Holly, on ice

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

The Gingerbread Village

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

Help!

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

Hugh Dunnit and the giant cupcake

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

Mr Cropley's jars

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

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

Dominic Chiller: Ghost Warrior

They were on the phone again. Dominic Chiller could tell by the tone of his mother's voice. It had a frank, formidable quality, when she was given a new assignment, that belied her gentle nature. But rather than ignore the phone call like he was always told to, Dominic hid at the top of the stairs and eavesdropped over it.
"How many this time?" his mother said. "Ah huh, and what about weaponry? Is it packing anything?...No...And where?...the graveyard?...that's original...Yeah I'm familiar with him. Died in a house fire right?...any casualties so far? No. That's a relief. Okay, give me until Thursday. I'll take care of it."
His mother clicked the phone onto receiver. Dominic trotted down the stairs and casually followed her into the kitchen.
"Was that the Council again?" he asked.
"Oh that, yeah, it was," she said as she flicked the gas stove on and rested a saucepan full of water on top of the flaming ring. "But its nothing that need concern you."
Dominic pulled a chair out from underneath the table and plonked himself down onto it. "You always say that," he huffed as he picked at a splinter of wood sticking up from the surface of the table. "When can I come on a hunt with you?"
"Dominic, we've been over this. Firstly you're too young to be a WAG, and secondly it's far too dangerous."
His mother was a WAG, or Warrior Against Ghosts, one of many recruited across the Britain to rid the land of the scourge of spirits. Ever since the Other Realm became overcrowded the souls of the recently deceased, with nowhere to go, took residence amongst the living.
Over the years their grip on the land was forged on the basis of terror. Fear would drive the living away leaving it free for them. It took the death of a young child called William Blake, at the hands of a poltergeist, to make the British Government take notice. The Ghost Council was then formed with the sole objective of eradicating all unearthly demons.
Dominic knew the history well. He made a point of learning all about it. He wanted nothing more than to fight them to the death.
"So who is it this time? The menace, I mean?" Dominic asked.
His mother raised her eyebrows at him.
"I only want to know. That's all," Dominic said.
"His name is, or I should say was, Eli Dawson," said his mother, reluctantly.
Dominic instantly knew who she was talking about.
"He lived in Carvers Woods," she continued as she poured dried pasta into the bubbling water.
And he was a belligerent character. Eli hated people, especially if they trespassed on his land. It wasn't unusual to hear stories at school of kids being shot at by Eli and his air gun. When news spread that he'd died in a fire after he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, nobody mourned him.
"And he's at the graveyard?"
"Yes. And soon he'll have Total Awareness."
Dominic knew that was the stage that all WAGs feared. It was the stage when a new spirit realised it possessed powers and capabilities beyond that which it had when it was alive. For Eli Dominic knew this was especially bad. Eli had been house-bound since he was a child, after a car accident left him a paraplegic. Over the years of his incarceration he had become bitter, angry and hostile to anyone he came into contact with, to the point where nurses and health workers refused to go near him. But as a spirit, the ills that had beset him would disappear. He would have full use of his limbs and thus would be able to venture into the neighbouring village of Carstairs.
"So are you going out tonight then?" Dominic asked.
"No, the forecast isn't good tonight. They're predicting an electric storm."
"What a load of hokum," muttered Dominic. He didn't believe the idea that electricity fuelled spirit activity. From all that he had read, opinion across the Ghost Council was divided on the subject. Some believed it was the person's own energy that fuelled their spirit self, not electrically charged air around it.
"What did you say?" asked his mother.
"Nothing, mum," he said as he left the table.
"Don't go anywhere. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."
As Dominic climbed the stairs he thought about how much he would like to capture Eli Dawson, to get him back for all the times he'd tormented people he knew. The more he thought about the more he found he was grinding his teeth in anger and frustration. He had the knowledge to take Eli on. He was sure of that. He'd devoted most of his free time to reading about the work of the WAGs and the spirit world.
Before he knew it, Dominic was packing his rucksack with vials of holy water, his Electro Magnetic Pulse scanner, his infra-red goggles and his silver Spirit Leash. He was set and ready and whilst his mother busily prepared his dinner, Dominic climbed out of his bedroom window and shinnied down the drain pipe.
Outside the air was damp. Dominic could smell it. The humidity of the day had charged it. Above him thick charcoal grey clouds swirled, threatening to deposit a hefty deluge at any moment. Dominic knew that he'd have to strike a swift blow to Eli if he was to defeat the spirit before the weather got the better of him.
As he turned the corner of Bleachers which led to the old Church, he could hear Eli. His deep growl of a voice was clearly audible through the whistle of the wind.
Dominic swallowed the lump of apprehension that had risen in his throat and stepped onto the sacred ground of the graveyard. He readied his EMP and swiped the air in front of him with it, searching for Eli. Knowing that the physical make up of spirits differed from one to another heightened his sense of foreboding. If all spirits were visible to humans he'd have been happier, but the reality was that some were invisible to everything but an EMP scanner. But as luck would have it Eli was the kind that manifested as a white, wispy cloud.
As soon as Dominic spotted it he crouched behind a half sunken gravestone and watched. Eli was hovering over a freshly filled burial plot. The mound of earth was still moist. But there was not one bouquet of flowers or wreath to note the interred was missed or indeed remembered.
"That's gotta be Eli's resting place," Dominic muttered to himself.
Eli was as tetchy in death as he was in life. He was punching the mound of earth with his wispy clenched fists, getting more and more frustrated as some blows dislodged soft clumps whilst others didn't. He was on the cusp of Total Awareness, and Dominic knew it.
Dominic felt his heart rate quicken. He had to strike now and quickly before Eli's spirit became too powerful. He delved into his rucksack and unsheathed his Spirit Leash. With a deep breath and a prayer for strength he crept out from behind the gravestone and skulked towards Eli, taking cover behind other gravestones as he went. Eli it seemed was too preoccupied with trying to punch the ground and everything round him to notice Dominic creeping up on him. That suited Dominic. The element of surprise was usually in favour of the spirit, especially if they were the invisible variety.
He uncoiled his leash, ready to whip it out, but as he neared Eli he stepped on a twig. The snap echoed through the silence of the graveyard. Dominic looked up and saw a face like melted wax and two burning red eyes staring back at him. Eli had spotted him. With his ghostly arms outstretched Eli charged for Dominic. Dominic managed only just to leap out of Eli's path, landing heavily on his shoulder against a flat gravestone.
Dominic cried out in pain as he felt the bone crack. With his other arm he pushed himself up to a sitting position just as Eli swept over head, delivering a heavy punch to the side of Dominic's face. Terrified Dominic scrambled to the nearest table grave and hid beneath it and realised in his panic he'd left his leash at the flat gravestone; his only weapon. Defenceless Dominic hoped that Eli couldn't see him but Eli had reached Total Awareness.
A second later the stone Dominic was hiding beneath was lifted and tossed across the graveyard like a frisbee. It smashed against the side of the old church.
"Who are you?" Eli roared.
"Dominic," Dominic replied.
"Why do you come?"
"To...to capture you."
Eli grinned as he hovered above Dominic, showing a mouthful of crabbed ghostly teeth.
"If I had my gun I'd shoot you down, right where you stand," said Eli.
Realising he still had his rucksack, Dominic reached a hand round his back and felt for the vial whilst he kept Eli talking.
"But you don't have your gun," Dominic replied as his fingers clasped around the glass bottle.
"No. But I can still knock you into next week," spat Eli. Just as Eli swept his hand round to punch Dominic, Dominic yanked his hand from his rucksack and threw the contents of the bottle up at Eli's face.
The holy water hissed as it made contact with Eli's form. Eli cried out in pain, swiping his face with his ghostly hands, trying to rid himself of the stinging liquid. In the moment Eli was distracted Dominic scrambled across the damp grass and grasped the handle of his Spirit Leash. But Eli was behind him. A swift kick sent Dominic reeling forward. Dominic cried out in pain once more as pressure on his shoulder inflicted fresh damage to his injury.
Eli's cackle of wickedness echoed round the graveyard. As much as Dominic didn't want to admit defeat, he began to wish he had paid attention to his mother. Perhaps he was to young to become a Warrior. Perhaps he wasn't meant to.
"You kids are all alike," cackled Eli. "Worthless layabouts. No good to man nor beast. You should all be shot."
Eli's ill chosen words rang in Dominic's ears and enraged him. With a sudden thrust of energy, and ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, Dominic released the tail of his leash. It whipped through the air and before Eli could dart out of the way the silvery tail coiled itself round Eli's neck. Eli clawed at the Spirit Leash, trying to pull it from his throat.
Dominic, steadied his catch, holding it firm as Eli squirmed like a freshly caught fish against the leash.
"Whose got ya now?" Dominic cackled.
"Dominic!" screamed a voice from behind him.
Dominic turned to see his mother rushing toward him.
"What are you doing?"
"I caught him, mum. I did it."
"Give me that now," she said, grabbing the Spirit Leash from Dominic's hands. "Do you know how dangerous this is, do you?"

Dominic looked sheepishly at his mother. "Yeah, I suppose," he said as he massaged his shoulder. "But I did it though, mum. I can do it. I'm gonna be a Ghost Warrior. Just you see."

Blue Ten

It had been a week since Thomas's grandparents had passed away and already his dad was clearing out their home. Their furniture had been taken away to a charity auction house, their pictures removed from the walls, their clothes bundled up into cases, and the rest of the old tat that they couldn't help but hoard, like old newspapers, utility bills and instruction manuals to equipment they no longer owned, discarded into twenty black bin bags. A lifetime's collection wiped out in a matter of days. It just didn't seem right to Thomas. But then he'd always loved his grandparents more than his dad did.
Whilst his dad busily emptied the kitchen cabinets, Thomas climbed the stairs to the upper floor and stepped inside the master bedroom. It was completely empty now. Never again would he bounce on top of his grandparents bed of a summer's morning and beg to be taken down to the beach, or spend a cold winter's night huddled under the woollen covers listening to his grandfather's elaborate tales of ghost treasures. Those times were nothing but memories.
Thomas sat down on the threadbare carpet, on the spot where his grandparents's bed used to be and spotted something glinting on the floor by the wall. He reached over and grasped it. It was a tiny old metal music box. The silver had tarnished over time but Thomas discovered, as he wound the handle, that the mechanism still worked. It played 'Clair de lune'.
As the tinkle of the notes played Thomas felt a lump rise in his throat. The sorrow of never again seeing the two people he loved so dearly was too much to bear. A lone tear broke the bank of his eye and trickled down his cheek. As it dripped from his chin onto his hand it gave him a sudden chill and an strange, unprompted image of his grandparent's cat, Jewel ,flashed across his eyes. Jewel was adored by Thomas's grandparents. They paid for him to have a dietician, a personal groomer, a personal trainer and once they even paid to take him on holiday with them. They lavished attention on him just as they lavished it on Thomas. But when Jewel passed away a year ago from old age they were devastated. Unable to bear being apart from Jewel his grandparents had the cat buried in the garden, beneath his favourite rose bush.
"Jewel," Thomas whispered to himself. "I wonder why I thought of him."
No sooner had he said it the handle of the music box began to wind all by itself. Thomas was so taken aback he threw the box to the floor and scrambled back toward the bedroom door. As he sat there trembling from fright the handle stopped turning and the music died.
"What you doin' up there, Thomas?" shouted his dad.
"Nothing. Nothing, dad," Thomas gasped.
When he looked back at the music box on the floor his breath caught in his chest. There wedged beneath it, fluttering in a draft, was a piece of paper that wasn't there before. Thomas crept toward it and gingerly plucked the paper from beneath the box. It was a newspaper cutting, so old the paper had turned a murky yellow colour. The headline read 'Lady De Meirs to give away her fortune'. Thomas's eyes skipped across the text to the photograph. Faded as it was Thomas was able to make out a small woman with white hair that looked like a whipped dollop of cream. She was clutching a black kitten. Thomas squinted at the photograph, trying to make out the detail. He couldn't be sure but something inside him made him think the cat was Jewel. There was certainly a likeness, or as much of one as Thomas could make out given black cats in his opinion all looked the same. But there was something strange about the collar. Thomas had always admired Jewel's collar. It was a tatty leather strap, nothing more, and puckered in places, but Thomas always felt there was something rather magical about it, like the magic belts he'd read about in witch and werewolf legend-belts that magically transformed the wearer into animals when worn. The collar on the cat in the photograph looked almost exactly like Jewel's, distinctive because it was wider than most collars he'd seen on cats. But that didn't answer the question of why was this clipping in the bedroom and where did it come from.
Was someone trying to tell Thomas something? Was this communication from beyond the grave? Was it...his grandparents?
A gust of air suddenly whistled into the bedroom and enveloped Thomas in its warm embrace. He gasped. It was his grandparents. He could feel them, he could even smell them. They were all around him, as though they'd never left, as though they'd never died.
Fear and excitement intermingled within him making his heart beat faster and his breathing become shallow and rapid. He knew what he had to do. He had to get outside.
Whilst his dad heaved the black sacks into the back of his four-wheel drive, Thomas slipped into the back garden. He picked up a shovel resting against the fence and strode across the grass to the row of rose bushes at the back of the garden.
One by one he dug up the earth around each bush in search of the last remains of Jewel. When he drove the shovel into the soft ground beside the last bush he hit something solid. Frantically he clawed at the earth with his fingers, digging up huge lumps until he reached something white. Bones. Thin, but firm, they were definitely that of an animal, Thomas was sure of it. Fortunately he didn't have to desecrate Jewel's resting place as he soon found her smooth skull and beneath it the wide leather strap that was once her collar. He unclipped the fastening and deftly pulled it from the ground. Caked in mud he brushed the leather with his fingers, and felt tiny lumps beneath it, as though something hard was wrapped inside the fold. He grabbed the garden shears and carefully chopped the leather strap into little squares. One by one he peeled each leather square apart and to his utter astonishment found inside them ten gleaming, brilliant blue stones. He placed them in the palm of his hand and held them up to the light, admiring how the sun glinted off their facets. He'd never seen anything quite like it. He dived his free hand inside his jean pocket, pulled out the newspaper clipping and read the article. The last line read 'At the time of going to press the location of the fabled 'blue ten' , the world famous blue diamonds, remains a mystery.'

Tales from Grimwold: Leoflice, the last Nymph

Macadam Snore was desperate to celebrate alongside the fellow villagers of Grimwold. With the wizard's enchanted dust Macadam had defeated the great Grima Pinbeams, the ghost trees of the south, that threatened to bleed the lands around Grimwold dry. But Macadam knew he had to leave. In return for the salvation of his village Macadam pledged himself to the Wizard of Galdorgalere.
Whilst his mother danced around the spitting pyre of celebration and his father charged his tankard of Applewine with other Grimwoldians, Macadam packed his bearskin pack with berries, salted meat, clothing and his journal.
Upon leaving but a note explaining his duty to the Wizard, Macadam turned his back on all he knew and set out on the northward pass toward the white mountains. The morning trek was easy. He followed the even shale pathway that weaved round Lessings Lake and then through a patchwork carpet of blue thimbleflowers and red pinchweed whilst above him the blood-red north sun and golden south sun shone brightly against the cloudless aquamarine sky. It was a day so beautiful it lifted Macadam's spirit and encouraged him to sing.
"Long is the day
And short is the night,
I must journey from home,
Let me take flight.
Hear my prayers,
Deep my kin safe and warm,
Till I return home,
At the break of dawn."
Macadam had sung that song many a time with his father, but never before appreciated the meaning of the words until now. He knew he'd never return home and that thought began to weigh heavily on his heart.
Before he realised it Lessings Lake was far behind him and he was trekking through a dense forest of Cedarbeams. They towered above him, like silent giants, swaying in the gentle breeze, encasing him in their cool shade and whispering tales of travellers that they'd seen come and go. It was a treacherous walk. The pathway was uneven, strewn with rocks and gnarled roots, and moist from lack of sun. Macadam shivered not just from the chill of the air but from fear. Alone he was vulnerable and he knew all too well that dark places harboured demons and other such unutterable terrors that would prey on the defenceless. With his jerkin pulled tightly round his chest he deftly strode on and breathed a sigh of relief when finally he broke through the other side of the wood unscathed. Ahead of him was a shallow, freshwater stream that cut down the green mountainside and curved round a rocky outcrop at the base of the mountain. Macadam followed it, uncorking his flask ready to fill it for the journey ahead but as he skirted the outcrop he was greeted with a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks.
Sitting on a bare rock on the far side of the pool was a girl dressed in a white gown. She was staring as though deep in thought, into the shallow pool beside her. Though beautiful her sad demeanour was reflected in the dowdy, over-ripe corn colour of her hair and her grey, lifeless skin. She appeared not to notice Macadam approach, too absorbed in whatever vexed her.
Macadam ventured to speak to the maiden.
"Good day to you, fair lady," Macadam said, hesitantly. "My name is Macadam. May I ask your name?"
The girl gracefully lifted her head, showing no sign of surprise at finding she was no longer alone, and looked straight into Macadam's eyes. Macadam, at the sight of her unpolished sapphire blue eyes, suddenly felt as though he was floating on a carpet of air.
"I'm Leoflice," she said in voice so melancholic it sounded like the echo of angels.
"You sound sadder than I," said Macadam. "Why so?"
Leoflice stroked her golden tresses and stared down into the shallow rock pool beside her. "I'm now the last of my kind," she said. "Yesterday my sister passed on to the other realm, the second life, and I am alone, the last of the nymphs."
"You're a water elf?" Macadam asked, surprised to discover that something he had always thought was a myth was in fact real.
The girl nodded. "Though my pool is now but a puddle and I fear I too shall pass. Though, being lonely as I am, perhaps that is not such a bad end."
"How can you say such a thing? It would be a travesty for the land to loose something so beautiful as you. There must be something I can do to help."
"Alas, unless you can tell the suns to shield their heat and bring clouds of rain by the end of summer my home shall be no more."
Macadam scratched his chin and pondered the dilemma until suddenly, like a bolt of lightening, an idea struck him.
"You require fresh water, do you not?" asked Macadam.
Leoflice nodded.
"Then I have your answer. Beyond that wood likes a body of water known to the land dwellers as Lessings Lake. I hear it is inhabited by the Mer people but I'm sure they wouldn't mind sharing it with you. They're very accommodating. Then you'd no longer be lonely. What do you say to such a plan?"
Macadam watched with delight as her dimmed appearance suddenly radiated with brilliant light. Her tresses glimmered like gold and her skin warmed to the colour of elk's milk.
"That would please me greatly, Macadam," she said as she gently took Macadam's hand into hers and planted the softest of velvet kisses onto his skin.
Macadam felt a tingle that spread through his body, warming him, reassuring him, giving him a strength and vitality that he had never felt before. It was as though she had blessed him with good fortune.
With a smile and a spring in his step, Macadam led Leoflice back through the Cedarbeam wood, feeling not a hint of fear or foreboding and introduced her to the most magnificent of lakes.
Leoflice looked into Macadam's eyes and smiled broadly. "I am most grateful to you, Macadam," she said before looking out across Lessings Lake. "This is indeed a splendid place, and a fitting home for the last of the Nymphs."
Leoflice stepped into the shallow waters of the lake and then turned to Macadam. "You are on a long journey, I sense. You need not fear the unknown, for you shall have my protection."
And with that Leoflice disappeared into the crystal waters.

The curse of Gothsbow

Perched on top of a hill, overlooking a valley below, was the old laird's mansion house. Untouched and unloved for over a century it fell to the ravages of time and weather; it's roof caved in, its walls crumbled and its floor cleft open by stubborn birches growing through it. But this was the way of things on the sleepy island of Gothsbow. Nothing was allowed to survive. The island and everything on it was afflicted with an ancient Celtic curse; a death plague cast by the old island laird himself in a fit of bitter madness over the loss of his beloved Eleanor.
One by one its residents left, fled the parched and dry island for land that yielded crops and waters that offered fish, until all but one stubborn islander, Rufus Glint, remained. Rufus was the son of a farmer. He was a strong boy with an equally strong will. But he was all alone. His father, weakened with starvation, had passed the summer before, leaving Rufus to fend for himself. Rufus loved his island home and despite his struggle to survive on meagre rations of grain and a cow so thin she offered but a thimble of milk a day, he had no desire to leave. Rufus was determined to defeat the curse. He knew that if he could only find the laird's lost love and return her body to the old mansion, where once it belonged, the curse would lift and the land would once again thrive. It was a task that had been started by many before him but completed by none. The land held many secrets and it was for that reason that Eleanor disappeared.
Rufus knew of the legend. His father had told it to him many a time.
Eleanor was a greedy woman. She had heard tales of the mountains of Gothsbow harbouring riches beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Gothsbow was known to some as the 'pirate bank'. Because of it's prime location between two trading ports on the continents either side of it, Gothsbow was the perfect place to hoard booty of gold, silver and gleaming jewels. One day Eleanor set out to find the hidden treasures and was never seen or heard of again. The old laird was grief stricken. He sent all his land workers out to find her and they too were never heard of again. It seemed as though the land had just swallowed them up.
But Rufus was as wise as he was strong. He waited until the winter passed, the days were longer and he had stored sufficient supplies of berries, grain and nuts to see him through his journey across the highlands.
With his deerskin pack on his back he set out northward across the heath land toward the high mountain pass ahead. To conserve his energy he rested every couple of hours, a time he used to his advantage by reading his father's journal. His father, like him, was consumed with desire to see the island of Gothsbow restored and had devoted as much time to researching the legend of Eleanor and the pirate booty as he had to tilling the parched land. In the journal his father had narrowed his research down to two mountains that he thought Eleanor had ventured to; one with a sheer rock face and another just off the coast, surrounded by water.
Given the first was closer Rufus began the careful and delicate climb up to a cleft in the side; the only possible place that booty could be stashed. As the wind whipped around him he grasped at notched and footholds in the rock and heaved his body up, narrowly avoiding a fatal fall when one of the footholds crumbled beneath his weight. Breathless and tired he sat in the entrance to the cleft and caught his breath. Inside it was dark and musty smelling; the funk of thousands of years of ravage by the elements.
But at the end was nothing more than moss, bat droppings and broken stone.
Disappointed he climbed down and took stock of his quest. He needed to get across the inlet to the pinnacle rock just off the coast. With no boat to sail in, all he could do was wait for the tide to go out and give him safe passage.
By nightfall the tide was drawing further and further away. Guided only by the light of the silvery moon above him, Rufus ventured out toward the rock pinnacle. At the base of the pinnacle Rufus had to climb over shards of sharp rock. They slashed his clothes and scored his skin. Rufus couldn't imagine how Eleanor had faired against this giant, but it was clear to see why the pirates might have chosen it to store their plunder. Nobody in their right mind would venture to take it, unless they were so driven to. When Rufus reached the smooth white rock of the pinnacle he examined it, searching for an entrance inside. There was no way to climb up its completely smooth sides so no cleft could exist high up. It had to be at ground level. Rufus walked round it and when he reached the other side of the pinnacle he found not a entrance but the last remains of Eleanor. Her golden tresses long since given up to the sea, she lay in bones and cloth on the rock, a victim of her greedy desire. It seemed that the legend of 'pirate bank' was nothing more than a legend.
Carefully Rufus carried the remains of Eleanor back to the crumbling remains of the old laird's mansion and placed her in amongst the birches that grew within it. As Rufus stepped outside and looked back, as if by magic, the mansion instantly restored itself to its former glory. Its roof repaired, its doors fixed, its windows unbroken, the birches vanished and its brickwork solid and sound. Rufus smiled and clapped. Its over, its over. The land was rich once more. That summer Rufus spent night and day ploughing his moist fields, harvesting corn and vegetables and dining like a king.

Trumpet nose

Emily Bluster couldn't stop sneezing. She sneezed so many times a day, twelve thousand at the last count, that everyone called her 'trumpet nose'. She had no idea what was causing it but it made her life very difficult. When she brushed her teeth she sneezed foamy toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror, at breakfast she sneezed corn hoops and milk from her bowl across the kitchen table, she sneezed over the dog when she petted him, over her teachers when she handed her homework in, and over the sweet counter at Mrs Brown's grocery store. She sneezed so much that her brother, and mum and dad wore ponchos whenever Emily was near so they didn't get drenched in snot.
But one day Emily's sneezes suddenly stopped. Everyone that knew her was bamboozled, except Emily. As each day passed by without even a hint of a sneeze Emily grew more anxious. She could feel a growing tightness in her chest and nose. On the last day of term, when the entire school was sat in the auditorium for the annual prize giving, Emily felt a little tickle in her nose. It soon passed but when she was called to the stage to receive her prize for Best Artist of the Year, the tickle returned. She took the silver trophy from Mrs Taylor, the Headteacher, and just as she began to thank her she let out the most gigantic of sneezes. The gust of wind that blew from her nose was so strong it blew all the teachers of the stage. They clattered against drumkits and cymbols, into stage curtains and the orchestra pit. But Emily wasn't done. She let out another, even stronger, even louder sneeze across and all the rows of pupils sat below her toppled backwards, like stacked dominoes. Emily couldn't help but find it rather amusing as stunned pupils and teachers gradually took to their feet.
After that day Emily never sneezed again. And what's more nobody called her 'trumpet nose'.

Collecting the dead

The smog filled streets of old London were thick with merciless thieves, pick-pocketing from dawn to dusk, but their victims weren't just the living, the dead were plundered too.
"Where dare's a will, dare's a way, Willie," said Charlie Stubbs. He thumped his tankard on a table in the Dog and Duck pub and leaned forward and scratched his chin. "Dat's my motto. Dem richies are brimmin' wiv gold and little treasures. An I'm 'avin some."
"'But Charlie, what if we get caught?" whispered Willie.
"Caught?" said Charlie. "'Ow many people, d'you fink are wondrin' about in da middle of da night, in a cemetry?"
Willie shrugged his shoulders. Charlie clipped him round the ear with his flattened palm.
"Nun, stoopid."
Charlie took another swig of his beer. "Nah listen up. Dem tombs are tough. Old Bludger told me da doors are made of iron. So we'll need a crowbar.You got one?"
Willie thought for a moment. "I fink so. I'll 'ave to 'ave a look."
"Well, get to it," Charlie said before downing his beer. "I'll meet ya at da gate, da chapel gate."

As the tinny chime of Big Ben rang twelve times through the 'pea-soup' air Willie Edwards stomped up the cobbled street to the chapel gate entrance of Marsden Cemetary. Charlie was already there rubbing his arms to stave off the cold.
"Where you bin?" spat Charlie.
"Sorry, Charlie. Couldn't find a crowbar," said Willie.
"You ain't got one?"
"I 'ave now. 'ad to borrow one from Georgie."
"Da Blackie?"
Willie nodded.
Charlie stepped closer to Willie, his eyes narrowed and serious. "You didn't tell 'im 'bout wot ya wanted it for, did ya?"
Willie hurriedly shook his head. "No Charlie, cause not."
"Right den," said Charlie. "Dat's alright den."
Charlie marched past Willie and grabbed hold of the high fence that skirted the cemetary. He hauled himself up, got a foot hold between the fence post and leapt down on the other side, landing heavily amongst the roots of a thick trailing ivy. Willie followed.
"So who are we lookin' for den, Charlie?"
Charlie climbed over a felled tree and entered a high stone gothic arch, with smooth stone columns either side.
"Joseph Franks. He was a tradesman, in gold and silva. Sold stuff to da Indies and de Americas. Right ol' richie he was. Prime for da pickin'."
Charlie marched through the darkened archway and up a avenue of tombs enclosed overhead by the boughs of tall cedars. Willie tried to stay silent while Charlie checked the names above each tomb but his curiosity got the better of him.
"Wot's da picture on da doors mean, Charlie? Da upside down torch?" he asked.
"S'posed to mean deaf. The extinguishment of life. De end, in uva words," Charlie said as he stopped outside the last tomb in the avenue. He studied the carved names, carefully running his fingers over the stone. "Dis is the one," he snickered.
"It is just 'im in dare den?" asked Willie.
"Don't be stoopid. Dare's 'bout twelve folk in 'ere. Two 'undred and sixty guineas day cost, accordin' to old Bludger."
"Two 'undred," Willie gasped.
"Yeah, nah 'urry up an give me da crowbar."
Willie reached inside his tattered coat and pulled out a long black metal bar and handed it to Charlie.
Charlie wedged the bar between the door and the door frame and pushed his weight against it. He heaved and heaved and gradually the door inched open. When it cleared from the frame enough to get a grip of the door Charlie dropped the bar and clasped his hands round the door. "Give me a 'and, will ya?" he said as he placed a foot against the stone front of the tomb, for leverage, and pulled.
Willie grabbed it and pulled and the door creaked open. A puff of musty air escaped and made Willie cough.
"Dat's the stench of deaf for ya," said Charlie with a wry smile.
"It's 'orrible," said Willie, waving a hand in front of his face.
"Ah quit ya whingin' an' come on inside," Charlie said and squeezed through into the tomb.
Inside Willie saw the shelves either side upon which laid wooden coffins. Some were already showing signs of age; their brass fixings tarnished and the wood damp and mouldy.
"Which one is it, Charlie?"
"Dunno," Charlie replied.
"We'll just have to open 'em all and take whatever's in 'em."
"But, dare's bodies and stuff," said Willie, timorously. "Dey'll be all decomposed an' rotten an' 'oribble."
"Oh don't be such a jelly legs, 'an help me wiv dis one," Charlie said as he pulled out the end of the coffin on the lower shelf.
Willie grabbed the other end and helped Charlie rest the coffin on the stone floor.
"Now what?" asked Willie.
Charlie ignored him and used the crowbar to prise the lid off the coffin. "Almost dare, almost off," said Charlie as the last nail popped from the coffin. "We're 'bout ta become richies ourselves now."
As Willie helped Charlie lift the lid off the coffin the black suited man laid inside suddenly sat bolt upright and gasped, as though struggling for air.
Willie screamed and bolted out through the door, hotfooted by Charlie who called after him.
"Never again, Charlie. I ain't comin' 'ere ever again. He can keep 'is gold it's 'is," said Willie.
That was the last time Willie, and Charlie, ever went graverobbing.

Bonnie and Clyde

In the thick of the night, as the rain beat down from a charcoal grey sky, a rusty pickup truck pulled up alongside a grassy verge just outside the town of Babbleston. The driver's door opened and a dirty man with hobnailed boots stepped out, trudged round to the back of the truck and pulled down the tailgate.
"Come on out, the pair o' ya," he grunted.
Soaking and trembling Bonnie crept toward him from the back of the truck, her claws tapping on its corrugated floor. Behind her followed Clyde, his head resting on her smooth-coated rump, allowing her to guide him to the edge.
"Com' on. I 'aven't got all night," roared the man.
Bonnie jumped down and barked twice in quick succession, a signal to Clyde. Clyde was at the edge of the truck feeling his way before he leapt down.
A moment later the truck was gone and Bonnie and Clyde were alone on a dark country lane, standing paw deep in a swelling puddle of murky brown water.Clyde whimpered. Bonnie turned to him and licked one of his ears to reassure him she was there. She would always be there.
With nothing but the soft orange hue of the town lights to guide her, Bonnie followed the road, driving through the sheet rain, stopping every now and again to check Clyde was behind her. He was slow and unsteady on his paws, occasionally tripping over loose rocks and stumbling in potholes. But she would never leave him. She knew he wouldn't survive without her.As she trudged toward the town, keeping close to the verge, she could hear Clyde's belly gurgling over the patter of the rain and knew hunger had gripped him.
She too was hungry. It had been hours since she last ate and even then it was only scraps that her gruff owner had hurled at her; bones that had barely any meat on them. She sniffed the air deeply, hoping for a scent but all she could smell was her own damp fur and the fust of muddy rain. Inside her heart sank. What had she done wrong? Why wasn't she and Clyde wanted anymore? She didn't know. All she could do was put one paw in front of the other and take each minute as it came.
By the time she and Clyde reached the outskirts of the town the rain was lashing so hard she had to squint her eyes to keep the rain from stinging them. She guided Clyde onto a pavement to give his paws respite from walking through the rushing waters that turned the road into a river, and nudged him toward a hedgerow to give him a little shelter.
Clyde sat his rump down and whimpered. Bonnie knew what he wanted. She didn't like leaving him on his own but knew if that she wasn't there with him he wouldn't move an inch. She barked back at him and trotted down the street with her head low, sniffing the pavement for food. At times she struggled herself against the force of the wind as it whipped around her, blowing her to and fro, and she had to duck and dart out of the path of empty dustbins as they were hurled around like disgarded drinks cans. She turned the corner of the street into a dark alley and caught sight of a black bag on the roadside flapping in the breeze. Its strong mildewy scent carried though the air toward her, enveloping her with the promise of satisfaction. She cantered toward the bag and buried nose inside it, gorging on mouldy apple cores, crispy pork fat, mashed potatoes covered in ash and coffee grounds and withered carrot peelings. It was a veritable feast, like nothing she'd ever tasted before.
When she had her fill she dragged the bag along the street to where Clyde was still faithfully sat waiting for her. As soon as he sensed her approach his tail gently beat the pavement and he let out a whimpery bark.
Bonnie drew the bag up to Clyde's feet and yapped at him, telling him to eat. Clyde sniffed it languidly before turning away and curling himself up into a ball on the cold, wet pavement.
Bonnie nudged his head with her nose but he didn't move. She fished out of the bag a soft banana, some chunks of beef and a lump of mouldy bread and presented them to Clyde, dropping them in front of his nose. But Clyde wasn't interested. He closed his eyes. Bonnie knew he'd lost all hope. She stepped off the pavement and waded through the torrent of water that rushed down it, to a row of houses on the other side. One by one she walked up to the house's front door and barked and scratched at the wood, hoping to attract attention, but she was either ignored, shooed away or had objects pelted at her. It seemed the town wasn't interested in two lonely old dogs either.
Bonnie gave up. With her head low she schlepped back along the road to Clyde. But before she knew what was happening she was suddenly washed down the road by a torrent of water. The nearby river had burst its banks and was channelling itself through the streets of Babbleston, relentlessly sweeping up everything in its path, including Bonnie. She scrambled and beat with her legs, struggling to keep her head above the fast flowing rapids. Every time she took a breath her mouth filled with dirty water. As she was tossed about she could feel her energy ebb and with no knowledge of what had happened to her companion she lost the will to live. Just as she closed her eyes and let the river carry her way she felt a jolt to her neck. Her collar had caught on the railing. It held her afloat. As the waters began to subside she heard someone call out. Slowly she opened her tired eyes and saw a lady on the other side of the road wading through the water toward her. Before she knew it she was lifted up and carried to the dry land. But when the woman laid Bonnie on the ground Bonnie leapt onto her paws and barked at the woman. Her reprieve from death had given her hope that Clyde was alive. She knew she had to get to him, she knew he needed her. She cantered off, following Clyde's weak scent, with the woman trailing behind he and she she rounded a corner, Clyde's scent getting ever stronger, she spotted him. He was where she had left him, curled up beside the now sodden black bag of rubbish, dozing happily.
Bonnie stopped at his side and licked his head. He lifted his chin and nuzzled against her, grateful that she was by his side once more. The woman, who had followed Bonnie all the way, saw her and Clyde both sodden and dejected.
"My goodness, you two are both wet through. You'd both best come with me and I'll get you warm and some good food in you," she said and slapped her thigh, urging Bonnie to follow her.
Bonnie barked twice at Clyde who hauled himself up and rested his chin on Bonnie's back. With Clyde safely in tow, Bonnie knew he'd be okay, and her as well.

The clash of the cloud makers

Incubus Bunkle was widely known throughout the Atmosphere as the best cloud sculptor ever known. His designs of earthly objects and animals were legendary amongst the Air dwellers. Everyday they eagerly waited, hovering miles high above earth and ocean, for Incubus's dazzling and daring designs to float past them.
Although Incubus was a modest Atmospherean, he was also a very proud one and staunchly defended his talent against any who saw fit to challenge him. But in the four hundred years that Incubus had been working for the World Cloud Corporation as their Chief Cloud Designer, none could equal his creative prowess.
One day, however, the WCC announced it was to celebrate its four billionth anniversary by launching an Inaugural Annual Cloud Design and Sculpture Competition. It was an announcement that filled Incubus was joy. He thrived on challenges and was supremely confident that his design would be a triumph. Word of the contest travelled far and wide and eventually reached the ears of the son of a hailmaker who lived in the chilly northern skies. His name was Tuba Scud. When Tuba wasn't at school learning about the earth below and the space above he was busily carving off bits of his father's cloud home and and creating sculptures of things he'd discovered in class. Tuba's home used to be mountainous, reaching far into the sky but was now little more than a the size of a hillock.
"We'll be floating on thin air if you carry on," Tuba's father said, despairingly.
"Don't worry dad, I'll win the competition and we'll be able to live where there are enormous cloud houses," beamed Tuba.
"Oh will we now. And where would that be then?"
"Above Scotland. It's always cloudy there. It's famous for it."
Tuba's father had no further comment. He just tutted at Tuba, the way he always did when his son had some hairbrained scheme.
Tuba's father might have thought his idea was giddy but Tuba took it seriously. In the weeks working up to the competition he worked tirelessly on designs. He created some simple sculptures of aeroplanes, ducks and erupting volcanoes before moving onto more elaborate creations such as the Golden Gate bridge, the pyramids of Giza and a marching pipe band, but it was when he was laid on his fluffy cloud bed one night looking up into the twinkling stars that he thought of the best idea ever. It was sure to guarantee victory.
On the day of the competition Tuba glided with his father to Cloud City where the WCC's headquarters were based. Sculptors from all across the Atmosphere turned up to compete, each busily warming up their fingers whilst officials passed enormous white puffs to each contestant. The air was charged with so much electric excitement Tuba thought it might cause a storm.
One competitor absence, however, had not gone unnoticed and Tuba couldn't help but over hear the rumblings about it amongst the crowd.
"Who's this Incubus dude they're calling for then?" Tuba asked one of the other competitors.
"You've never heard of Incubus Bunkle?" he said.
Tuba shook his head. "I come from the other side of the world. We don't hear much news from the round these parts."
"Incubus is the god of the cloud sculpting world. Anyone who's anyone knows of Incubus Bunkle."
No sooner had the man finished his sentence than the crowd erupted with thunderous clapping and rants of "Bunkle, Bunkle".
Tuba followed the gaze of the crowd to an old white wisp of a man that shuffled into the cloud arena.
"So that's Incubus Bunkle," said Tuba.
As the crowd quietened the first stage of the competition was announced.
"Ready your fingers for the Standard Formation round. I'd like the competitors to sculpt a cigar cloud. You have twenty seconds starting from..."
Tuba readied his hand.
"Now!"
Like lightening Tuba's hands frantically carved and scooped away at the fluffy mould, just managing to finish his sculpture before his time ran out. The officials hurried scored the line of cigar clouds before they drifted off. Unsurprisingly to the crowd but disappointingly to Tuba, Incubus was announced the winner of that round.
Incubus gave a perfunctory wave to the crowd and smiled smugly.
Tuba already started to dislike him. He seemed so full of himself, so smug, so confident that he was unbeatable.
So Tuba increased the pressure and sailed through the second round, beating Incubus by miles with his perfect F5 tornado. The officials said they gave Tuba extra compassionate points for creating the tornado over an area of the United States that was largely uninhabited and so caused the humans below minimal suffering.
Incubus was indignant and Tuba sensed it from the swirling smoke coming from Incubus's ears.
The final round was what everyone had been waiting for. The freeform round.
Tuba knew exactly what he was going to sculpt. The image was as clear in his mind as the deep blue sky. As the officials passed more lumps of shapeless cloud to each contestant Tuba could feel the glare of Incubus spearing him like a NASA rocket. He averted Incubus's stare and concentrated on his own sculpture.
After half an hour there was no keeping his design secret. Most of the audience had worked out what Tuba was recreating. He'd carved the sun complete with solar flares, finished Venus, Mercury, Earth and Mars and all the moons and was busily crafting Jupiter with is giant red spot when Incubus appeared at his side.
He studied Tuba's design.
"Very interesting, if a little crude," snipped Incubus.
Tuba ignored him.
"I mean what on earth would happen to the solar system if one of your planets went off course," said Incubus as he flicked Tuba's cloud Venus out of orbit.
"Hey, watch what you're doing?" said Tuba.
Incubus held up his hands."I never touched it," he said and strolled off.
Tuba looked over to see what Incubus was working on. From what Tuba could tell it looked like the Eiffel Tower. But then it might have been and very thin pyramid, he couldn't be sure. One thing he was sure of though was Incubus blowing air toward Tuba's solar system. It was already started to disperse Tuba's pluto creation and he frantically had to scoop up the clouds and reform them. He managed with only seconds to spare before the officials called time on the contest.
Tuba gasped with relief. He was so exhausted from painstakingly sculpting the terrain of all his planets and moons in minute detail that his fingers were numb and he failed even to notice the officials studying his design.
It wasn't until a booming voice called out that a winner had been decided upon that Tuba snapped out of his weary stupor. He looked over to Incubus who was already grooming himself for the big announcement. He clearly expected to be crowned the champion. Tuba had to admit that his sculpture was indeed great and for an elderly man he was an exceptional cloud maker. Tuba's heart sank as thoughts of defeat began to depress him.
"After much thought, consideration and deliberation I can proudly and sincerely announce that the crown of the Inaugural Annual Cloud Design and Sculpture Competition goes to...Tuba Scud."
It took a few seconds for the calling of Tuba's name to sink into Tuba's mind and when he realised he'd won he leapt for joy and danced around in circles. He spun so fast his spinning solar system went into overdrive and moons and planets began to collide and merge with each other. Tuba didn't care. He'd won.
Incubus was furious. In a whirlwind he spun over to the judges and demand a re-examination of the exhibits. But the judges were not to be budged. Incubus shot Tuba an icy glare and stormed out of the cloud stadium.
Tuba knew that wasn't the last he would see of Incubus. He'd won one battle, but the war was about to start.

Tales from Grimwold: the Ghost Trees

It had been less than a year since Macadam Snore told the villagers of Grimwold the wonderful news that a lush, green land to the North beckoned; a land that would give the starving villagers a fresh start and a promise of survival. In that time the villagers flourished. They were able to grow crops and feed their cattle, trade with neighbouring towns and villages, and even bring imported luxuries to the village like Applewine and salted meats. But on one fine Spring morning weary travellers, bedraggled and weak, stumbled into their newly relocated village. Macadam Snore was the first to greet them. He was carrying a bunch of kindling branches that he'd foraged from the nearby wood. There were three travellers in all; a man with a long beard and ashen face and a woman carrying a small child sleeping against her shoulder. They were dressed in dirty rags that hung from their bony frames. As they neared Macadam the woman collapsed, her weary legs buckling beneath her. The man she was with, though tired himself, was sure footed enough to catch her and the child before she hit the ground. Macadam dropped his bundle and rushed toward the couple.
"Help," he cried out, hoping to attract the attention of any Grimwold resident within earshot. "We need some help out here!"
Macadam pulled his bearskin waterbag from his shoulder and beckoned the woman to drink. "Here, take some of this, it'll refresh you."
The woman drank deeply and then urged Macadam to give some to her child. The little boy, as sleepy as he was, suckled a little water before nestling his head back against his mother's breast.
"Where have you come from?" asked Macadam.
"From Fledstow," said the man, his head held low. "Or what's left of it."
"Fledstow," said Macadam. "Why that's about eight hundred furlongs from here?"
The man nodded.
"And you walked all that way?"
Again the man nodded. "We had no choice. The village was plundered. It's now no more."
"Fledstow? Gone?" asked Macadam, unsure as to whether he'd misunderstood the man.
The man nodded once more. "The land was sucked dry."
Macadam shuddered against the bizarre revelation. Was the man delirious, Macadam thought.
"So what ya sayin's been sucked dry, then?" asked a gruff voice.
Macadam turned to see Mr Grubbin, Grimwold's pub landlord, staring over him and the couple. He had one hand on his portly belly and another scratching at his stubbly beard.
"Fledstow," said the weak man. "They came in the night and by morning the land was bone dry. Nothing would stop them. We were bled. Our crops failed, our cattle thirsted and died, our elders passed not long after. They were relentless."
"Who did this?" asked Macadam, conscious that the unknown travellers were gradually drawing an ever larger, curious crowd of Grimwold residents.
"They called them the Grima Pinbeams," the man said. "Ghost trees."
Macadam could hear everyone repeat the phrase, muttering it over and over. It was clear that they had never heard of such a thing before. But Macadam had. His grandfather, when he was alive, used to tell Macadam ghost stories Macadam went to bed. His mother never approved. Not only did she not like his grandfather filling Macadam's head with fanciful nonsense as she put it, but she didn't like the idea of Macadam being frightened. There was only one thing in the world that frightened Macadam: mice.
"There's no such thing as ghost trees," gruffed Mr Grubbin. "Much less ones that can bleed a land so dry it turfs out those that live upon it."
"I tell you its true," said the man, standing up so suddenly he wobbled from giddiness. "And I'm not the only one whose seen them."
"I've heard of them," said Macadam. "My grandfather told me of them. He told me a story that his father told him, travelled down from generation to generation. He told of giant poplars, so tall they almost touch the stars and so wide they could cover four furlongs of land beneath their boughs. The villagers then called them Inwiddas, the evil ones. They're like parasites apparently, rooting themselves in the earth, sucking the moisture and nutrients until the land is so parched nothing can survive. He said that was why the old Grimwold was so starved. That was why we scraped and scrabbled the ground for morsels on which to survive."
"Oh that's just nonsense," cried a villager.
"Yeah," chimed others.
"Nonsense or not. We should hear the man out," said Macadam's father as he pushed his way through the crowd.
"What say you, man," said Macadam. "This is true. Your village and those that lived in it were starved."
The man nodded. "Most truthfully, on the life of my wife and child."
"From whence did they come? The north, the south."
"South, I think."
Macadam's father pondered the answer and everyone waited with bated breath for him to speak. Given he was a much respected man who governed the village of Grimwold they were sure to do as he advised.
"I think he speaks the truth," he said finally. "The South, as I know it, is indeed in want of life. I know, from my recent trade dealings, that many have travelled to pastures knew in the North, in search of hope. As for their reasons, none would say. I thought it peculiar, I did, but questioned it no further. But your story, sir, rings very true to me."
"Then we are doomed," said a woman in the crowd. "If they come from the South they'll surely hit Grimwold."
"We must kill them," cried another.
"I say we flee," said Mr Grubbin. "I'll not live another day in want of food or water."
"Aye," cried many in agreement.
"Why flee? We've moved already. I say we stay and fight. How difficult must it be? They're merely trees. We can strike them down with axe and saw," said Mr Herrod the Woodsman.
"You know nothing of these devils," said the withered man. "They speak. They whisper amongst themselves, whisper on the wind. They plot and they kill."
"Kill," gasped Mr Grubbin's elderly mother who clutched at her son's beefy arm.
"Aye," said the man. "They crush bones with their branches, trample the old and slow under their heavy roots, and with a stroke of their boughs sweep men clean off their feet and four furlongs across the land. You cannot stop them."
"Father," Macadam said and tugged at his father's waistcoat. "I may know of a way to ward them off."
Suddenly everyone's attention was again focussed on Macadam.
He could literally feel the weight of their expectations holding him down.
"Grandfather spoke of the power of the Wizard of Galdorgalere. He surely could stop them."
"Pah!" said Mr Grubbin with a swish of his hand. "That Sorcerer is useless. His legend is more powerful than his magic. I say we pack up and move on."
With that Mr Grubbin and most of the other villagers hurried back to their huts and began to pack their belongings.
Macadam rose to his feet and looked up at his father. "We can't run, father, or we'll be running forever."
His father stroked Macadam's hair gently and smiled down at him. "I know, son, but sometimes you have to admit defeat and move on," he said before turning to the travellers. "You'd best come with us if you wish to live. We can provide food and shelter to see you through."

That evening Macadam called Gilivan the Gryphon. Three hoots into the night air. Within minutes Gilivan was there outside Macadam's window. His eagle wings beating majestically.
"I need your help Gilivan," whispered Macadam. "I need to see the Wizard of Galdorgalere."
"Wizard. Powerful. Yes," said Gilivan. "Climb aboard."
Macadam grabbed a handful of Gilivan's lion mane and heaved himself up onto Gilivan's body. In the blink of an eye Macadam was flying high through the cool night the air, the wind whistling past him. When they reached the Three White Mountains Macadam could see the Wizard's icy castle.
"Galdorgalere," said Gilivan.
Gilivan landed softly on a fluffy mound of snow at the foot of a grand ice staircase. Macadam climbed down off Gilivan's back and looked up in awe at the Wizard's castle. Tall spires and white battlements adorned the magnificent building built into the side of the tallest of the mountains.
As Macadam climbed the stairs, the door to the castle opened and a small, withered man appeared. He was bent over and clutching a gnarled stick in one hand to steady his gait.
"I've been expecting you Macadam Snore," he said in a crackly voice. "Your reputation proceeds you."
"Reputation?" asked Macadam.
"Oh yes. You are impetuous, inquisitive and dare I say it courageous."
"Are you the Wizard of Galdorgalere?" asked Macadam.
"I am," was the Wizard's reply.
"You don't really look like a Wizard," said Macadam, noting the man's very ordinary woven brown trousers and jacket.
"I would much rather behave like one than look like one, don't you think?"
"I suppose," said Macadam. "But you know a lot about me. You must know why I've come here."
The Wizard held out a flattened hand. "This is what you've come for, I take it," he said.
Macadam stared down at the twinkling mound of dust on the Wizard's palm. But as Macadam reached out to take it the Wizard snatched it away.
"I will give it to you on one condition," he said.
"Anything," said Macadam.
The Wizard regarded him curiously for a moment, as though he didn't quite believe him.
"I promise I'll do anything to save my village," Macadam pleaded.
"You may have my enchanted dust to ward off the Grima Pinbeams on the condition that you return to me as my apprentice."
"Apprentice?" said Macadam. "But I'd have to leave my father. I can't do that."
"Then I cannot help you," said the Wizard as he closed his fingers around his enchanted dust and retracted his hand.
Macadam anguished over the proposition as he stared at the Wizard's clenched fist. He held salvation in his hand. It was so close to Macadam he could almost taste its sweetness, almost hear the jubilant cries of the villagers at overcoming their foe.
"Okay , okay," Macadam cried. "I'll return. I'll return, just give me the dust."
The Wizard smirked at Macadam and held out his hand once more.
Macadam swept the dust into his jacket pocket and nodded to the Wizard.
"You have until the moon is full once more to return to me. Or your village will be no more," said the Wizard and he turned and shuffled back inside his ice castle.
Macadam climbed aboard Gilivan and before he knew it he was on his way home.
The journey back to Grimwold seem to Macadam to take an eternity. He despaired over his pact with the Wizard. Would he be able to get away with not returning? Would it be worth chancing given he had gone to so much trouble to save the village from the ghost trees? He didn't have time to ponder the answer to his questions as cries of terror rang through the air. Ahead Macadam could see the torch lights of Grimwold and soon he could make out the villagers, darting about the streets carrying their kin and their belongings. To the south of the village Macadam could see what they were fleeing from. Enormous ever green pine trees were trouping towards the village. Row after row took root. Some of the villagers, against the advice of the travellers, attempted to fight off the trees with axes and flames but that only enraged the Grima Pinbeams. With swift strokes they swept aside their assailants sending them crashing into Grimwold's huts or smashing into other Grima Pinbeams.
"Hurry, Gilivan," cried Macadam. "Before it's too late."
"Faster. Yes," said Gilivan and he beat his wings higher and deeper.
"Take me low down, Gilivan, and in a circle around the village," instructed Macadam.
Gilivan did as Macadam asked, and as he did Macadam reached into his pocket and sprinkled the Wizard's enchanted dust around the village.
The moment Macadam had completed his circumnavigation of the village, enclosing it within the ward of the Wizard's spell the Grima Pinbeams stopped in their tracks. Their squeal of pain was clearly audible not just to Macadam but to everyone on the ground as well. It was so shrill Macadam had to put his hands over his ears to protect them. Macadam watched as one by one the Grima Pinbeams backed away from Grimwold. Those that had already taken root uplifted their viney stems and trudged back south and away from Grimwold.
Macadam breathed a sigh of relief. He saved the little village of Grimwold. The village he knew he'd never see again.

Dream and Nightmare

Once again darkness fell over the sleepy village of Marsden on the Wick and Heidi Granger settled down to sleep in her large pink bed, beneath a fluffy pink duvet. A gentle, contended smile drew on her face as she curled an arm around her ragdoll, Lucy, and fluttered into a deep sleep. But in the silence of Heidi's bedroom a nightly battle raged.
With a silent slash Nightmare tore a hole into the real world and climbed into Heidi's bedroom, whilst Dream, with a pop and a puff appeared alongside her.
They both peered over Heidi's face.
"Whadda ya reckon?" said Dream. "Is she asleep?"
"It would appear so," said Nightmare as she smoothed her golden tresses from her face. "Rapid eye movement, fidgeting, sharp breaths."
Dream kept his eyes focussed on Nightmare hands. He knew she could strike at anytime, he'd seen her do it before. One touch of Nightmare's delicately, tapered fingers could send a child's mind into a whirlwind of night terrors.
"Don't even think about it," Dream said.
"And you can stay away too," Nightmare hissed. "I know your tricks. Get close enough. Make up some reason to speak so you can blow sweet, lovely, fluffy, sugar-coated dreams into an urchin's ears."
"So we 'ave a dilemma then. Who is goin' to prevail tonight? Is this young en goin' to have a sweet dream, from myself," said Dream as he hovered in a silvery cloud to the foot of Heidi's bed, "or is Nightmare gonna give her the kiss of doom."
"I do so love a battle, Dream," said Nightmare as she skulked like a cat around the wispy form of dream.
When she was behind him Dream saw his opportunity and sped through the air toward Heidi but Nightmare, as swift as a bullet, grabbed his shimmering coattails and pulled him back.
"Not so fast," she said, toying with Dream and he tried to claw his way closer to Heidi to blow his soothing images into her. "Why the rush? We have time."
"You're stallin' now. Let's get it over wiv. We got five hundred 'ova battles ta wage before da nights out."
Nightmare let go of Dream and he hovered above Heidi's bed with a stunned look on his face, clearly surprised that she had given him an advantage.
"It's all about the numbers with you," she said. "Every night that's all I hear, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah."
"It's not me dat sets de targets. If you've got a beef you take it up wiv Sleep. 'Dreams and Nightmares are a definitive part ov 'uman existence' he says. Wivout it kids don't learn, dey don't evolve. We," said Dream pointing a silvery finger at himself and Nightmare, "are essential ta de evolution of their imagination."
"Do I really look like I care about that?" asked Nightmare, with her hands on her hips, wrapping her fingers against her long, flowing fiery-red skirt. "I want a challenge. I want a real fight not just a 'its your turn now' decision," she said as she swept up a photograph Heidi kept on her dresser. It was a picture of Heidi with her pony Rex.
"What are ya doin', Nightmare?" asked Dream. "You know da rules. No tamperin' with the real world."
"I'm not tampering, Dream, I'm researching...inspiration. I mean there's a wealth of Nightmares I could give this one. What about a rabid pony rampaging through the streets of this village, biting the villagers, or a perhaps it could give her a swift and surprising kick up the bum, or perhaps I should transport her into a world where horses ride kids. Yeah, I like that one."
"That's also against da rules. Da kids are supposed to make up their own visions."
"Rules are for those that lack imagination," spat Nightmare and she leapt over the foot of the bed and lunged for Heidi.
Dream spun through the air and delivered a swift spin kick at Nightmare that sent her reeling across the room where she smacked against the wardrobe and smashed the mirror.
Nightmare stood up and dusted herself off. "Now look what you've done. It's just as well the humans can't hear us."
Dream smirked but just as he was about to lean over and blow into Heidi's ear, one of Nightmare's arms wrapped itself around his head and he was jerked back.
"In actual fact it's my turn, if you're so keen on bureaucracy," she said and propelled herself off the wardrobe toward Heidi.
But instead of kissing the sleeping child she ended up kissing the floor.
"I thought you said no tampering with the real world," she said as she peeled herself up of the carpet and looked over to Dream who was holding Heidi and her bed above his head.
"If you can't beat 'em join 'em."
Dream lowered the bed gently. They were now in a stand off; hands on hips, eyes narrowed. Dream was on one side of the bed and Nightmare was on the other.
Who do you think got to Heidi first?

Sersi's cookies

Sersi was a reluctant witch. She wanted nothing to do with magic. She had no wand, no broomstick, no grimoire into which to write her spells or potion recipes, and even refused to acknowledge the family black cat, Helios.
It wasn't a dislike of magic that made her feel that way, she just didn't believe in it. However, Sersi had been born into a long lineage of white witches. Her mother, Selene, was the local coven's High Priestess, and her sister Hekate, was well on the way to following in her mother's footsteps. Escape was futile.
Sersi's attitude was the source of many arguments that created an ever widening rift between her and her practising mother and sister, but Sersi was as staunch in her belief as her mother was in hers. Neither side were willing to accept the other's point of view, or make concessions. But Sersi was far from happy. Her school life was as tumultuous as her home life. The pupils generally considered she was a bit weird. They weren't to blame for thinking that as Sersi knew herself it was all her own doing. She was the one who avoided everyone, she was the one that decided she didn't want or need friends, she was the one that showed no interest in sports or boys or shopping or music or any of the school clubs. All she was interested in was writing. She wrote night and day: in the school yard, in class, in her bedroom, on the bus, anywhere and everywhere. But as she got older the solitude became tiresome and she longed for friends. She tried on numerous occasions to strike up a conversation with some of the girls in her class but as she approached them she found she had nothing to say. Her aloofness just added weight to the nickname the pupils had given her: 'psycho'. Part of Sersi though blamed her mother, her family for the distance between her and the rest of the kids at school. She was sure they knew her family were witches, and although her kind were no longer burned at the stake for their activities she knew the mere mention of the word 'witch' sent shivers down the backs of ordinary folk.
The feeling of helplessness and hopelessness led Sersi to do something she never thought she'd do.
On the night before the school dance Sersi crept into her sister's bedroom, stole her grimoire, mixed up a popularity potion her sister had been experimenting with and poured it onto the batch of cookies she made.
The next night she got dressed up in her navy blue dress with the small red flowers on it-her favourite-and strolled down to the school hall with her batch of poisoned cookies . Fearing that nobody would eat them if they knew she had baked them, Sersi conveniently forgot to put her name on the box, she just left them on the table of other donated offerings and waited. As the night wore on and dances were danced and games were played Sersi approached the food table and noticed that all of her cookies had been eaten. It didn't take long for the effects of her potion to work, but not in the way Sersi expected. All she wanted was for someone to talk to her but instead she found she was suddenly surrounded by kids all vying for her attention. Some were commenting on how nice she looked tonight, how interesting they thought she was, how pretty her eyes were, and asking her all sorts of questions like which movies she'd seen recently or which boy she fancied in Maths class. It was all a bit overwhelming. Sersi felt like she couldn't breathe as she was hemmed in on all sides by intoxicated kids. But as she pushed her way through the crowd they followed her. Sersi, in a bid to escape, ran down the linoleum hallways with boys and girls of all ages chasing her like blood crazed zombies, and cursed herself for going against her principles and tinkering with sorcery. Although it did prove one thing, that magic does indeed work, that didn't excuse, in her eyes, the fact that she gave into weakness. She rounded a corner and tucked herself away between two vending machines and held her breath as the throng passed her by. As the last one disappeared into the school quadrangle Sersi breathed a sigh of relief. But she wasn't alone. A lone boy was sat directly opposite her on one of the benches. Sersi made to escape but he held out a hand as though to calm her.
"Your Sersi, aren't you?"
Sersi held her breath and said not a word.
"Have you eaten one of those chocolate chip cookies?" she asked.
"No. I'm allergic to chocolate, and most other food stuffs," he said awkwardly. "I've seen you round school before. I...wanted to speak to you but you always seemed like you were deep in thought and stuff."
Sersi gave him a weak smile, unsure what to say or do. "I suppose I probably was."
"I'm Mike," he said. "Mike Reynolds. I'm in your English class."
Sersi nodded unsure whether his attention was genuine or not, especially given nobody had ever approached her before.
"You look very pretty tonight," he said as he looked down at his feet. "I wanted to say it before but, well, you know."
Sersi sensed he was just as apprehensive as she was about making connections with people and although he did appear a little awkward she was comforted by it. He was the mirror image of her. In that moment she realised that she didn't need potions or spells to make people like her, all she needed was a little confidence and patience.
Feeling invigorated she stood tall, smoothed down her dress and her hair and calmly said to Mike, "Fancy a dance!"