through her mind. She laughed it off. 'That would be impossible,' she thought.
Harper's Costumery was a little, unassuming shop on the corner of a side street in the middle of town, rarely passed by any shoppers. It was a little worn and unloved on the outside with peeling paint and dirty windows but promised, on a sign outside, to be able to procure any costume required.
Sylvia cautiously clicked open the door to the chime of a bell above her head. Inside the shop was dark and dingy, much like the outside of the shop, and was cluttered with all manner of costumes for every ocassion and from every period: jester costumes, victorian and tudor gowns, top hats, powder wigs, shiny black boots and the remnants of halloween costumes that an elderly gentleman was busily folding up into leather chests.
"Can I help you, young lady?" he said as he shuffled toward her, his wisps of grey, straggly hair hanging limply over each ear.
"I don't really know," replied Sylvia.
"Well, if you're in here you're obviously looking for a costume. Perhaps if you told me the theme or occasion I could advise you."
"I don't actually want a costume. I want to know about one."
The man tilted his head at her. "I don't follow you, my dear."
"You sold a halloween costume to a boy recently."
"I've sold many costumes. Can you describe which one?"
Sylvia ran her fingers across a rack of glittering Elizabethan gowns, admiring them, before snapping back her attention. "It was a cape. A black cape with a red lining and a stand up collar."
"Ah, the nosferatu," the old man said. "Yes, I remember it. A young boy bought it, I recall."
Sylvia was about to say it was her brother, but decided to hold back that information, at least for the moment.
"Where did it come from? The cape I mean."
The old man rubbed his stubbly chin. "Oh, well now, there's a question," he said before reaching behind his counter and pulling out a large rusted tin. He lifted the lid and rifled through the papers inside it. "I usually keep all my paperwork in this here tin. I don't do well with newfangled computers. It's all to easy to loose the information they contain, as I've seen recently in the news. No, its paper all the way for me. I suppose I'm just too old. Ah, here it is. I bought it from a Mrs Jane Leibovitz."
"Liebovitz!" Sylvia shrieked. Her heart started racing, her muscles clenched and her blood chilled. "That's my...mighty unusual for one person to sell you something."
"Not really. I get donations of costumes all the time. You'd be surprised what people are prepared to part with. But I do now remember this one. Yes," he said. "The lady was most insistant that it was sold to a very particular boy only. No other. I thought it strange at the time but she was insistant and very sure that the boy would procure it."
"And he did?" asked Sylvia, desperately trying to remain composed amidst the tornado of confusion that whirled around her.
"Oh, yes. Not a day after Mrs Leibovitz gave it to me. To be perfectly honest with you I was glad to be rid of it. There was something distinctly amiss about that garment. Much history is soaked in that fabric. I'm sure of it."
That name felt distant to her now, as though it was no longer connected to her. She couldn't understand what it all meant. Why did mum want him to buy that cape? Why didn't she just give it to him?
Sylvia spent the afternoon in the school library, huddled in a dark corner hoping the teachers wouldn't find her skipping classes.She pulled as many books on the occult as the library stocked and piled them up around her. She scanned the indexes of each book for anything relating to, dare she admit it to herself, vampires. She'd weighed up the evidence-the floating up the stairs, the missing brother in the middle of the night, the open windows, the bitten girl-and it was all too coincidental. After what felt like hours of reading she happened on a passage on pure vampires.

Pure vampires. Pure vampires are at the head of the vampirus bloodline. They are not created by bite but by the blood of the Dracule. Legend has it that when Dracula began to be pursued in the middle ages by peasants looking to extinguish the deathly curse that hung over their villages he soaked his cloak in his own blood, his pure vampire blood, as a means of preserving it and as a way to start the pure bloodline should he be destroyed. The cloak became a legend and after hundreds of years had passed it passed into myth. No-one has ever seen the cloak of the undead. But legend tells that the wearing of it will start a new bloodline, a pure vampire bloodline that is impervious to all known methods of extermination-silver, stake or garlic. However the cloak cannot simply be passed from one to another. The cloak must be procured. It is the right of passage to becoming a pure vampirus. Procurement is seen to be in honour of the Dracule, and an acceptance of his gift.

Sylvia was shaking so much she could barely turn the page let alone close the book. The realisation that her mother was a pure vampire was too incredible to contemplate, and the fact that she willingly dragged her only son into her coven made her blood popple. How long would it be before her mother turned her into a pure vampire too. A family of pureblood vampires. Was that what she wanted?
She had to get away before she succumb to her mother's grotesque plan. She ran all the way from the library to her house, packed a bag, grabbed her purse and ran. She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do. All she knew was that she had to get away. She had to save herself from her fate. Gasping for breath she stopped at a bus stop, sat on the bench and waited for the next bus. She didn't care where it took her, as long as it was far enough away from her mother. All her talk and sorrowful words about the girl being attacked and loose commands for Samuel to stop wearing his cloak were all a sham. A design to divert attention and suspicion. She knew that now. But her mother would not get her wish. Sylvia would not succumb.
A bus pulled into the curbside, sploshing through muddy puddle. She climbed aboard and threw some coins on the counter, so racked with fear, shame, anger and confusion she failed to notice who was driving the bus.
"Thank you, darling," the driver said.
The voice felt like a dagger piercing Sylvia's heart. Sylvia looked up and straight into the fiendish twinkle of her mother's eyes.
"This is for you. Thank you for your patronage," her mother said gleefully before handing the familiar black velvet cloak to Sylvia.

The brief encounter

IZZY
She was literally feet away from her idol, Marc Donovan the green eyed, sandy haired god, and could hear his voice. But something wasn't quite right. The voice didn't fit in with the image in her mind. She'd heard him talk on many occasions on TV and radio interviews but the tone was different. It was strained, sharp, indifferent, impatient.
"What's yer name?" he said to one girl without even looking her in the eyes. The girl was too wrapped up in the moment to notice his disaffected manner but it cut through Izzy like a serrated knife through cardboard. Was he going to be so cold with her? His destiny?
As she approached the desk she dug into her bag and pulled out his auto-biography that she'd ordered two months ago.
He gave her a cursory glance and dragged the book across the table toward him.
"My name's Izzy. Short for Isobel," she said. She wanted to say more, to say something interesting, profound, something to get his attention but her mouth was so dry and her mind so fogged that nothing came to her. All she could do was look at him. But again his appearance wasn't what she was used to: his porcelain skin was orange and pitted and caked in so much makeup she couldn't see the real man underneath; his fingers were dry and yellow, and a waft of stale smoke emanating from him drifted across the table toward her. Suddenly her attraction to him waned. She didn't want it to. She tried to grab hold of her previous, bubbling excitement as it dropped through her stomach and into her feet. He hastily slid the book back toward and looked to the girl behind her. Her moment was over. Thirty seconds, nothing more.
As she walked down the steps from the podium she heard him speak to someone behind her.
"How many more have I got to do?" he asked impatiently.
Someone gave an answer she couldn't make out but his response was clearly audible.
"For god's sake," he huffed.
And that was it. Izzy opened her book at the title page and studied his signature. It was so illegible it looked like an army of ants had just crawled across the page. She felt empty, nothing. A huge void had just opened up inside her heart where he had previously taken residence.
As she was guided out by yellow-shirted staff she spotted a large plastic bin filled with plastic bottles, crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and general trash. Without a thought or deliberation she dropped the book into the bin.
"What a waste of thirty seconds!" she said.

MARC
Marc's driver pulled up outside the back of Flick's book store. "You'll need to dash in, Mr Donovan. It's raining pretty heavily out there," he said.
Marc checked his mobile phone-a text from Mike, his manager, flashed up on screen. "Already inside. Make up artist and stylist here too. Hurray up," it read.
'Typical,' Marc thought. 'All he can think about is his damn schedule.'
Marc clicked the car door open and dashed through the puddles and teeming rain toward the open delivery entrance. A tall man with frameless spectacles, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt ushered him inside and into a large, smoky room with soft seats and a small kitchen in the corner.
"Marc, over here, hurry," said his manager as he guided Marc toward a high chair in front of a lit mirror and the tall blonde woman who stood beside it.
Marc choked his way through the foul stench of smoke and checked his watch-11.50am, almost thirty hours since he last slept.
"Just touch him up," Mike said to the woman.
She nodded at Mike before she scrutinised Marc's face and then busily sorted through bottles of foundation, selecting various tones.
"Take a seat," she said.
Yet another layer of tan make-up was smoothed onto Marc's face. His usually milky white complexion took on an ever deepening shade of orange brown. Marc flinched inside, all to aware of how he was starting to look. The bags of sleeplessness underneath his eyes were evident. He felt like he looked eighty not eighteen.
As he slid of the make-up chair another woman handed him a lemon yellow shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. At least there was something he was being forced to wear that he actually liked.
He'd only just done up the last button when Mike grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him toward the door. "Come on. Show time. You've got to make about five hundred screaming girls' dreams come true," he said.
Marc knew exactly what he had to do. Ordinarily he would have done it without question, without thought as he never once felt like he had short-changed a fan that had taken the time out to see him. But today he had neither the energy nor the compunction to go through with it. All he wanted to do was sleep and it was the one thing he couldn't have.
As he stepped out from behind a black panel the glaring, red-hot lights from the podium shone in his eyes and a cacophony of screams temporarily deafened him.
A girl in a yellow Flicks t-shirt guided him to a solitary chair behind a black desk. He took his seat and waited as the first girl approached him. She was hiding behind her book, giggling and trembling.
"What's your name?" Marc asked her.
"M...Melanie," she stuttered.
Marc carefully wrote her name on the title page and signed it 'love and prayers, Marc' like he always did.
The first hundred girls or so Marc had no trouble giving his undivided and careful attention, but as he approached two hundred and then two fifty his diligence waned. The burning hot lights that beat down on him were making him feel sleepier and sleepier until he lost all willingness to carry on. He didn't care anymore.
When a girl with pouffy blonde hair approached he was close to giving up.
She handed him her book and he snatched it from her.
"What's your name?" he said without even looking the girl in the eye.
She answered and he scrawled her name across the page, barely caring whether it made any sense and slid the book back towards her.
As she delightedly trotted down from the podium, cooing about finally meeting him, Marc felt the sting of guilt in his heart. He looked across at the next girl who confidently strode up to him.
There was something about her that set her apart from all the other girls. He was used to them scream and grabbing at his clothes but she appeared unaffected by all that hoopla. She was cool and confident with long glossy brown hair and a delicate pink sheen to her lips. For the first time in a long time he felt a flutter inside his stomach. He glanced up at her and instantly looked down. It was a totally involuntary response. He hadn't been that shy in the presence of a girl since he fell head over heels for the girl that lived next door to his parents when he was ten.
The girl handed him her book open at the title page.
"My name's Izzy. Short for Isobel," she said.
Marc tried to write her name as carefully as he could but his fingers cramped up like a crab's claw and all he could manage was a scrawl across the page. He couldn't have been more disappointed with himself. Ashamed he skimmed the book across the desk toward her and lifted his head only high enough to smile at her midriff.
As she moved off the podium he walked her walk away. He'd had enough.
"How many more have I got to do?" he asked.
"Another fifty or so," said the book store Manageress.
Marc sighed. He was so exhausted he could barely feel he was in the room.
"For god's sake," Marc's manager hissed. "Just do it, Marc."
Marc looked across the throng of girls and spotted Izzy walking through the crowd. She was looking down at the book he had signed as she passed a large black bin. His heart wrenched when he saw her dump the book inside it. Of all the girls in that room that he wanted to impress she was the one he seemed to disappoint the most. It was a harsh realisation that for some people the line between fantasy and reality was too wide to be ignored, and he couldn't ignore it either.
When he left the book store that afternoon he rang The Times newspaper and gave them an exclusive interview out with the direction and guidance of his manager. He announced to them, and soon to be the rest of the world, that he was quitting the music business, forever.

30 hours: A tale from the other side

Marc Donovan wanted nothing more than to play his guitar for people and make them happy. Ever since his father bought Marc his first guitar at the age of three he'd been addicted to making music. It was what he thought about before he went to bed at night and what got him out of bed in the morning. Over his childhood years he perfected his craft and began to write his own lyrics and music when he turned eight years old. He performed at school concerts, choral competitions, at music nights in the local theatre and even did a spot of busking outside the supermarket in his home town of Camberwell to earn extra pocket money.
It was while he was busking that a talent scout spotted him when Marc was twelve. The scout instantly signed Marc up to a local record label sealing his fate as a soon to be pop megastar.
Marc had no way of knowing how meteoric his rise to fame would be, but his boyish looks and unaffected, humble charm won people over in the music business, the media and more importantly the fans. By the time he turned eighteen he had three platinum albums and millions of female fans all over the world vying for his attention. Although Marc was pursing his dream he quickly realised that that dream would come at a price; loss of privacy and loss of control.

It was 6am on Wednesday morning.
"Wake up, Marc," his manager said, rocking Marc's shoulder to wake him. "You need to get up. We've got a breakfast TV interview to get to."
Marc rubbed his eyes. "Since when?" he said sleepily.
"Since I just got a call from the BBC. They've got a slot and I reckon we should fill it. You got a lot to promote with the new single and the book."
Marc dutifully hauled himself out of bed, unaware it was going to be another thirty hours before he'd sleep again.
Straight after his television interview he was whisked away to a hotel conference room for newspaper and magazine interviews. They dragged on until noon the same questions over and over again, and mostly focussed on his love life. From there he got a twenty minute bite of lunch before being driven to the recording studio to put down new tracks for the album his record company were pressuring him to complete before the Christmas rush. Although it went well, despite a few technical hiccups with sound, and he was pleased with the result, when it turned 4pm he was told that the studio booking time had run out and he needed to get down to Docklands in London to shoot the video.
"Why now?" Marc asked his manager. "We weren't scheduled to."
"I know, Marc, but the weather today has been great and it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. Besides the video editors would really like to get to work quickly on it so we can officially release it on the weekend."
"I don't understand the rush. The single not's going to be released for another month," Marc said as he was ushered out of the studio doors, through a small crowd of screaming girls, to the silver Mercedes waiting for him.
"It's all down to marketing, Marc. If we can drum up enough interest well in advance we can increase our pre-release sales. The single will be platinum before it's even available to download," his manager said with a twinkle of avarice in his eyes.
Marc sighed. There was no point in arguing. He didn't understand the business side of music and didn't really want to; playing his guitar was all he wanted. As long as he could continue to do that he was happy.
But when the video shoot dragged on and on through the night Marc started to flag. By midnight he was struggling to keep his eyes open, so the caterers were instructed to ply him with coffee to keep him awake. Take after take was shot and each one had some problem or other, whether it was lighting, position of props, angle of the camera, misdirection of the dancers, sound, whatever. It just dragged on and on. Marc's manager stepped in at 5am and decided to postpone the rest of the shoot, much to the annoyance of the director, in favour of a live satellite interview with an American chat show host.
"It'll only take half an hour, or so," Marc's manager explained."Just think of the exposure it'll give you across the pond. Everyone knows how hard it is to crack America. They're literally handing us an opportunity on a plate. We'd be, or I should say you'd be, nuts to turn this down."
His manager made a convincing argument that Marc had no energy to refute. So in spite of his fatigue, the fact that he was feeling nauseous from dining on junk food all day and the fact that he was freezing from being in the cold September night air Marc sat through an hour of makeup and then sat under hot studio lights as a broad accented American asked Marc numerous questions about aspirations to dominate the American music charts. Marc tried to answer his questions as lucidly as he could but his brain wasn't engaging. He fumbled his way through his answers and on a couple of occasions had to have questions repeated when they lost all meaning and became just a string of random words floating in his head. When the interview was over he felt dazed and frustrated. His head was so fogged he couldn't even remember what the interviewer had asked him.
"That wasn't good, Mike," Marc said to his manager as he stormed off toward his trailer. "I must've looked like I was stoned or something. I need some sleep I can't go on."
"You can sleep later. Right now we have work to do."
"I haven't slept since 6am yesterday morning. I'm tired!"
"You have a photoshoot. You have obligations. You can't wimp out now. I've been awake just as long as you you know."
Marc stopped and turned to look at his rotund manager.
"Yeah but you're not making an arse of yourself on camera to millions of people. I'm the one that's gonna be gossiped about. I'm the one that's gonna have his picture across the papers with headlines claiming I'm on drugs because I can't string a sentence together," he said just as a paparazzi photographer sneaked out from behind Marc's trailer and took a series of snaps of Marc mid rant.
Marc tried to shield his face but he'd been caught. He dashed into his trailer and slammed the door.
When 9am ticked by Marc refused to come out.
"The photoshoot is cancelled, Mike," Marc hissed through his trailer door. He was so fizzed with pent up anger he paced up and down his trailer. He wanted to rest, to get some sleep if only for a few moments but couldn't calm himself down, and the fact that he knew he had to be at Flicks book store in Lexley for a 12noon book signing made him all the more anxious. He hated letting down his fans. He knew they were the reason he was able to make music and perform.
"Are you intending on going to Lexley, Marc?" his manager asked with barbed directness.
Marc pondered the question. He knew what he was going to say but wanted to make Mike sweat on it.
"Of course I am," he said finally.

The story continues in The Brief Encounter

30 seconds: A tale from one side

Izzy had been waiting to meet him from the moment she first set eyes on him-a sultry pose on a sunkissed beach that adorned the cover of MegaHits Magazine. That moment was indelibly printed on her brain; the moment she lost all grip on reality.
There wasn't any one thing that drew her to him, it was a combination of things: his green eyes, his porcelain skin, the sweep of his strong yet elegant nose and the air of graceful strength he projected from every photograph of him. He had been carved into perfection by a heavenly artist, that was Izzy's only explanation for the effect he had on her.
"He's coming," yelled Bess one morning as she tore down the locker lined corridor at school towards Izzy, darting between other pupils and waving a magazine in the air. "He's coming to Lexley, to sign copies of his book."
Izzy's heart wrenched and her breath caught in her throat. She knew Bess had just as big a crush on Marc Donovan as she had and needed no confirmation as to who Bess was referring to.
"When?" asked Izzy, snatching the magazine from Bess like a ravenous wolf.
"Thursday. At noon. We'll have to bunk off school."
"No problem. I'll tell mum I'm ill or something," said Izzy.
Frantically she flicked through the magazine to locate Marc's interview: a double page spread. There he was, perched on the edge of a tattered office chair in a disused warehouse; his acoustic guitar resting against his thigh. Oh how she wished she was that guitar.
"He's just a god, isn't he?" said Bess dreamily.
Izzy wasn't quite so vocal or obvious with her infatuation. Marc was her private obsession and only she wanted to know how deep it ran. "Yeah," she replied, casually and handed the mag back to Bess, but not before making a mental note of which magazine it was. She'd stop by Bensons Newsagent on the way home and buy her own copy.
The entire afternoon was lost on her. By the end of the day she couldn't recall any of her classes or what the teachers had taught, all she could see in her mind, with pixel-perfect accuracy, was the photograph of Marc Donovan in that magazine. If quizzed she could've easily recounted its composition: the number of windows in the warehouse, the colour of the chair he sat on, the folds of his shirt. It was an image that stayed with her and was made even more real when she finally got her hands on a copy of the magazine. It was her opportunity and was able to study the photo in minute detail and analyse the interview word for word, grappling for any scrap of new information about him.
What did he mean when he said he wasn't looking for a relationship? Did he mean never? Did he mean not serious? Did he even like girls? She couldn't figure it out, and it was the one thing she wanted to know over all the other stuff she knew about him (what toothpaste he used, the first song he bought, what he did with his toenail clippings).
When Thursday finally ticked around she put her plan into action (a heated flannel to her forehead, translucent powder to her cheeks to wash out their rosy tinge. It worked, perfectly.
"You'd best stay here today," Izzy's mum said. "I'll phone the school."
The moment her mother clicked the door shut Izzy leapt out of bed, already dressed: hipster skinny jeans and white t-shirt. All she needed was lip gloss and her red military jacket and she was ready to go. She grabbed her mobile and called Bess.
"You ready?" she asked. "Okay I'll meet you on the corner of Crompton Street at 9."

By the time Izzy arrived at Flicks Bookshop the crowd of kids was already spilling onto the streets.
"God, it looks like half the school's here?" said Bess. "I bet the teachers have twigged and are down here scouring the shop for truants."
"Well, I'm not about to change my mind," Izzy said resolutely. She'd be happy to get a weeks detention for it. It would be worth it.
"Me neither," said Bess. "What time is it?"
"Nine thirty."
"We've got a long wait then," said Bess glancing up at the leaden sky. "I hope it doesn't rain-my hair'll go frizzy."
"Bess, this is Lexley. It always rains in Lexley."
Sure enough by eleven the heavens opened and down came the rain.
"Told you," said Izzy as she opened her umbrella.
Soon though Izzy could feel the crowd start to move. Ahead of her were bookshop staff dressed in yellow t-shirts guiding kids between metal barricades.
"We'll be inside soon, Bess," said Izzy as the excitement and anticipation began to rise inside her. She imagined what he'd be wearing, wondered how he smelt, dreamed that there would be an opportunity for her to brush her fingers across his peach-skin face.
Once she was inside everything else and everyone around her paled into insignificance. For once in her life she was grateful for being tall, for being able to see across most people's heads and down to the black panelling at the far end of the shop and the long desk in front of it. 'He'd be there soon enough,' she thought.
"What can you see, Izzy?" said Bess.
Izzy barely heard her and grunted a reply. She was in no mood for idle chatter now, all her energy and attention was focussed on that long desk.
When the clock ticked twelve there was a sudden buzz of activity at the front. Bookshop staff appeared at each end of the desk to the delight of the crowd that suddenly erupted in cheers of "We want Marc, we want Marc."
They and Izzy soon got what they had waited in the rain for.
Marc Donovan glided into view from behind the black panels to rapturous screams so loud they temporarily deafened Izzy. She didn't care, she was screaming with them.
As the crowd quietened to a general, excited hubbub, Izzy prepared herself. She dug into her bag for her mirror and checked herself-hair looking smooth and glossy, mascara not running. She re-applied her lip gloss, smacked her lips together and took a deep breath.
The throng of expectant girls inched forward. Izzy jockeyed for position behind a girl whose hair was so wildly back-combed she looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge. Again she was glad she was tall as the girl would've obliterated her view altogether. As the crowd thinned toward the front and was filtered into a lane ready to meet their hero Izzy got her first solid glimpse of him: sandy hair flopping over his eyes, lemon yellow shirt rolled up at the sleeves and unbuttoned just enough to elicit excitement. She could barely contain the beating of her heart that quickened the closer she came to him. She knew her encounter was going to be brief, probably only a matter of seconds but she was going to savour it forever.

The story continues in The Brief Encounter

The house of leaves

It was the time of the year that Alex Winter dreaded: the end of summer. It wasn't because the nights were about to get shorter or that the days were going to be colder. No. It was because he knew what his mate Paul Wilson was going to talk about.
"I reckon we should grab our tents and head for the House of Leaves at the beginning of September this year. We'll get there well before those Denback Daredevils," sneered Paul.
Alex scuffed the tip of his shoe on the pavement as he and Paul waited for the number sixty-four bus to school.
"Aren't you, like, a bit bored, like, of...um...that hut," Alex said, hesitantly glancing up at his friend who frowned back at him.
"No. I ain't lettin' them nerds get the better of us. They had it last year. It's our turn this year."
Alex sighed. He knew there was no getting out of it or arguing. Paul was unlikely to forget being outwitted by the kids from the other village and was certainly not going to let Alex get out of helping him.
When the first of September came and Alex heard Paul's familiar Morse code knock on his front door Alex felt like he had just swallowed a rock.
"Come on, Alex," Paul shouted through the letterbox. "Grab your gear and lets go."
Resignedly Alex scooped up his bag and schlepped behind Paul, who strode, dressed in his camoflage combat gear, down the main street of Strathcraig village as though he owned it. Alex sometimes wished he had Paul's forthright confidence and tenacity, but most of the time he wished that Paul would just not get so wound up by the smallest, most insignificant of things, like gang rivalry.
It was midday by the time he and Paul had cut through the thickest part of the woods, where the conifers grew so closely together it was like being surrounded by a wall of dark green fur. They climbed over a loose wire fence and scrambled down a shallow rocky cliff, the legacy of a bygone trade in sandstone, to where a circle of bronze leafy trees were growing.
Paul held Alex back from approaching the trees with an outstretched arm. "I just wanna check that they're not around," said Paul, his eyes narrowed, scanning the area.
"I can't see anything," said Alex. "I think we got here first this time."
Paul chuckled to himself. "Beatcha!" he said and clambered over the mossy rocks at the base of the cliff toward a felled, tree that looked like a giant, fleshless rib cage, swathed in a coat of bronze and golden-coloured leaves.
Alex trudged behind but was distracted when he heard a hissing sound coming from behind a crop of ferns.
"Psst!"
"What's that?" Alex whispered.
"Over here," said a voice coming from a cluster of ferns.
Alex left Paul and followed the voice.
"Oi, Alex. Where're ya goin'? The hut's over here," yelled Paul.
Bob Granger, the leader of the Denback Daredevils, pop his head up from behind the ferns. "Keep your voice down, you idiot, and get over here," Bob hissed.
"You," tutted Paul. "What are you doin' 'ere?"
"The same as you. Now get over here if you want to leave this wood with your life," Bob snapped.
Alex scrambled toward the ferns. He had no idea what Bob was talking about but whatever it was it was scary enough to prevent the Denback Daredevils from claiming first dibs on the House of Leaves.
"What's going on?" asked Alex, breathlessly.
"There's a hunter in the hut," giggled George, Bob's Deputy Daredevil. George leaned back on his elbows on a patch of spongy moss and crossed his legs, as though completely unaffected by whatever the 'hunter' was.
Paul threw his back on the ground, aiming for George but narrowly missing him. George raised his eyebrows and grinned back at him. "What hunter?" Paul said with a sneer.
Bob handed Paul his binoculars. "Take a look for yourself," Bob said.
"What is it, Paul?" asked Alex as Paul gasped.
"Big cat!" said Paul.
Alex snatched the binoculars from him and took at look for himself, hoping it wasn't true. But his wish wasn't granted. There, gnawing on a bone that Alex prayed hadn't once belonged to another kid, was a large, black, panther-like cat, with glassy black eyes, pointy white teeth and a lolloping pink tongue.
"I knew there was a big cat in these woods!" declared Paul.
"Like puddin's you did," said Bob. "You didn't know that any more than we did."
"Yeah I did. My oldest brother said he saw it one night when he came home from work. Saw its marble eyes glint in the headlights he did. It looked him square in the eye," said Paul with his hands on his hips.
"It's a pity that's not your brother its eating over there. That'd be one less Wilson in the world," quipped George.
Paul lunged for him but Alex grabbed Paul's arm and held him back. "Don't let him get to you Paul. You know he just saying to make you react like that."
George snickered and sat up. "So what are we gonna do about that thing then?"
Alex could see Paul grinding his teeth together and clenching his fists. "I know what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna catch that cat and prove to the world that Big Cats exist," he spat and marched toward the House of Leaves before Alex could stop him.
"What's that idiot doing?" hissed Bob. "That thing is gonna make a meal out of him. You don't just march up to a feral cat and evict him whilst he snacking."
Alex trembled as he watched Paul gingerly approach the felled tree. His heart was racing and his mouth was so dry his tongue felt like sandpaper.
"I hope gets him. I hope it gets him good," said George.
Alex gave George a swift punch on the shoulder before peering back into the binoculars again. But the second he did he leapt back and gasped. The black cat hissed and had swiped a paw at Paul's body.
"It got him, it got him," Alex stammered as Paul stumbled back to the cover of the ferns, clutching his shoulder.
"Are you okay?" asked Bob.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," said Paul sheepishly as he sat down on a mossy rock and examined his shoulder.
Alex could see his t-shirt was partially slashed, exposing two clean, red gashes to his skin.
"You should get that cleaned up," said Alex.
"It's okay!" Paul snapped, wincing as he pulled a sweater over his body.
"We need to get that thing out of the hut," announced Bob.
"What do you mean we?" said Paul. "That's our hut. You got it last year it's ours this year."
Bob stood up and glowered at Paul. "Look, you idiot, it pains me to say this but we have to work together if we're going evict that cat. I'd rather share the House of Leaves with you than leave it to that four-legged furball."
"We need to lure it out," said Alex, "with food."
Alex reached into his back pack and pulled out an plastic ice cream.
"What are you gonna do with that?" sneered George. "Freeze the cat or give it a tooth ache?"
Alex pulled out a roll of sandwiches and plucked the buttered ham from between the slices of bread. He held up the thin slivers. They looked like limp tongues. "We have meat!" he declared. "Except I don't really know what to do with it."
Alex knew that wasn't strictly true. He did know he just didn't want to be the one to do it or admit it.
"Oh give it here jellylegs," said Paul as he snatched the ham from Alex's hand and tromped off toward the Big Cat. "Here, kitty kitty," he said in a girlish voice and tore strips of ham off and laid them across branches and on the bed of leaves on the ground.
Alex watched the cat through the binoculars. It wasn't long before it caught the scent of fresh salty meat and padded, cautiously, out of its lair.
Paul fell back to the cover of the bushy ferns and crouched down beside Alex.
"Can you see it?" Paul asked. "What's it doing?"
"It's following the trail. It's eating the meat," said Alex.
"Come on then. Let's go," Paul said.
Alex could see the excitement light up Paul's eyes. This was the time of operation Paul craved. Like a stalking cat Paul crept out from the ferns.
Alex looked at George and Bob, wondering if they were actually going to brave taking over the House of Leaves. They both shrugged their shoulders at him and followed Paul. "It's now or never," Bob said.
With no sign of the cat, Alex gingerly stood up and darted over logs, mounds of moss, rocks and branches and dived head first into the opening of the felled tree.
Inside it smelt of wet fur and fatty meat.
"How do we keep it out?" said Paul. "It'll just head back in here when were not around."
"Orange peel," said George, matter-of-factly.
"Don't be stupid. What's orange peel gonna do, apart from make the hut smell sweet?" said Paul making faces at George.
"No. He's right," Bob said and began to ferret inside his rucksack.
Alex peered over Bob's shoulder and watched him pull out two plump, round oranges.
"Quick, get peeling," Bob said and handed one of the oranges to Alex.
Alex dug his nails into the thick flesh and peeled off big chunks of pithy peel which George scooped up and scattered around the house of leaves, finishing off scattering them outside the entrance just as the big cat padded through the trees toward them.
Under the cover of the house of leaves, Alex crouched down and watched. The weight from his body was resting so awkwardly on his legs he started to lose all feeling in his feet, but he was too terrified to move in case it drew the attention of the cat.
With its glossy head hung low, its long curved tail swishing gracefully behind it and its big round paws snapping twigs and parched leaves, the cat slinked towards the hut. It came within a few feet from Alex, Paul and the Denback Daredevils and stopped suddenly.
"It's working," whispered Bob.
The big cat sniffed the air and recoiled. It sniffed again and backed away and then turned and cantered off into the thick conifers.
Alex breathed a sigh of relief. "That was close," he gasped.
"I was never in any doubt," bragged Bob.
"I guess we call it a draw this year then," said George as he laid back on the carpet of crunchy leaves.
Alex glanced over at Paul who begrudingly nodded his head.
"Although next year is another story," Paul said.

Jasper

I don't have a story today because I'm feeling pretty down. I've had to give up my dog to my parents because his arthritis has progressed to the point where he can't manage the stairs to my flat. So instead of a fictional story I'm going to tell you about my dog.

I have a Golden Retriever. His name is Jasper. He was born on 15th November 1997 on a farm in Wales. He's a registered pedigree dog with the most ridiculous Kennel Club name ever thought of: Moany Mondeo. For a start the adjective 'moany' couldn't be a more inaccurate descriptor. He's the happiest dog ever known to man. I know I'm his owner and I'm bound to say that but it is the truth. He's never been a great lover of other dogs; he tends to give them just a cursory glance when out for a walk, but people-oh my god!. Jasper loves people. He's a little unsure about young children but he loves older kids and adults. He makes a beeline for them whenever he sees them. He'll bound up to them wagging his tail, panting and staring up at them with his big eyes. Once he's been petted by them he's happy and will leave them alone, but he has to greet them. It's always a bit of a talking point as everyone I encounter comments on what a lovely dog he is. And it's true (although I am biased naturally). This trait comes as a bit of a surprise to me, especially given what Jasper and I have been through over the years.

Jasper was given to me at the age of twelve weeks by an ex-boyfriend as a valentine gift. I remember the very first time I saw him. I was sat in the living room of the house I shared with my boyfriend one day, watching TV. I heard the front door shut but then heard nothing. So I poked my head round the lounge door and there sat bolt upright in the hallway, bold as brass, was this little, fluffy orange-blonde blob. He had huge dark eyes, a rosy pink nose, fluffy, saucer-shaped paws. Being a huge dog lover I scooped him up in to my arms and sat him on my lap. I grabbed the phone and instantly called my mother.
"So what are you going to call him?" she asked.
"I've got no idea," I replied. "But he's funny and orange."
My mum pondered my bizarre description and said, "What about Jasper?"
Although she never explained why she came to that conclusion I always assumed it was an homage to Jasper Carrott (a famous british comedian from the 80s).
"Perfect!" I said.
That first night my boyfriend made him sleep downstairs. He baracaded the stairs so Jasper couldn't get up. It broke my heart as I wanted to have him in the bed with me. I knew that wasn't practical but as the night wore on and Jasper's whimpering didn't subside I gave in to temptation. I went downstairs, picked Jasper up and plopped him down on a rug beside me.
Our early life together wasn't rosy. When my relationship fell apart I found myself in a quandry. Jasper was mine, there was no disputing that, but I had to find somewhere for us to now live. As luck would have it, I managed to find a house share that allowed a dog. I moved out that day and moved, in about ten miles down the road, with a guy that had a large semi. But that situation didn't last. I came home one day and received a letter from my landlord asking me to leave. No explanation. I was panic-stricken. I scoured the papers looking for alternative accommodation hoping that there would be somewhere else we could go, but my search was fruitless. I found I had to do the unthinkable; I rang my ex. He agreed to take Jasper in until I found a more suitable arrangement. Had I known then what was about to happen I would never have taken him there, but I was desperate. I dropped Jasper off and moved myself out of the house share and into a bed-sit. I wasn't there very long before the flat above me flooded and I came home to devastation. My belongings were ruined and I had no insurance. I found somewhere else to live, luckily, but it wasn't the most ideal of situations. That, however, was the least of my problems. When I went to visit Jasper one day I was horrified with what I saw. My boyfriend had kept him locked in a back bedroom. The room was stripped bare: no carpets, no curtains. Jasper was living amongst a ladder and various other decorating equipment, paint pots, rollers, brushes and general domestic rubble. Jasper was so desperate to get out he'd been scratching the door. I screamed at my ex, demanding to know why he was treating Jasper this way. He offered no explanation but I was sure it was just to get back at me. With no plan in place I scooped my eighteen month old dog up and put him in my car. The only option I had was to call my parents.
I drove through the evening, two hundred miles up the M6 to Scotland, and tearfully dropped Jasper off with people I knew I could trust and rely on to care for Jasper. After my failed relationship and my disillusionment at living in Manchester I had already begun searching for work in Scotland (my intention being to return) and a few months after I left Jasper under the care of my parents I was reunited with him. I couldn't have been happier.

Ever since then Jasper has lived the life of a king. He's had a lovely house to roam about in, a nice garden to pee all over, woods and fields to gambol through, friendly villagers to pet and coddle him, mounds of soft toys to shred, numerous holidays that have taken him to Cornwall, where he was admired by an Italian woman who called him 'a little angel' in Italian (I had to laugh!), Wales, Skye, Loch Ness, Aviemore and the Lake District.

He has his dislikes: polished floors, long walks, pigeons. And his passions: my sofa, gouging out the eyes of his teddies, food, food and more food. Now I know that food is an obvious one. All dogs love food. But Jasper goes the extra mile in order to fulfil his craving and has gotten me into trouble on numerous occasions as a result of it.
For example my dad took Jasper for a walk one day and stopped to talk to a villager as he exited his home. Little did my dad know that Jasper meanwhile had snuck into the villager's kitchen, pulled out a shrink wrapped packet of raw chicken from his shopping bags and begun to chew on it. My dad was contrite and luckily the villager was a friend and found the incident rather amusing. But that's not the only ocassion Jasper has had his nose where he shouldn't. I found him on the road munching on a bread roll one morning. After a little detective work I found my neighbour had left her shopping bags by the steps to her garden. Jasper again had dug his nose into the plastic bag and pulled it out.
On another occasion my mum had taken some chicken thighs out of the freezer to defrost which Jasper had pulled down off the kitchen worksurface and gnawed on. Before my mum found out and had a hairy fit I rushed to the supermarket to replace the contaminated chicken but could only find chicken legs on sale. My friend was bent double in hysterics as she watched me hack chicken legs with a cook's knife to make them look like thighs. Luckily I did an excellent job (perhaps I should have been a butcher not a writer) as mum never suspected a thing (although if she reads this I'm sure she'll have something to say about it).

But Jasper hadn't always eaten edible things. I've sadly had him at the vets a few times after he'd eaten my mother's spectacles, and then on a separate occasion a pile of pig pellets which resulted in him undergoing an x-ray and a lengthy operation to remove the 'fibrous mass' from his intestine. The problem is he is a complete scavenger. In fact when I take him for a walk its a battle of wits as to whether I can keep him from vacuuming up scraps off the ground before he can find them.

For all his faults though I have put him through some trying times. Not least dressing him up for my sister's 30th birthday. The photographic evidence says more than I can ever say about that day.

So although he will only be five miles down the road from me. I'm going to miss him laying by my feet as I write my stories and farting indiscrimately!

The shaman's curse

Lily couldn't believe it when her brother, Wiley, brought home a replica model of their village, Gatesby, from the jumble sale.
"Wha'dya buy that thing for?" she asked, screwing her face up with disbelief that he had spent his pocket money on something she considered completely pointless and grossly filthy.
"I think it's cool," replied Wiley. "Look, it even has the Old Manor house on it, in the woods."
Lily frowned at him. "That just goes to show how old that thing is. The Old Manor house was torn down a decade ago," she said staring at the solitary matchbox sized house nestled amongst cotton-topped trees of Wiley's village. "Who sold that to you anyway?"
"I dunno," said Wiley as he carried the three foot square board up the stairs to his room. "Some old woman."
"Her name's Mrs Wright, Wiley, not 'some old woman'," bellowed Lily's mum from the front door as she struggled to carrying in an old Singer sewing machine that she had bought.
"Who's Mrs Wright?" asked Lily.
"She used to be the Housekeeper of the Manor before Lord Seldhurst died," she said. "I think she lives in Greenbow now."
Lily looked at her mother struggling beneath the weight of the machine and the three bags looped over her arms. She thought about helping but was suddenly curious about Wiley's purchase. She'd heard about Lord Seldhurst and his Manor. Rumour had it the house was torn down because it was haunted, not because, as reported in the papers, it was condemned by Structural Engineers who claimed it was better to knock it down than let it fall down. Could it be that Wiley had, in his possession, a piece of the Old Manor?
She took the stairs two by two and poked her head round the door of Wiley's room.
Wiley was already playing with it. He'd dug out a few miniature cars and was busily driving them up and down the streets of the village, pretending he was various residents.
Getting a better look at the model village, Lily noticed it was remarkably up-to-date: the school even had its new extension by the technical studies block. 'Mrs Wright must have added to it,' Lily thought. 'I wonder why she wanted to get rid of it?'

In the days that followed Lily noticed Wiley was becoming more and more engrossed with his model village. He spent most of his time in his room, crafting make believe stories about the residents and acting them out with plastic soldiers. At first Lily found it entertaining and was impressed with Wiley's vivid imagination, especially given he'd previously spent most of his time playing games on his X-Station, but one day was chilled when an argument Wiley had imagined between two of his school friends over a remote control car actually happened.
It was freakish but Lily brushed it off as mere coincidence. 'Perhaps Wiley's heard them bickering before,' she thought.
But the next day Wiley made another startling prediction. Lily overheard him in his bedroom playing with the model and shouting that the school gym was flooding and to call the fire brigade. Sure enough, when Lily got to school she saw a crowd of people outside the gym block and numerous teachers dragging out bits of gym equipment-mats, balls, the pommel horse, bean bags-all sodden.
"What's going on?" she asked a lanky fifth year.
"Someone left the tap running in the toilets," he grunted. "Whole block's flooded."
Lily felt the blood drain from her face and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end. For the rest of the day she couldn't concentrate on her classes or even her friends.
"What's up with you today?" they asked her.
"Nothing, I'm fine," she said knowing full well that she wasn't. She was numb with confusion. 'How could it be? How could he have known?' she thought.
When she got home she challenged Wiley about it, but Wiley was more angry that she had been eavesdropping on his playtime than alarmed about his prediction.
"Just butt out of my room," he snapped. "This is my toy, not yours. I paid for it fair and square and you're not allowed anywhere near it."
But Lily was too intrigued to let the matter drop. Every day Wiley had a fresh and imaginative story that miraculously came true. At first they were relatively harmless but gradually became more sinister. Wiley predicted that Marcus Finchley would be expelled for painting the school walls with graffiti, he predicted that Deakins General Store was going to be robbed and he predicted the three car pile up outside the village.
Despite Lily's endeavours to distract Wiley from his new toy so as to stop his macabre premonitions Wiley pointedly refused and even threatened to punch Lily if she dared to even speak of his toy.
It was the final straw for Lily. She caught the number fifty bus that took her straight to Greenbow village and found that Mrs Wright was living in a small cottage on the outskirts. It was a dilapidated, semi-detached bungalow with a warped green door and a tiled roof that was sunken in the middle, as though something heavy had been resting on it.
Before Lily had even raised a hand to knock on the door it creaked open. Standing in the hallway was a tall, grey-haired old woman.
"I had a feeling someone would come calling on me," the woman said. "Though I didn't expect it to be you. "
"You were expecting my brother then?"
"He was the one that bought the model, yes?"
Lily nodded.
"You better come in," the woman said and waddled down the hallway and into a small sitting room.
Tentatively Lily followed her, feeling so apprehensive her stomach was tied in a knot.
"Why were you expecting my brother?" Lily asked as she sat on a threadbare armchair that the woman offered her.
"I was half expecting him," the woman clarified, "and half hoping I wouldn't see him."
"Why?"
The woman eyed Lily up and down. "You know about the model. Don't you? What it does?"
"Vaguely," Lily replied. "It seems to have some sort of control over Wiley."
"Predictions? Premonitions?" the woman asked.
Lily nodded, not wanting to give too much away about her own situation, preferring to make the woman tell her what she needed to know.
"I should have burned it while I had the chance," the woman said as she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her chin.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I foolishly thought the curse was a myth. I knew Lord Seldhurst was into allsorts of occult things. Divination, sorcery, clairvoyance. He was fascinated by it all. He paid for mediums, shamans, occultists, you name it, to come to the Manor. He was convinced that there was a spirit residing in the house. One of them suggested he make a model of the village to vanquish the malevolent presence. But when he did his paranoia got worse. He said he kept seeing things in his mind. It drove him made. When he died I was responsible for clearing out the Manor. Most of his belongings went to auction to pay off his debts but I kept a few things, including the model because I liked it."
"If you liked it why did you sell it?"
The woman was hesitant to answer. "It started to make me feel uneasy. That's all," she said.
Lily sensed she was holding something back. "You felt it too didn't you. You started seeing things. That's why you got rid of it. But rather than burn it you thought you'd make a few quid," Lily spat. She was so angry she could feel the heat rise from her feet through her body.
"I never intended for anyone to be hurt by it," said Mrs Wright in a pitiful voice.
"But they have," said Lily. "My brother is making all sorts of horrid predictions and who knows where its going to end or how. He's got no idea what it means. He's too young to understand and moreover they're making him possessive and aggressive and he's never been like that with me."
"You can end it all you know," explained Mrs Wright, seemingly trying to offer a solution.
"How?"
"Burn it. Burn it to the ground before more damage is done. That's the only way you can end it."

Lily left the old woman in a fit of rage. She was grateful of the tip but far too annoyed that the woman's selfishness had meant her brother was being influenced by the product of a madman. When she got home she heard Wiley playing with his model.
"Fire, fire," she heard him say. "Call the fire brigade. It's on fire."
Lily felt an icy chill run across her. 'What was on fire?' she thought. Desperate to know what his latest prediction was she burst into his bedroom. Wiley had a lit candle resting on the model by the School.
"Get away from it, Wiley. Get away from the model now. It's cursed. It's making you sick."
"No. You get away," he said and lunged for her, pushing her into the door.
Lily couldn't believe how much strength he had in him. She reached out for him but he stumbled back and knocked the model off its table sending it crashing to the floor. The candle tipped over too and ignited the dry paper miniature houses and trees.
"No, my model, my village," Wiley cried. "You've ruined it."
"What's going to go on fire, Wiley?" cried Lily as the model smouldered. "You have to tell me."
"My village, my toy, that's what's on fire."
"No before. When you were playing you said 'fire, fire, call the fire brigade.' What did you mean? What was going to go on fire?"
Wiley ran to the bathroom and came back with a filled jug of water. He tossed it on the burning model but it was too late. It was mostly destroyed. Deflated, Wiley knelt down beside his beloved toy and wept.
"Wiley tell me, please," pleaded Lily. "What's on fire?"
As tears poured down Wiley's cheeks he muttered the words. "The school."
Lily tore out of the house as fast as she could but the plumes of smoke rising into the aquamarine blue sky was the harbinger of doom that Lily didn't want to see. As she rounded the corner of the park and turned into School Road she could see the flames licking the sky. She was too late. All she could hope for was that nobody was hurt.
As she stood, breathless and distraught that she didn't act quickly enough to stop the carnage she hoped that her and Wiley's nightmare would now be over: now that the model was destroyed.

Paw prints

Louis was known as the town menace to everyone except Louis's owner, David Barker. David was Louis's best friend and was responsible for teaching him to paint. Now I know what you're thinking; that's not so unusual. But Louis wasn't a boy: he was a brown and white patched Beagle. David had pestered his parents to death after seeing Louis at a dog home. Day and night the only thing David said to his parents was, "Can we get Louis?". Nothing more. Eventually they gave in and surprised David one evening after dinner by handing Louis to David with a big red bow tied round his neck.
"You must promise to train him now, David," said dad. "That's the deal."
And train him he did. David taught Louis how to do the regular things like sit and stay, but also taught him to balance a ball on his nose, walk on his back legs, and peel an orange with his teeth. But the trick David taught him that he was most proud of, but which earned Louis with his notorious reputation, was how to paint.
Louis loved it. He got so excited when David got the paint pots out of the cupboard and spread paper on the kitchen floor that he started yapping, wagging his tail and dancing round in circles. He would paint for hours on end. At first he used his paws, dipping them in the paint and padding around on the paper until David put a long brush between his Louis's claws and showed Louis how to dip his brush into the paint.
Dab. Swipe. Splodge. Swish. Blob.
Louis splattered red, blue, yellow, orange and green paint across page after page. Louis made so many paintings that David managed to completely redecorate his bedroom.
David's parents despaired not just because of the mess that Louis created but because they could never get into the kitchen to cook. For weeks they all lived on take out pizza.
But when the townsfolk noticed Louis's talent they commissioned him to paint something for them. David wasn't particularly keen on making Louis paint on command. That wasn't his intention, but David's parents said that Louis could earn them all some money.
"Times are tough, David," said mum. "Tourists aren't visiting Drabness anymore. The hotels are all closing down and sadly it won't be long before we have to close our doors to visitors too. We have to find another way to make ends meet."
It seemed okay at first as Louis only had a few commissions but when everyone in the town wanted a Louis Barker original Louis started to rebel. He refused point blank to paint. One day Louis was so fed up he dashed out of the kitchen through the dog flap with the paint brush still in his mouth.
All day David searched for Louis. He went to all Louis's favourite places, the park, the river, Drabness Art Gallery but Louis was nowhere to be seen.
"What would a dog with a paint brush do?" David asked himself. And at that moment David spotted something on the pavement: a red splodge painting of a stick man.
"Louis!" David muttered as he looked ahead of him and spotted more red pictures on the ground. As David followed them across the town the paintings became bigger and bigger until soon they were no longer on the pavement but on the walls of the shops, daubed across glass doors and windows. Louis was rampaging through the town painting everything in sight. He painted houses, street lights, park benches, bus stops and even painted a man asleep in a shop doorway. David weaved through the streets in search for his runaway dog and everyone he passed had some complaint to make about his dog.
"You should keep that thing locked up," one elderly woman said and held up her handbag that had a red painted smiley face on it. "Look what he's just done."
"Where did he go?" asked David, hurriedly.
The woman pointed towards the town's ancient, ruined castle.
David shuddered. "I'm in big trouble if he paints that," he said and ran as fast as he could.
Just as he reached the crossroads he spotted Louis heading into the grounds of the castle.
"Louis! No!" yelled David.
Louis stood stock still, with the red brush in his mouth. But before he could dash through the gate David spotted a tall man in a suit reach down and grab his dog.
"Hey," David yelled and ran across the road. "He's mine. Leave him alone."
"You have a talented dog there," the man said. "I take it he's responsible for this graffiti art?"
David wasn't sure whether he should own up to the fact that Louis had done it or not. He didn't want Louis to be taken away and locked up.
"He might have," David said hesitantly. "What of it?"
"He's just what I've been looking for. He could make your town very popular indeed."
"Really?" asked David, his eyes widening with excitement.
"Oh yes. Tourist love this kind of thing, especially American tourists. And with our artist being a dog, I think we could revive the fortunes of this town."
David was so proud he was sure he had just grown a foot in height.
"You hear that Louis. We can put Drabness back on the map and mum and dad will never have to close their hotel. You'll never have to do another commission again."
Louis dropped his paint brush and leapt into David's arms and gave David a big, red-tongued lick to his face.

Soaring

All I saw was white; a veil mist across my eyes, obscuring my vision. I was awake, I was sure of it, but I felt nothing-not the weight of my body, not the air all around me. I was weight-less. I was Lost. Was I dreaming? Was I floating? Was I dead?
Although I had no frame of reference I was moving. Up and down. Side to side. Bobbing like a ship. Or at least that's what my consciousness was telling me.
As the mist dissolved it revealed shapes behind it. They were hazy at first, diluted by the white, then gradually becoming sharper and clearer and crisper in colour. Houses, roads, trees, bushes and a river like a silver ribbon, all below me, all glinting in the pocket of sunlight. I was soaring in the clouds, like a bird, like an angel. Was I an angel?
I looked down at the ant-sized people scurrying about their daily lives and felt not a jot of regret. The freedom of flight was exhilarating. Although I didn't know why I was there or how long it would last I enjoyed the moment for not a care, nor worry nor bad thought entered my head. I was peaceful.
I flew over the town I knew so well, over the tall spire of St Mary's Church, over the patchwork tennis courts, over the candy coloured botanic gardens, gliding with the north wind. Ahead of me I saw flashing blue lights at Gorton crossroads. Police cars and ambulances parked at all angles. Queues of traffic built up. Crowds of people gathered: watching, whispering. Luminous-jacketed paramedics carried stretchers and medical packs. Police chatted to bemused drivers. Across the junction were two cars, one with its bonnet concertinaed, the other with its boot crushed. On the pavement lay a twisted pink bike, with a yellow basket on the front and a red flag on the back. It was mine.
Blank and emotionless I struggled to recall what had happened but either way it didn't matter; it was over and that was that. As I looked to the heavens, smiling with my eyes I waited to drift upwards. But instead of soaring on to the next plane I was pulled downwards, like an out of control kite, toward the earth and into a void of velvet darkness from which I was ejected with a gasp. Around me now I could clearly hear the sound of sirens, beeping noises and worried voices. Once again I opened my eyes and made out the blurry outlines of people leaning over me. I felt them prodding below. I felt their cold hands and their warm breath.
"She's back. She's back," a frantic voice called out. "You're alright sweetheart. You're in good hands."
I was alive.

The magic eraser

It was the best ten pounds Campbell had ever spent. All he had to do was wait for it to arrival in the mail. Then on one perfectly sunny day when everything was going perfectly-his toast nicely browned not burnt, his orange juice devoid of floaty bits, his mother not nagging at him-there was a knock at the door.
"Mail," Campbell beamed and leapt off his chair in the kitchen and skidded down the polished floor of the hallway to the front door.
There, waiting for him, in the hands of Martin the Postman, was Campbell's long awaited purchase.
Before Martin had even handed the rest of the mail to Campbell's mother, Campbell had torn open his package. He dropped the jiffy bag on the floor of the hallway and dashed upstairs to his bedroom. Nobody was going to get a look at it before he had.
Campbell read the front of the box.
"Magic Eraser. Mystify your teachers. Just wipe over blackboards and watch," he said and sniggered to himself. "I'm going to have such fun today."
All through the bus journey to school Campbell sat with a smug grin on his face. His friends were desperate to know what new trick Campbell had planned, but Campbell kept his mouth shut.
"Come on tell us," they pleaded. "We promise we won't tell."
Campbell never said a word. He simply smiled.
When the bus pulled up outside the school Campbell was the first to leave. He ran through the gate, across the school yard and into the school itself before any of his friends even knew where he'd gone.
He snuck into his class, taking care to check that no stray teachers were wandering the corridors, and clicked the door shut behind him. He dug into his bag, pulled out his Magic Eraser and swept it across Miss Carter's blackboard. He just finished when Miss Carter stepped into the room.
"Campbell, what are you doing in here?" she asked.
"Just cleaning the blackboard, Miss Carter," Campbell replied. It was the truth, of sorts.
He grabbed his bag and went over to his desk just as his classmates trundled into the class.
Proudly he sat exchanging knowing looks with his friends who he could see were burning to know what Campbell was up to.
"Right class," said Miss Carter. "We're going to start with fractions today."
Everyone groaned, except Campbell. And when Miss Carter started writing on the blackboard, his friends realised why.
Everything that Miss Carter wrote on the blackboard disappeared as quickly as it was written.
The class started to snicker behind their hands as Miss Carter stared bewilderedly at her chalk. She tried to write on the board again but as before the numbers disappeared before she had finished.
Again and again she tried scribbling faster and faster but nothing remained on the board. It was as black as the moment Campbell wiped his magic eraser over it.
Campbell sat back with his arms crossed and looked across the classroom. His teacher was flustered to the point that strands of her hair hung, bedraggled, around her face. His classmates were doubled over with laughter-some laying on the floor clutching at their stomachs, red-faced, others bent over their desks and chairs, clapping, cheering and pointing at the teacher.
"I wonder what I can do tomorrow," Campbell thought.

The ugly truth

"Why are spiders so ugly, Granpa?" Daisy asked as she peered at one nestled in the middle of its orb web.
"Ugly?" he asked as he broached her side. "I think that's a matter of opinion."
"But they are though," she said pointing at the web that wafted gently in the breeze. "They have a cluster of eyes right at the front of their head, really fat, bulbous bodies and eight, hairy spindly crab-like legs. I mean if I looked like that nobody would ever sit next to me in class."
Daisy tried to impersonate what a human spider would look like by puffing out her cheeks, bending over and arching her arms.
"Ah, but can you imagine how powerful you would be. If you had eight legs think of how fast you could run. You'd win all the races at school sports day."
"I suppose," said Daisy.
"And the cluster of eyes help it spot and hunt down prey."
"Kind of like x-ray vision?"
"More like binocular vision," said Granpa.
"Wow. I'd be able to see into Tilly Parker's bedroom and see if she really did steal my Lucky Lucy doll," Daisy spat. Her eyes narrowed and her teeth ground together as images of the pigtailed mannequin playing with her doll flashed across her mind's eye.
"I'm sure she didn't steal it, Daisy. You probably lost it. You've got so many things in your room I'm surprised you know where anything is."
"I suppose spiders don't have that problem," she said as she frowned at her granpa. She knew that was exactly what he was going to say.
"They don't," he said. "You look at that web. Completely uncluttered. All he's waiting for is to catch a fly and eat it. Simple as that."
"I hate flies," Daisy said curling her lip. "I hate them more than spiders. They're ugly too."
"Well, if it wasn't for spiders we would be inundated with flies. They'd be swarming round us. Laying their eggs on everything. Plants, animals, your hair."
Daisy leapt up and began feverishly scratching her head. "Eeuw, Granpa, that's gross. It makes me all itchy."
Daisy's granpa laughed. "So do you really think spiders are ugly?"
Daisy pondered the question as a rogue fly suddenly got entangled in the spider's web. In an instant the spider lunged for the stricken insect, stunning it with its venom and wrapping it in a blanket of spun silk.
"No. Not really," she said. "They look just the way they're supposed to."

Lost and found

Rover had no idea what he was looking for. All he knew was that something wasn't quite right in his home. A scent in the house that he couldn't link to anything or anyone suggested something was missing. And when he watched his guardian write a tearful note and place it the room upstairs that was rarely opened he decided he had to do something-he took the note and went on a hunt for the owner of the smell. He knew his journey would be long and possibly fruitless but if he didn't at least try he was sure the mood in his home was always going to be somber. After taking one last look at the detached house he called home he trotted off into the dark on his uncharted journey.
For weeks the brindle Bloodhound trailed across the countryside, sniffing the ground for the salty scent etched in his memory. His travels took him down farm tracks and bridle paths, through fields of wheat and corn, into the paths of cows and sheep, through dense woodland, round ponds and reservoirs, across roads and motorways, narrowly avoiding cars, trucks and buses, and through the hustle and bustle of towns and cities. He walked through the day and through the night stopping only when he needed rest and to eat, although finding food was a challenge Rover hadn't thought through. Scraps in the wild were scarce and many a day passed, as he roamed the countryside, when Rover ate nothing but twigs and parched grass. He faired better in towns and cities as humans were so wasteful he dined like a king on what they dumped in bins and on the roadside, but he quickly realised the abundance of food came at a cost to the success of his quest. On more than one occasion he had to evade capture from humans wearing dark outfits and carrying leather leashes, and from kids desperate to snatch his sealed envelope by using the only defense he could: a deep, venomous growl. He didn't like it. He wasn't a vicious dog, but the note was part of his quest and he wasn't about to be parted with it.
Yet in those weeks he found nothing. Not even a scent that closely resembled the one he sought. Every day Rover thought about giving up but everyday he convinced himself to continue the search until nightfall. Rover's persistence paid off as one morning, after he crossed a rickety bridge that led to the back of an old farmhouse, he found it. It took him by such surprise he had to a double sniff just to be sure he was right. The scent caused a rush of blood to surge through his body, making his paws tingle, his heart flutter and his fur bristle. With his determination renewed, Rover powered on, following the scent until it led him to a quiet canal and then to the body of a young boy curled up amongst the trees. It was clutching a tattered and dirty blue knitted teddy bear and was dressed in threadbare rags that exposed his reedy arms and legs.
Rover nudged the boy's head with his nose. The boy stirred and wiped his eyes and when he spotted Rover leaning over him he scuttled backwards on his hands and knees through the undergrowth. Rover followed, not realising the boy's reaction was from blind terror. When finally the boy stopped beside the roots of a birch tree, clutching his knees tightly against his chest and trembling, Rover gingerly approached and dropped the envelope at the boy's feet. When the boy didn't pick it up, Rover nudged it closer to him and whimpered.
The boy reached out, picked up the envelope and studied it as though it was the first time he had ever seen one. Rover barked.
"Ruff!" the boy said in return. "You ruff."
Rover panted with excitement. He had fulfilled his quest. He found the missing something from his home, the cause of the disharmony. Now all he had to do was return the little human to the unopened room. But despite his efforts the boy refused to follow him. He sat beneath the trees and tore at the envelope until its contents fell out: a letter and a photograph.
Rover barked but the boy ignored him, choosing instead to pick up the glossy picture which he studied closely. Rover rounded on him and peered over the boy's shoulder. The photo was of a very small human wearing bulky white pants and clutching a blue teddy bear against its chest. Rover had a sense of what the photograph meant but it didn't click into place in his mind until he watched the boy glance down at his own bear and back at the photo. Rover realised the boy in the picture was him but much, much younger. Rover's guardians must have had the boy before they picked Rover up from the dog pound.
Again Rover tried to coax the boy out of the trees by walking toward the canal but the boy grunted and thrust the letter at him.
"No...read!" the boy said.
Rover didn't know what the boy wanted him to do, but sensing the boy's intrigue with the letter he did the first thing that came to his mind. He snatched it from the boy's hand and trotted out of the woods with it. The boy cried and ran, barefoot after him, with his blue bear in one hand and the photo in the other.
"Back, back," the boy cried.
Rover carried on. He broke through the trees and joined the gravel pathway that ran alongside the canal. With a quick glance to his side he could see the boy running after him, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight with the photograph. As Rover neared a bridge the path curved away from the canal to join a busy road. Rover, realising his opportunity, bounded toward it but the boy didn't follow. He stood stock still on the pathway, trembling. His limbs were rigid and his eyes were so wide Rover could see the whites all round them.
Rover dropped the letter and barked at him once, twice, three times, desperately willing the boy to follow but the boy didn't move. Paralysed with frustration Rover looked about himself and when he noticed a woman walking on the other side of the road he began to bark and yelp until his throat felt hoarse. The racket he caused caught her attention and when she crossed the road to approach him Rover picked up the letter and backed away, down the pathway toward the boy. The moment the woman reached the pathway she saw the boy and gasped.
"Oh my," she said, resting a hand on her heart. "Hey there," she said softly as she edged toward Rover and the boy. "Are you okay? Do you need some help?"
The boy stepped backwards. Rover, fearful that he was going to run away again, trotted toward the woman and gave her the letter. He then plucked the photo from the boy's hand and offered that to her as well.
Rover watched as she studied the photo, the boy and then scanned her eyes across the page. "Oh dear god," she said and reached into her bag. A moment later she was talking into her hand. "Police. Yeah, I need you send an officer down to the bridge on Canal Street immediately. I have a lad in front of me that I'm convinced is the one that was snatched seven years ago. Please hurry."
The woman gingerly dropped her handbag onto the path and crouched down in front of Rover and the boy.
"Read!" the boy said hesitantly.
"You want me to read it?" said the woman.
The boy nodded.
"Dear Mathew," the woman began. Rover sensed the sorrow in her quivering voice. "Happy ninth birthday, my beautiful darling boy. As I promised, I now have nine candles for your 'life light'. I will light them all tonight and say a prayer for you. Your father and I love you more than words can ever express and we will never give up hope of being reunited with you. It is that and only that that keeps us going each and every day. Where ever you are now I hope that you have peace, I hope that you have comfort, I hope that you are free from pain. You are with us and in our hearts, always and forever. Sweet dreams. Love Mum and Dad."
The woman snuffled, swept a hand across her damp eyes and offered the letter to the boy.
"M...mm...mum," the boy muttered as he took the letter from her.
The woman nodded. Rover glanced up at her and then at the boy.
"D...dad?" he asked as he crept toward the woman.
Rover watched as she extended her arms out toward the boy and let him sink into her. The woman cried out just as a black and white car pulled up on the roadside. Rover leaned toward the boy and licked his face. Mathew looked back up at him and gave him a beaming smile.

Hot and cold

With the help of eight blocks of Bluebird vanilla ice-cream, a chest freezer, a scalpel and a sub zero snowsuit I constructed what no-one had ever done: an edible scale replica of Buckingham Palace complete with columns, a courtyard and miniature corgis. I was so proud of myself I felt like I was fifty feet tall. All the while I was huddled in that freezer, painstakingly carving and chipping away, I thought of nothing but the awe-struck faces of my classmates at the next 'Show and Tell'. It was to be my crowning moment of glory.
"Mum," I yelled from my cereal bowl, on the morning of the most memorable day. "I need a lift to school."
"No can do today I'm afraid," mum said as she ferreted round the kitchen grabbing keys, fruits, half a french stick and a lump of cheese. "I've got a pregnant woman ready to burst at any minute to take care of."
I thumped a fist on the table. "And I've got an ice-cream sculpture ready to melt at any minute," I retorted.
"My patient is alive, Libby!"
"My patient is meltable, mum!"
"My patient pays for your patient."
I had nothing. Trumped by an adult, yet again.
"You'll just have to put it in a cool bag and take the bus today," mum said.
Great. Perfect.
After she spun out of the door, giving her usual carefree goodbye wave, I trudged out of the kitchen, snatched the blue cool bag out from the cupboard under the stairs and lifted open the lid of the chest freezer. There, laying at the bottom, with a cardboard cover to protect it, was my perfect sculpture.
"She may not appreciate your value, but I do," I said as I carefully lifted it out and placed it inside the cool bag.
With a few bags of ice packed round the box to keep it cool long enough to get to the school freezer I scuttled outside and into a heat wave.
Luck was not on my side. "Not a problem. I have my ice. The school is only a ten minute ride away. I can make it."
The bus, for once, arrived on time. Perhaps luck was on my side. Then promptly hit a traffic jam a mile down the road.
"Great," I sighed.
"What's up?" asked toothy Sam, the only girl in the school with more metal in her mouth than round her wrists (cheap tin bangles that turned your arms green were the current craze of the month).
"Nothing," I replied.
"Whatcha got in the bag?" she asked, reaching for the zip.
I swatted her hand away.
"Nothing," I said again.
"Is it for Show and Tell?"
I glared at her. "I don't know about you needing a brace to straighten your teeth, you need one to straighten your nose as it's poking into my business at the moment," I snapped.
"Ooooh. I take it that means yes then," Sam said before standing up and announcing to the rest of the bus. "Libby has something secret for show and tell."
I leaned back and rested my head on the metal bar of the seat. "I am going to kill mum for ditching me for an inflated woman. Why couldn't someone else have popped her?" I mumbled.
"Wot is it?" Taylor roared as he bounded up the aisle toward me.
I encircled the cool bag with my arms, knowing if that clumsy oaf got anywhere near it there'd be no palace balcony left-just a massive hole where his finger had been. He was the prodding type.
He sat on the seat in front of me, shoving sneezy Steve toward the window, and leaned over the bar.
"So, how about a bit of 'Show and Tell' then?" he said eagerly.
"Later," I snapped, and peered down the bus, willing it to move on. No chance of that. We were pinned in like the middle slice in a loaf of bread.
"Not later. Now," said Taylor.
Before I realised what had happened he had unzipped the side of the cool bag and yanked out one of the packets of ice.
He held it aloft like it was a smelly sock. "Is that it?" he asked curling his lip up in disbelief.
I looked about at the sniggering faces on the bus, all peering back at me. I didn't want to say it but for the sake of my rising temperature that was threatening the foundations of my work, I did. "Yes. That's it."
Taylor snorted, tore the bag open and proceeded to throw cubes of across the bus."Hail stones!" he yelled.
"I don't think that's it," said Sam as she peered inside the bag.
I gave her a swift elbow in the ribs. "If you don't zip it," I hissed through gritted teeth. "I'm going to wire your jaw together."
Taylor resumed his interest in my bag and dropped the ice on the aisle. "So what is it then?" he said and pulled the lid of my cool bag open.
"Stop it," I yelled. "Get your clumsy, fat meat hooks off."
"Not until you tell us what's in the box, Lippy."
"What's in the box? What's in the box? What's in the box?" was the chant that echoed up and down the bus.
Knowing that I and my sculpture were unlikely to survive the trip in tact if I didn't surrender it, I decided to lift the box off. As I gingerly grabbed the side there was a surge of kids. Everyone climbed up off their seats and were jostling for any available pocket of space that gave them a view of me and my bag. It wasn't how I wanted to impress my classmates-sat on a hot bus in the middle of a jam with a snotty boy leaning over my creation, threatening to contaminate it.
As I revealed my object, ready to welcome the gasps of awe, all I got were deflated sighs.
"What is it?" said Sam.
I peered down at my palace. "Oh, what!" I bellowed. Although the ice packs had kept the sides of Buckingham chilled, the heat from the bus and my burgeoning anger had caused the inside walls to slide down into the courtyard and my miniature corgis to look like soggy splats.
"It looks like the crater of a volcano," someone said.
"Maybe its a milk lake," said another.
"It's flippin' Buckingham Palace," I roared.
"Doesn't look like it," Taylor sneered.
"That's because it's melting, idiot."
"Buckingham Palace doesn't melt."
"This one does because it's made of flippin' ice-cream."
I snapped. Lost all control. Five solid hours of work was melting faster than the polar ice caps.
"What if we all blow on it?" proffered Sam. "That's what I do when I want to cool my dinner down."
Before I was able to stop everyone a sudden jet of air-the equivalent to a hair dryer on full power-blasted my sculpture and splattered me with dollops of ice-cream.
Everyone burst into fits of hysterics. I was indignant.
I looked down at the remains. Instead of cooling it, the gust of air made it melt quicker. The slopping insides of Buck Pal developed a soup-like consistency and my plastic Royal Standard tipped over and was wedged inside the balcony.
I could feel the rising tide of anger swell from my feet up over my knees, gathering pace as it traversed my stomach and lungs and culminating in an eruption of monumental magnitude.
"GET ME TO SCHOOL!" I yelled.

As I sat in class with my cool bag on my desk in front of me leaking from every seam, I heard the sentence I was dreading.
"So, Libby, you're next for show and tell," Miss Dyson said.
Half the class snickered from behind their text books. They knew what was about to happen.
Sluggishly, I stepped up to the podium with my sloshing cool bag and plopped it down.
"Ooh, what have we here?" she asked, peering over my shoulder.
"It did look a bit different when I left the house this morning , Miss Dyson. I promise," I said, dejectedly and unzipped the bag.
Miss Dyson peered inside and frowned.
"It's Buckingham Palace," I said as I looked down at the miniature plastic Royal Standard, floating on top of a vanilla puddle. "Or at least it was."
"Well, all I can say is, I hope the Queen survived," she said.

Tales from Grimwold: Gilivan the Gryphon

Macadam Snore lived on top of a hill overlooking the village of Grimwold. Although his ramshackle home was always cold and leaked every time it rained he loved it because he lived nearer the stars than anyone else in the village. Every night Macadam leaned out of his window, with his chin resting in his hands, and peered up at the stars watching as, one by one, they flickered into life.
"If only I could just pluck one of those jewels ," he said wistfully one night as he reached out a hand toward the velvet blue sky, "I could give it to the village, and none of us would ever be poor again."
As soon as he uttered those words, like an answer to his heavenly prayer, a large winged creature flew past him.
"Wow!" Macadam gasped. "What was that?"
It was a creature Macadam had never seen before. It was the colour of gold with an eagle's head and wings and a lion's body and tail. Macadam craned his head out of the window to track the creature's flight. He watched as it swooped over the village of Grimwold and weaved through the streets, using the houses like they were part of a game of dodge, before it rose up into the sky and flew toward the hill-Macadam's hill.
Macadam fearlessly climbed out of his bedroom and sat on the sill of his window to watch it. As the creature neared it fluttered it wings forward and began to slow down. Macadam shuddered with apprehension as it landed on a mound of crisp, parched moss in front of him.
"What are you?" Macadam asked.
"You?" the creature asked tilting his head at Macadam, scrutinising him.
"I'm a boy. My name's Macadam.
The creature smoothed its wings down and stepped closer toward Macadam. Macadam held firm, unwilling to show alarm and watched as the gryphon's thick talons scored the dry earth.
"Gilivan," the creature said playfully and bounced round in a circle, proudly displaying itself. "I Gryphon."
"I've never heard of gryphons. Where do you come from?" Macadam asked.
Gilivan paused, appearing to ponder the question. "Home. Alce. White mountains," he said, raising a feathered wing to point to the north.
"So why are you here, so late at night?"
"Fly. Fly," said Gilivan as he opened his wings, pretending to soar.
Macadam's eyes lit up. "I want to fly too. I want to fly high into the night and take the stars," he said pointing to the sky.
Gilivan raised his head and looked up. "Twinkly," he said before looking back at Macadam, his bright black eyes glistening with excitement. "Fly. Yes?"
Macadam clapped his hands. "Yes, yes, lets," he said. He bounced down from his window onto a withered flower bed and skipped toward Gilivan.
Gilivan crouched and Macadam grasped a handful of the gryphon's curly blonde coat. With a heave Macadam pulled himself up and swung a leg over onto Gilivan's back.
Gilivan spread his majestic wings and began to beat the air. With every flap Macadam rose higher and higher into the night until his house below him was nothing but a square dot on the landscape. The air was cold but Macadam was so excited he couldn't feel it . All he could feel was the rush of the wind as it whistled past him, ruffling his shaggy brown hair. He clasped onto Gilivan's neck as the gryphon carried him over Grimwold.
"Wow. The village looks so small from up here," Macadam said. "Everywhere is so dry and brown. Nothing grows. It's no wonder we are always hungry, scraping the ground for scraps of seedlings."
"Barren. Yes," said Gilivan as he powered his wings and carried Macadam further north.
Macadam looked back as his village grew ever smaller until soon he couldn't make out the little houses at all. All he could see was parched, undulating hills.
"Look, green," said Gilivan.
Macadam squinted over Gilivan's head. Beyond lay a sight that caught Macadam's breath. For a second he could neither breathe nor speak. Lush green trees and grass peppered with pools of crystal clear blue water coated the ground like a magical carpet.
"Wow! It's so close to Grimwold," Macadam blurted.
"Never seen?" asked Gilivan.
"Nobody has ventured beyond the village. Nobody has the energy or food stores to make such an expedition. But if they knew. If the villagers knew this place existed, we could all move. We could grow food and sell it and buy cows and horses and till the land and make more money. Oh, Gilivan do you know what this means?"
"Mean, what?"
"It means I don't need the sky jewels," Macadam cried as he glanced up at the twinkling stars. "I don't need to steal from the night god. He can keep his treasure and I can admire it still, each and every night."
Macadam patted Gilivan's neck and gave him a hug. "Take me home, Gilivan. Take me home."
With that Gilivan did as instructed and swooped round in a large circle.
" I have a grand message to give my father, " Macadam said.