The Biggleswich Wars

The Brownie and Boy Scout clubs of Biggleswich have been sworn enemies for ten years. Their sour relationship began at an Annual Biggleswich Town Fair when they competed against each other in a tug-of-war contest. The outcome sparked a bitter war. Before the event started there had been much heckling with the Brownies calling the Scouts blue-capped sissies that couldn't win against a bunch of fleas and the Scouts saying the Brownies were so stupid they'd probably push the rope instead of pull it. Fortunately for the Brownies strength and wit were on their side and they triumphed after a close fought match. But the Brownies lacked grace in victory. They stuck their tongues out and blew raspberries at the defeated Scouts who were so enraged they swiped the Brownies gleaming trophy from the table and snapped it into bits, with each Scout taking a piece for themselves.
The Brownies declared war. They pulled the toggles from their neckties, threw them on the ground and began to chant a new version of the Brownie Guide song.

We're Brownie Guides, we're Brownie Guides
We're here to kill the scouts
We hate their guts and think they smell
We wanna knock them out
We're Brownie friends, we're brownie friends
We're never gonna stop
We're joined together in our wish
To hear their brains go pop

Over the years the legacy of hatred was passed down with each Brownie being inducted into a secret pact to 'smash their skulls, serve their heads on a silvery platter and help myself to their juicy innards', whilst the Scouts pledged 'to swing them about by their ratty pigtails and gouge out their eyes with a spoon'.

The war was quite brutal. During an outdoor pursuit day the Scouts tipped the Brownies archery arrows with explosive powder which resulted in the Brownies blowing up targets, a couple of pine trees and the 'Out N About' centre's equipment shed. The Brownies knew full well who was responsible and so retaliated when the Scouts went on a white water rafting expedition. They hid in the bushes and trees along the banks of the River Wes and when the Scouts were sufficiently far enough away from shore, cruising along singing sea shanties, the Brownies fired darts through thin pipes at the inflatable rafts. Before the Scouts new what was going on they were chest deep in the freezing cold river surrounded by floating oars and curious river rats.

On another occasion the Scouts sabotaged the Brownies trip to an outdoor production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves by letting the air out of the tyres of the Brownie bus. The Brownies flew into a rage. They swiped a box of matches from a camping equipment box in their store cupboard and set fire to the Scouts' entry into the county 'Megastructures' competition: a five foot high, lolly stick replica of the Taj Mahal. It went up like Guy Fawkes on bonfire night.

But the long and drawn out war came to a head one wintery day when a particularly virulent case of flu had wiped out all but one of the nursery nurses. Two Scouts and two Brownies were drafted in to help take care of its twenty preschoolers.

The day started, as expected with snippy comments and sneering looks during morning story time.
"You're gonna get it today, Bethanne. You're number's up," spat one of the Scouts as he pushed over the blonde-haired brownie beside him with a firm shunt of his shoulder.
"Not if we get you first, Clive," Beth snapped back giving him an even harder shove coupled with an elbow in the ribs.
Clive winced and bent over, rubbing his side. He turned toward Bethanne and snarled back at her.
But when story time was over battle commenced.
It started with plasticine balls-some small, some fully moulded into aliens, animals and other unidentifiable objects-being fired indiscriminately across the room, splattering against the walls, or smacking bare limbs with a thump and a wail. Then moved on to the paints with paint pot lids being hurled into the air and streamers of red, yellow, blue and green paint streaking across the room, like a colourful ribbon display. They splattered the floor, chairs, toys, dolls and the poor nursery nurse who tore across the room.
"That's it," she cried. "I've had enough of these toddlers. They're out of control. No amount of money is worth me putting up with this."
The brownies and scouts looked at each other dumbfounded that they had been abandoned. All they could do was grappled for anything they could use as a shield-oversized picture books, tea trays, cushions-as rubber cups, saucers, kettles, pots and pans came flying in their direction. Anything small enough to be picked up and hurled by a four year old had to be deflected by the Brownies and the Scouts. Once the kids had cleared the contents of the playhouse they hauled boxes of lego out from a cupboard-not just the small bricks, which were painful enough if one hit you in the eye or the tooth, but the pirate ship, the ghost castle, the aliens and the robots. The brownies and scouts hurriedly built themselves a barricade with as much furniture they could get their hands on and hemmed themselves in to a corner of the room.
"These kids are vicious, Campbell. I've got cuts on my leg from being stabbed with a plastic sabre," complained the dark haired brownie.
"That's nothing, Melanie. That ginger haired little runt over there bounced a bowling ball on my toes. I think he's broken them," said Campbell.
"If we don't do something we not going to get out of here alive."
"I've got an idea," said Bethanne. "You keep them occupied whilst I nip into the kitchen."
A few minutes later she returned with four inflated balloons, three rattling toy guns and a length of piping that stretched into the kitchen.
"When I say 'now' throw the balloons up into the air over the toddlers, then shoot them," she said handing the balloons and the guns to the others.
"What the kids?" said Campbell with a frown of disbelief.
"No, not the kids the balloons."
"These balloons are heavy. What's in them?" asked Melanie.
"You'll find out," replied Bethanne with a wry smile.
"And what about you? What are you going to do?" said Melanie.
"I'll be in the kitchen," she said.
The three ducked behind their barricade, dodging flying shoes and picture books, as Bethanne scuttled out of sight.
"Now," Bethanne called.
At that moment the brownies and scouts hurled their balloons into the air and pulled the trigger of their guns. Dried peas fired from the barrels and exploded the balloons causing a rain of flour to fall all over the toddlers.
The kids instantly stopped their reign of terror over the brownies and scouts and looked at each other. The ginger haired kid began laughing and pointing at his friends.
"Look, you're all covered in white," he said.
"So are you!" cried another.
Pretty soon all the toddlers were in fits of giggles, and when Bethanne turned on the taps in the kitchen and began spraying the toddlers with water they laughed even more. They stamped their feet, mixing the floury paste on the floor into the streaks of paint and smeared their faces and each others faces with the white gloop.
When the toddlers were sufficiently distracted Bethanne turned off the water.
"It worked," said Clive. "They've stopped throwing things at us."
"Quick let's get out of here before they start up again," said Campbell, as he launched himself over the barricade and out the main door.
Breathless, bruised and bloodied, the brownies and scouts looked at each other and smiled. Not a flicker of malice or hatred against each other graced their faces. They simply smiled and reached out their hands to shake on a truce.

Rubber boy

Rob knew he was different from every other kid his age. He wasn't made of the same stuff. He was rubber, through and through. He had rubber skin, rubber bones, rubber blood, rubber organs and even a rubber brain. When he was born he was a medical marvel but the doctors said there was absolutely nothing they could do to cure his condition. He would be that way until the day he died, or was worn out.
Apart from having no hair and a slight velvety nap to his skin he looked the same as everyone else. In fact being made rubber had its advantages, which Rob discovered when he was very little and decided to jump off the roof of his parents house. If any normal kid had tried that they' have broken practically every bone in their body, but Rob just bounced off the ground and landed square on his feet.
All the kids he grew up with thought he was cool because he could do neat tricks they couldn't like tie his legs into a bow, stick his arm down plug holes, fire missiles off his tongue and kick a football from one end of the pitch to the other. But for all his talents, being rubber caused his mother significant problems. Apart from having to vacuum the house daily because of the rubber shavings he'd leave in his wake, when he brushed past walls he took off half the wallpaper print with him.
The townsfolk also adored him, especially as he kept the town clean of graffiti. Every Saturday he'd take a walk down to the underpass and use his head to rub the tiles clean. He never did it for money. He just liked feeling useful. So when his dad said the family were going to have to relocate because of his job he was more than a little sad.
"Think of it this way, son," he said, trying to appeal to Rob. "There will be fresh challenges for you to embrace in this new town. Think of all the ways you might be able to help them."
That didn't appear to be possible, as rather than embrace him and his 'uniqueness' as his mother called it. He was the town freak.
Everywhere he went people stared and gossiped about him.
"He looks fairly normal for someone that's not real," he heard someone say.
"I thought he'd look more, like, square or angular, you know," said another.
He was the talk of the town before school even started. If his chilly reception by the residents of Quimby Slate wasn't enough to make him pack his bags his first day at Quimby High should have been.
Rumour of his condition had spread like fire across the school to the degree where almost every kid was congregated in the playground waiting for him.
When his mother dropped him off, Rob was petrified. He was sweating rubber bullets. They dropped off his forehead and ricocheted around the car.
"Rob, sweetheart, be careful, you'll take my eye out. Don't worry you'll be fine," she said.
Rob took a deep breath, wiped his brow and when he slammed the car door shut he strode through the crowd. With his eyes focussed on the main door he tried to block out as much of the tittle-tattle that reached his ears as he could, but some of the more cutting comments stuck like glue.
"Hey, pencil head, bounce back to where you came from, freak," yelled one boy.
Another called out. "Can we borrow your head 'cos our football's gone missing?"
Rob scuttled inside, away from the hundreds of pairs of scrutinising eyes, and down the corridor towards the reception. It was lined from floor to ceiling, either side, with trophy cabinets displaying hundreds of glittering and gleaming sporting accolades. Rob couldn't help himself. He saw a smudge on the glass of one of the cabinets and instinctively he rubbed it off with a finger. He cursed himself. It was going to take more than a filthy cabinet for everyone to appreciate him.
His first day, as he expected, did not go well. Not only did the kids get their fill making fun of him the teachers couldn't help joining in too. Mr Cutter, the maths teacher, who thought he was the funniest teacher ever born, asked Rob if he would come and clean the blackboard. The class roared with laughter.

"It'll get better. You'll see," said his mother hopefully over dinner.
But it didn't. The kids in his classes nicknamed him 'Rubbie' and kept asking him if they could borrow his thumb or his ear or his nose, as they'd left their rubber at home, or they'd pick him up and bounce him down the corridor. There was even a suggestion that they should find out if he would bounce higher than a Whizzball. Rob knew what Whizzballs were. They were tiny and rubber and hard and could bounce higher than a three storey building. Rob wasn't terrified of being dropped from any height as he knew it wouldn't hurt him. What he didn't want was to become someone's play thing. What he needed now was a miracle.
The next day there was a change in mood at the school. Mercifully attention had turned, with both the staff and the pupils, from persecuting Rob to the horror of what had happened that night. Practically the entire school was huddled round the football pitch. Rob nudged and bounced his way through the crowd to see what was going on. When he broke through he saw the extent of the damage. Someone had broken into the grounds shed, stolen the school's line painter and covered the entire pitch with lots of squiggly lines and shapes and wiggly writing.
Mr Treville, the football coach, who was standing beside Rob, held his crestfallen face in his hands. "Who would do such a thing? And why couldn't they have done it tonight instead of last night?" he whimpered.
One of the footballers, who was decked out in the school colours yellow and black, gave Mr Treville a look of despair. "But the final starts in three hours coach. What are we gonna do?" he said.
"We'll have to scratch. Forfeit," replied Mr Treville.
"What? Loose? But its the Interschool Football League Championship final."
There was a collective roar of disapproval from everyone on the pitch. That was when an idea struck Rob. "I can fix it," he said hesitantly.
Everyone turned and grimaced at him. "What you? Rubber head?" said the footballer
Rob nodded. "I used to help the town clean graffiti of the walls where I used to live," he proffered timorously.
All the pupils and teachers looked at each other. As the idea gradually sank in, smiles replaced their frowns. Rob could see they were a little sceptical that he could carry out such a mammoth task in such a short space of time but over the years of cleaning for the council Rob learned how to speed erase.
He took of his jacket and shoes and socks and set to work. He started of by cleaning off the edges of the outer lines with his hands, then used his feet to round the curves of the centre circle and then used his head for the rest. The crowd watched on agog at Rob's talent. He whizzed like a whirlwind across the pitch and by twelve thirty his head was whiter than the snow and the pitch was back to it normal green, ready for the game.
The crowd erupted with jubilant claps and cheers. Kids rushed up to Rob and began patting him on the back-some patted so hard their hand bounced back.
"That was so cool, way too cool," Rob heard someone say.
"I've never seen anything like it. He amazing," said another.
Mr Treville had other ideas. He strode up to Rob and took hold of him firmly by the shoulders. "How are you at football?" he asked.
"Erm, not bad. I suppose. I'm not Pele, but I can kick a ball, fairly far," he said playing down his confidence.
"Right, you in. There's kit in the changing room," said Mr Treville. "I've had a kid call off sick. You can replace him."
If getting praise and gratitude from everyone for saving the championship wasn't enough, being allowed to play was the cherry on the cake.
Rob strode out to the roar of the crowd with a vindicated smile on his face and the yellow and black strip over his pink rubber body.
Nobody watching or even playing knew this yet, but Quimby High was about to win the championship again by a 8-1, curtesy of Rob's infamous full pitch kick.

From beyond

Maggie peered up at the crumbly terraced house that was to be her new home and sighed. It was a world away, both in size and in distance, from the leafy detached house her parents used to live in.
"I know it's not much," her mum said as she stroked Maggie's hair. "But this is all that Grammy and me can afford right now."
Maggie gave her grandmother a weak smile. She held her hand out to her and led her up the overgrown path to the wooden front door. Its bottle green paint was cracked and peeling, revealing the mucky brown colour it used to be underneath. It hadn't aged well. It was the sign of things to come.
Inside the house the wallpaper was peeling and curling up at the edges; black mould from the damp was seeping through the corner of every wall; the floorboards were loose and uneven; and the air stank like wet earth and mouldy fruit. Maggie's heart sank. She wanted to cry but the brave, strong, determined front her mother was putting up stayed her tears. If mum won't cry then I won't either, she thought.
"All it needs is a bit of a clean, some fresh air and a lick of paint," her mum said. "Right Grammy?"
Maggie's grandmother smiled and nodded and looked down at Maggie. "You'd better go on upstairs and choose your room. You get first pick you know."
Maggie climbed the bare, dusty stairs that curved round to the upper landing and four closed doors. One opened into the bathroom, which was definitely going to need some cleaning given the amount of spider webs that hung in great sheets from the ceiling. The other three were empty except for a small wardrobe in the back bedroom. That was the room she chose. She knelt on the floor and admired the little wardrobe. It was no taller than her and intricately carved with galloping horses round the edges and dolphins diving over the polished brass knobs. Maggie was curious to know why anyone would leave such a thing but far more to curious to know what was inside, so she opened it up. On the bottom shelf, covered in so much dust it obscured the wording, was a flat box.
Maggie pulled it out and swept a hand across the cover.
'Olivera's Ouija' it said.
"Olivera's Oh-you-e-ja," said Maggie.
She lifted the lid off the box and inside was a board with letters across the middle and numbers across the top, and a pointed block of black wood. Nothing else.
"No instructions?" said Maggie, lifting up the box to see if anything was written on the underside. The box was plain and red.
Maggie ran downstairs with it in her hands and almost collided with her mum carrying a box of kitchen things in through the front door. "Mum, look what I've found."
"Oh, Maggie, sweetheart, watch where you're going. What is it? What've you got?"
"That's just what I want to know. It looks like a game."
"It's just a Ouija board," replied her mum.
"Wee-ja. So that's how you say it. How do I play it?" she asked, following her mum into the kitchen.
"You ask it questions and it gives you answers," her mother replied hurriedly as she ferreted inside the box and mumbled to herself. "Did I pack the cheese grater? Where's the cheese grater?"
"What should I ask it?" Maggie asked.
Her mother wasn't listening. "Mum, is the cheese grater in any of those boxes in the lounge?" she yelled before looking over to Maggie. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," Maggie replied, sullenly, realising that she was getting in the way, and carried her Ouija out into the garden.
Perching herself on the low brick wall that bordered a bed of voraciously growing weeds she laid the board on the rough grass in front of her, placed the pointer on top and stared at them.
"Who answers the questions anyway?" she asked, holding her hands up in confusion.
The pointer quivered and started to move, so slowly it was barely visible. It startled Maggie so much she fell back over the wall and into the weeds. The pointer moved to the letter L, then E, then T, then T again, then Y and stopped. 'Letty' it spelt out.
Maggie stood up and stared around her, wondering what or who was making it move. She swept a hand through the air over and around the board to see if there were any strings. But there was nothing and no-one around.
She asked another question. "Who are you?"
The pointer spelt out the word, "Grandmother".
"You're not my grandmother. She's inside helping mum. Who are you?" Maggie asked impatiently.
The pointer spelt out the letters again. "Great Grandmother"
"Do you know who I am?"
"Margaret," it spelt. Nobody ever called Maggie, Margaret. Not even her mother.
"How old am I?"
"Eleven."
Maggie tapped her lips with a finger and narrowed her eyes. "I've never heard of a Great Grandmother called Letty," she said with a sceptical curl of her lip. "What do you want?"
"To warn you."
"About what?" Maggie asked.
"Leave."
"Don't be silly. We've just got here. We can't leave. Mum says this place is all we can afford."
"Leave. Friday." was the last thing Letty spelt out.
Maggie tried to summon her back to get her to explain, but there was no answer.
She shoved the board and the pointer back in the box. "Stupid thing," she mumbled.

That evening, Maggie, her mother and grandmother settled down in the lounge with an oven baked pepperoni pizza shared out between them.
"Sorry about the burnt bits," her mum said as she placed the tray of pizza on the coffee table. "I think something's wrong with the oven."
"That's okay, mum," Maggie said, diving for the biggest slice.
"So did you play with that Ouija board you found then, whilst your grandmother and I slaved away clean this place up?"
Maggie ignored the sarcasm. "Yep."
"Maggie found a Ouija board upstairs, mum?" her mother said as she picked the black olives off her pizza slice.
"Those things are dangerous, Catherine," her grandmother said. "You should have thrown it out."
"That stuff about people being possessed is just a bunch of superstitious claptrap. Ouija boards don't work."
"The one I found does," Maggie said boldly. "I asked it who it was and it told me."
Maggie's mother choked on her pizza as she laughed.
"Maggie," her mother said, wiping a napkin across her mouth, "moving the piece round the board doesn't mean it works."
"I didn't move the pointer, it moved itself".
Her mother raised her eyebrows.
"I didn't," Maggie pleaded. "It did it. It said it was my Great Grandmother Letty."
As soon as she mentioned the name Maggie's grandmother dropped her plate. It clattered on the wooden floor. Maggie's mum leapt to her aide and picked up the remains of pizza crust.
Although it was only brief Maggie was sure she saw a flicker of recognition across her grandmother's face; a twitch of her lips and a momentary widening of her eyes.
"Do you know who that is, Grammy?" asked Maggie.
"Who who is dear?" her grandmother asked, trying to make out she was flustered.
"Letty," Maggie confirmed.
Her grandmother shook her head. "I haven't a clue. You'd best not use that thing anymore, Letty. I mean Maggie. Catherine take it off her please, she's too young to be playing with such games."


Fortunately for Maggie a heated telephone conversation between her parents that had gone on for most the evening after dinner distracted both her mum and grandmother long enough for Maggie to sneak the board out of the lounge and up to her bedroom.
All night she lay awake under the covers on her camp bed, with the Ouija board beside her. When her mother checked on her for the last time before going to bed herself that was when Maggie sat up and began to play with the board again.
It didn't take long for Letty to appear.
Maggie was delighted. But there was only one question pressing on her mind to ask Letty.
"Are you my grammy's mum?" she whispered.
The pointer moved up towards the 'Yes' and 'No' words then drifted to the left. "Yes" was the answer.
"Why didn't grammy say so when I asked her?" said Maggie.
The pointer moved to H, A, T, and then E. Hate.
"But why?"
Letty spelt out the words. "My fault."
"What did you do?" Maggie asked.
"Ask Grammy," was the reply.
"But how can I ask her when she won't even admit that she knows you?"
"Tell her I kept Bobo."
"Who's Bobo?"
"Bear."
Maggie sighed, and pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. Whatever happened Letty was clearly regretful about it. But was she still around to make amends?
"Perhaps I can help you be friends again?" Maggie asked.
"No time. Must leave. Danger," spelt the pointer.
"Danger," Maggie gasped. "What kind of danger?"
"Friday. All. Leave."
Maggie pressed Letty again for more information but Letty was silent. If the abrupt replies weren't enough to sent shivers down Maggie's back the fact that Letty said nothing else terrified her. All she thought about all night was this 'danger' and what it could be.

At breakfast the next morning Maggie was so tired she couldn't stop yawning.
"Did you sleep last night?" her mother enquired.
"A little," Maggie lied as she chomped on a piece of buttered toast. After the warning she'd received there was little hope of her getting any sleep. The thought of it chilled her still.
"Well, it'll take some time to get used to a sleeping in a new place."
Maggie wondered if their 'new place' was in some way connected to this danger Letty was warning her of. And perhaps the warning was in some way connected to why Letty was communicating with her.
Before she had even thought it through the question spewed from her lips. "Do you remember Bobo, Grammy?"
Her grandmother abruptly stopped mid slurp of her tea. As she lowered her cup Maggie saw her hand trembling. She wasn't sure if it was from rage or fear.
"Where did you hear that, dear?" her grandmother tried to ask in as calm a tone as possible.
Maggie looked over at her mother and then at her grandmother. "From Letty. She told me to tell you she kept Bobo." she said sheepishly.
"I thought I told you not to use that," scolded her grandmother.
"No, mum, it's my fault. I forgot to take it offer her. I was so rattled after that argument with David it completely skipped my mind," said her mum. "I'll take it off her now."
With her mother out of the room, Maggie, put the question again to her grandmother. She was determined to get to the bottom of it.
"You are as stubborn as your father!" said her grandmother as she dumped her breakfast bowl and cup in the sink. "Bobo was my teddy bear when I was very young. I loved that bear, even though he only had one eye. He represented a happy time in my life," she began. "I wasn't aware of it but my mother was very young when she had me. Eighteen years old. And even though she raised me till I was five, she realised that I was a burden to her. She wanted a carefree life not one tied down to child rearing. So she off loaded me onto her parents. Before I left the flat I was living in with her I decided to sever my bond with Bobo. He was part of that life, not the one I was about to embark on. Do you understand?"
Maggie nodded. She felt exactly the same about her ragdoll, Mildred. She was in a box at her dad's house. They had literally been joined at the hip from the moment Maggie was born. The two Ms, her mum and dad called them. But somehow Mildred didn't belong in a world where her mum and dad weren't in the same house.
"I think Letty's sad, Grammy," said Maggie.
Her grandmother didn't respond.
"I think she's sorry. She's trying to warn us. I think something is going to happen on Friday. She wants us to leave."
"Who wants us to leave where?" said her mother as she strode in with the Ouija board in her hands.
"Your daughter's spirit friend, thinks we're in danger tomorrow," mocked her grandmother.
"In danger from what?"
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. "She wouldn't say."
"Not much of a warning then is it," said her grandmother as she snatched the Ouija box from her mothers hands, marched into the garden and promptly thrust it into the bin.
Maggie felt her stomach knot up inside her. She didn't like the idea of Letty being in that bin.
"She doesn't need to throw it out. I promise I won't use it again," she pleaded.
"Too late I'm afraid."
"Can we at least maybe go out tomorrow? Maybe we could go to a bed and breakfast, like a holiday," suggested Maggie.
"Maggie if we had that kind of money don't you think we'd be living somewhere better than here?" her mother said. At that moment the cooker made a loud popping sound, followed by a soft hiss.
"But she said something bad is going to happen tomorrow," Maggie wailed.
"Maggie, enough," snapped her mother. "There's no Letty. There's no ghosts. There's no danger. Now quit this whining. I've got enough on my plate right now."
Maggie huffed and stormed into the lounge. She threw herself heavily into the armchair and stared out of the window. There seemed to be no convincing them of what she believed. She'd have to lure them out of the house. But what would get both of them out for a long time that didn't involve spending money.
That night she racked her brains to come up with an answer and just as dawn broke and the early birds began to churp the idea struck her. It wasn't a particularly nice idea, but hopefully, if Letty was telling the truth as she believed, it would be worth it.
She climbed out of bed, careful not to make any noise, grabbed her rucksack and stuffed it with a change of clothes. Then tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen. She pulled open the larder cupboard and took a packet of biscuits, a bottle of water, a couple of apples and a lump of cheese. She had her supplies, now she needed to sort out the rest of her plan.
From the lounge Maggie picked up the street plan of the town from the magazine rack and grabbed a red marker pen. She then drew little circles on key places on the map; the school, the hospital, the park, the library and her dad's house and laid it out on the kitchen table. As she did she caught sight of the dustbin though the backdoor. She had to rescue Letty.
With her Ouija under her arm and her rucksack slung across her back she headed out of the house and in the direction of the last place her mother would look for her on that street map; her dad's house. Maggie knew her mum hated to admit failure, even more so to her dad.

It was early evening when there was finally a heavy rap at her dad's front door. Maggie sat up with a start.
"David, are you in there?" her mother said, shakily. "We need to talk."
Maggie's dad wasn't in. He was working late, again. Maggie managed to get in through the patio doors that were never locked-another issue that was regularly argued over-and rooted herself in her dad's study.
Maggie knew she had to answer the door, but suddenly felt wracked with guilt. Her mother was probably terrified, panic-stricken, upset at the fact that Maggie had disappeared. How could she have done it? A lone tear rolled over her eye and down a cheek as she reached for the door knob and turned it.
There on the threshold was the worn out face of her mother staring down at her. A flood of relief swept over her as she scooped Maggie up into her arms.
"Sorry mum," Maggie cried.
"I'm sorry too," whimpered her mother as she clutched Maggie tighter to her breast. "I didn't mean to shout."
"Where's Grammy?" Maggie asked wiping the tears from her eyes.
"She's in the car."
Maggie looked over her shoulder and saw her grandmother with a beaming smile on her face shuffling down the driveway.
"Alls well that ends well, as they say," said her grandmother.
On the drive home her mum suggested that maybe they could go for a picnic on Saturday. "The weather's supposed to be nice. Grammy and I could pack some nice food and we could do down to the river."
"I'd like that," Maggie said with a smile.
But as they turned the corner into Mercy Street they were met with a sight that chilled Maggie to her very core. The hairs on the back of her neck stood proud, her spine tingled and her heart started thumping in her chest. There were police and fire engines everywhere. Blue, red and lights were flashing, sirens were wailing, people were flooding the streets curious to know what had happened.
As her mum inched the car through the crowds of onlookers the police signalled for them to stop.
"'fraid you can't go any further, love," said one of the policeman through the window. "We're about to evacuate the whole street."
"What happened?" her mother asked.
"We don't know exactly yet. But there was an explosion at number 21."
Maggie lurched forward in her seat so abruptly her seatbelt jerked her back, cutting into her shoulder.
"That's our house. That's our house," she bellowed.
The policeman gasped at her and her mother. "You live at number 21? You'd better pull up. The super would like to speak to you. You're lucky to be alive."
Maggie was speechless and when she got out of the car, with her mother, and saw gap in the row of terraced houses, where their house used to be, she started to cry. Her mother cried too. Their house was no nothing more than a pile of dusty bricks.
"We're okay though," her mother said through her tears.
"Thanks to my mother," said her grandmother.

Maggie looked up at her and saw a gentle smile on her grandmother's face and a warmth in her eyes that Maggie had never seen before. She was looking up into the sky. Maggie clearly made her grandmother mouth the word-Bobo.

Games and Gargoyles

When the blood red sun set over the city of Oxford and the last of the professors left the old, old university buildings that towered over the rest of the city, the newly carved gargoyles, affixed to the wall of the Bodleian Library, began to stir.
"Tis our turn to choose a game," said one of the gargoyles. It, like its brother beside him, was chubby-cheeked and podgy-bellied and wore a schoolboy cap. "What shall we choose, Tweedledum?"
"I say we have a battle," said Tweedledee, "a battle of hide and seek."
"Yes. A grand idea," said Tweedledum.
"That was your suggestion last time," gruffed the bearded stone face of Mr Tolkien. "I'd rather stay here and drink my beer. If it's all the same with you," he added, taking a slurp from his tankard.
"Hide and seek is a fine idea," agreed the stone head of Sir Thomas Bodley as he wiggled the rest of his body out from the stone wall.
"If that's the game, then we must be organised," said General Pitts River as he pulled a stone arm from the wall and tweaked his moustache. "You must count to fifty and no more or we'll all get lost. Those underground tunnels are like a rabbit warren."
"Must we play under the Bodleian again," chimed the three men in a boat.
"Woof," agreed their dog, peering over the side of their skiff.
"It's jolly hard trying to row our boat on the concrete. The river is so close. Can't we play down there?" said the first boatman.
"Now, now, Jeremy," said Sir Thomas. "It was your choice to come from Kingston to Oxford on a boat. That is the way you have been immortalised. You should have written your story about three men on foot, if you didn't want the children of Oxford to design your gargoyle statue like that."
"Why have we been immortalised anyway?" asked the second boatman.
"Because the Bodleian Library is short of a few gargoyles," explained Sir Thomas. "So the children of Oxford designed new ones. We all have some connection to this marvellous town you see. General Pitt Rivers created the Oxford Museum, Aslan, the dodo and the Tweedle brothers are characters from stories written by Oxford students, the boar was defeated by a student who threw a book at it and I restored the library here."
There was a collective sigh of understanding.
"So who else is playing?" enquired the General, pulling the conversation back to the matter in hand. "I need to make a list in my head. Aslan, are you in?"
The lion head opened it large, toothy jaw and yawned before smacking it's lips together. "I suppose," he groaned. "But only one game tonight. I'm sleepy."
"Dodo?" asked the General.
"Duh?" replied the hook-beaked bird.
"I'll take that for a yes," said the General. "And what about the boar?"
The eight stone gargoyles turned their heads and looked to where the head of the wild boar was supposed to be fixed."
There was nothing but a hole in the wall. He'd gone.
"That impetuous boar," roared Aslan. "He'll be tearing through the stacks, knocking over books and tables and chairs again. He should be leashed to that wall like a dog."
"Well, we'll just have to tidy up after him," said Sir Thomas.
"So are we playing then?" said Tweedledum.
"Or are we just going to sit here?" said Tweedledee.
"Yes, yes, yes, woof," said the three men and the dog as they tipped their boat out of the wall and sailed down the wall.
The others followed. Tweedledum and Tweedledee hopped off the plinth and climbed down, Sir Thomas and the General swung down using the stone ledges and the drainpipes, Aslan bounded down using his claws to grip onto the wall whilst the dodo, who opened its rocky wings to fly, dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.
As the three men in their boat rowed their way to the Bodleian Library's front door, the others trooped behind them.
"Right, Aslan," ordered the General. "Work you magic and open the door."
Aslan closed his grey eyes and took a deep breath. The others watched on as the lock of the library's heavy wooden door slowly clicked open.
Everyone stepped inside, except the three men in a boat who rowed over the threshold and the dodo who stumbled over it. They made their way along the polished wooden floor, between aisles and aisles of dark wooden bookcases filled from floor to ceiling with leather bound books. Ahead of them was the telltale sign that the boar had already gotten into the library. There was stone droppings on the floor, hoof marks on the wood and an array of smashed and toppled furniture.
"Look what that pesky boar has done to my library," said Sir Thomas as he shook his head in despair and stroked his goatee beard.
"Worry not, Sir Thomas," said the General as they passed the boar's path of destruction. "Aslan will fix it all."
"It's too quiet in here," said Tweedledum, as the Dodo tried once again to take flight but smacked beak first into a portrait of Sir Thomas hanging on the wall.
"Far too quiet," said Tweedledee. "We will need to see to that."
"You can make as much noise as you like once we get into the vaults. Nobody will here us there," commanded the General.
When they arrived at the door to the vaults there was a sign that said:
'Readers should tell a colleague of their whereabouts if entering the stacks after 5.00pm. In the event of an emergency evacuation or if you get lost follow the yellow line on the floor to find the exit.'
"Has everyone read the sign?" asked the General.
Everyone nodded.
"Remember what I said you two," said the General to the two brothers.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, each nodded in turn, twice.
"Count to no more than fifty. Then come and find us."
Whilst the others entered the shallow tunnel with its curved ceiling and pipework running along the walls on either side, Tweedledum and Tweedledee huddled together and started to count. When they got to ten they said, "Coming, ready or not."
The General barely got twenty feet down the tunnel. He turned round and scolded the two mischievous brothers who giggled, one after the other. "I didn't mean that you should stop at ten. Now if you want to play this game play properly or we'll go back to the wall.
The brothers hung their heads and huddled back round. "One, two, three, four," they counted.
Sir Thomas was already ahead of everyone else but kept stopping to look at the books on the shelves, admiring the collection the librarians of the modern time had collected. "Gosh I could sit here for months, years and never get a chance to read all this wonderful work," he gasped.
The three men and their boat rowed past him and turned into another tunnel that speared off to the right. The dodo, who was determined to maintain flight, bounced off the walls and off the book stacks and rolled into another corridor. The General, with his military precision, examined every nook and cranny he could find and assessed its potential as a hiding place whilst Aslan, in his wisdom, decided that the further inside the vaults he was the more chance those behind him would be found first.
But after half an hour nobody had been found. The General got impatient and followed the yellow line on the floor. When he turned into the corridor that lead to the exit there were the two brothers. Tweedledum was stamping his feet and tugging at his hair, shouting about a broken rattle. Tweedledee was sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his knees pressed into his chest.
"Everytime we come out you two always end up bickering about a rattle," the General said, despairingly. "I suppose now you're going to have to have your battle," said the General as he ducked his head in anticipation of what was to come.
Tweedledum stopped stamping his feet and Tweedledee stood up.
"He's right," said one.
"He is," said the other.
But before either one of the brothers took a blow a black crow flew down the corridor and over the head of the General. Tweedledum and Tweedledee gasped in horror and took off down the tunnel and out into the library.
"The game's over," shouted the General.
Sir Thomas popped his head round the corridor. "Already?" he said, with a copy of an ancient atlas in his hands.
"Gather everyone up Sir Thomas," huffed the General.
Aslan appeared first and gave a disgruntled snort. "When I get my paws on those two I will roar in their ears," he growled.
From deep with the vault there was a faint cry. "Erm, we need a little help down here."
Sir Thomas, the General and Aslan followed the distant cry and when they reached the source they found the three men in a boat wedged fast between two book stacks. "We thought we'd found the best hiding place," said the third boatman. "But now we can't get out. Poor Jeremy has come down with an attack from the dust and he can't row. We need all three to row this boat."
"Yes," Jeremy wheezed pathetically. "My poor lungs can't cope with this air. It's dusty. I'm weak."
Aslan rolled his eyes. He stepped forward and clamped his jaw round the bow of the skiff. With one mighty heave he yanked the boat from the aisle and ungraciously dumped it on the concrete floor.
Jeremy moaned again. "Oh my legs, that sent shivers up my legs."
Aslan stomped off, "Where's that dodo?" he roared.
Sir Thomas and the General both tugged the boat down the corridor and out into the library.
"Is he here?" Sir Thomas wheezed as he dropped the bow of the boat on the floor. Dust from his stony moustache blew off with every breath.
Aslan shook his head. His stone mane grinded against his body, shaving off fine sandstone grains that rained down on the polished floor.
"He has to be somewhere," said Sir Thomas.
"We don't have long to find him," said the General looking up through one of the library's arched windows. "The sun is about to come up. "
"If we're found here we're done for," said Sir Thomas, tugging at the ruff round his neck. "They'll grind us up."
But before the three of them had a chance to decide on a search plan, the wild boar bounded out from a dark corner of the library with the dodo in its mouth.
Aslan bounded after it and grabbed it by its rocky tail.
"I think we should hurry out of her Sir Thomas," said the General.
Sir Thomas nodded and so did the boatmen.
When everyone was outside in the quadrangle in front of the library entrance, with the two brothers still being pursued by the black crow, Aslan closed his eyes once more and took a deep breath.
The inside of the library rapidly transformed itself. All the broken furniture miraculously repaired itself, all the toppled furniture was back where it used to be, all the stone dust they'd left was sucked off the floor and all the scratch marks on the polished wood, from the boat and the oars and the raging boar's hooves all smoothed out. It was as though they'd never been there.
Aslan opened his eyes again.
"All done?" asked the General.
Aslan nodded.

As the deep orange sun poked over the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the campus of Oxford University the mischievous stone gargoyles climbed (and rowed) back up the wall and took their place on their plinth on the side of the Bodleian Library just a second before the first professor arrived for work. All was well. At least until sunset.

Hope in the dark

When Jimmy Mackie opened his eyes he thought he'd died. He was surrounded by darkness. Not the darkness of night time but the thick, shapeless, infinite void type of darkness that he thought sucked you up to heaven, or down to hell. He took a breath and choked. The air was thick with dust, smoke and the acrid smell of burning. It scorched his throat. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth and saw it was grey with dust and dirt and caked in congealed, crimson blood. What had happened?
Through the fog of his mind he caught faint slivers of a memory that he'd gone to the front room of his mother's house for sugar but after that, nothing.
As the darkness gradually began to take shape he realised the horror of his predicament. His right arm was pinned against the stone hearth by exploded chunks of cast iron. His head was nestled on the lower shelf of his mother's bookcase-the wooden shelf above, still intact, was precariously holding up blocks of masonry. His body was lying on its side, with his back against the smashed remnants of the porcelain wash basin from the floor above and his legs were bent; one he could move a little whilst the other was wedged between two wooden struts that Jimmy assumed used to be roof trusses. Beneath him was solid ground but above him, resting on piles of rubble and wood was the tin bath from the bathroom. It was the only thing protecting him from the crushing weight of the rest of the house.
It was at that point that Jimmy knew it was a bomb. He'd heard folk talking about the nazis dropping parachute bombs, or D.A's as some were calling them, on England. He never thought for a second they'd hit Clydebank. But was it over now? He held his breath and listened. All he could hear was the air raid siren wailing in the distance. Too late for him and probably a load others as well. For all he knew the entire town had been levelled. Was he the only one left, alive?
"Ma?" he quivered as tears began to pour across his nose and onto the dusty stone. Was she alive? Was she dead? He couldn't bear to think. He blocked it out and took a deep breath, gathering as much of his energy as he could and yelled at the top of his voice. "HELP, HEELLPP. Somedae HELP."
As he screamed he felt the ground beneath him shudder. Fearful that his cries had caused the house to shift he clasped his free arm round his head and gasped. With his heart pounding and his chest heaving, inhaling more of the chalky air, his eyes darted across the space looking for signs of movement. If he was going to be crushed he wanted some warning. Then there was a thud and a crash to his right. The tin bath above him rocked causing stone dust to rain down on him. He screwed his eyes shut and curled into as smaller ball as he was able. The house settled back down again.
He was helpless. The daren't call for help again. But if he didn't he'd never be rescued. No-one would know he was there.
'I wish I kent Morse code,' he thought. 'I could tap the bath. But then the vibrations might cause the hoose to shift again an crush me completely.'
He scanned around to see if there was any sliver of daylight poking through the rubble.
'If there is," he thought. 'Ah could poke sommin through it. Somedae might see it and ken I was 'ere. ' But everything was shrouded in the velvet sting of blackness.
The sense of utter despair germinated in his mind. He couldn't block out the thoughts of impending doom. How was he going to die? bleeding, thirst, starvation?
Thirst would catch him out first, or bleeding. Either way he didn't really care. At least it would be quicker than hunger.
He reached round his back to scratch an itch and felt a small tin on the floor behind him. It was open and some of the contents had spilled out. They were small and cubed. His heart skipped a beat. He knew what it was. Gingerly, he grasped the tin and brought it in front of him. It was the sugar cubes his mother wanted.
Jimmy smiled. Someone was watching over him. 'Wiz is da?' he thought.
Jimmy counted up the cubes and felt round his back for the stray ones that had fallen out. He then dusted off a patch of the stone hearth by his chest and counted the cubes as he lined them up in front of him.
Seventy-six. If he rationed himself to seven cubes a day he could last for eleven days; unless thirst claimed him first. Rationing he was used to. His mother taught him all he needed to know.
'Ah hope she's awright. Or if god has 'er I hope she didnae suffer,' he thought.
He said a little prayer for her and for everyone on Bally Street before he ate his first cube.
He savoured the grainy sweetness on his tongue, enjoying the brief moment of bliss before despair took over. That night he cried himself to sleep.

The next day he was awoken by the sound of muffled voices. They were distant, but definitely recognisable as voices.
"Help," he cried. "Am doon here. Help. Help me."
He wasn't sure if anyone heard him at first but when the voices grew quieter, his beacon of hope was snuffed out.
If it wasn't for the gentle sound of trickling water he would have given up and shuffled about until the house dropped on him. He listened and saw, down by the knee of his free leg the slow drip, drip of water.
In sheer desperation to relieve the stabbing pain in his throat from every dry breath he took, he reached his hand down and tried to cup a few droplets. Hurriedly he brought it up to his parched lips and sucked and licked up every molecule. He repeated it over and over again before realising that he had to somehow capture it in something. He felt around and found a spoon near to where his other arm was still pinned to the floor.
He drank spoon after spoon of the gritty water before wondering where it had come from. He noticed that since he'd been awake the air wasn't quite as smoky as the day before. 'Mibbe they've put the fires oot.'
That instantly terrified him. He realised that if the fires were out there would be no reason for them to come back.
"Help. Somedae, please, help me. HEELLLPPPP," he bellowed.
But no-one came.
Another day passed and out of sheer depression and hopelessness Jimmy scoffed twenty of his cubes-at least three days of his ration. He scolded himself afterwards for being weak.
"'That's no wit da widda wanted, Jimmy," he said as he struggled to stop his lower lip from quivering.
A lone tear fell from the corner of his eye. In his heart he knew his plight was without a miraculous ending. He was hungry, he was thirsty, the numbness in his right arm was creeping up towards his shoulder, his left leg was stiff and right side was in agony from laying on it for two days.
He prayed for death, and while he waited he sang the only hymn he could remember that would cheer him up.
"Aw things bright and beautiful. Aw creatures, great an small..."
The words lift his lips with a distracted stupor, as though he wasn't really paying attention to what he was singing.

The next day, as he sucked on a sugar cube, his mind wandering into and out of consciousness, there was a distant rumbling sound outside the house. At first he paid no attention to it. His mind was so addled with fatigue he thought it was playing tricks on him. Then the rumbling was accompanied by sounds of muffled voices, and sounds of crumbling rubble. Minute by minute the voices grew louder and sharper. His heart suddenly started beating faster than he had ever felt it. His eyes pinged open. A renewed sense of hope had recharged his entire body. He took a deep breath and drew up as much energy as his weak body could muster.
"I'm in here!" he yelled.
He listened.
"Ah hear him. Ah hear him. Over here. He's over here," shouted a voice from the other side.
Terrified they might leave, Jimmy continued to call out until a sharp spear of brilliant white light pierced the darkness of his prison. He held his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the blinding sparkle.
"Get a stretcher, noo," Jimmy heard someone shout.
Within half an hour his rescuers had removed most of what was on top of him, including the tin bath that saved his life and he was out in the sunshine.
As he was carried out to the waiting ambulance he glanced down his street. As he'd feared every one of the houses that had once been filled with people were now just piles of stone.
"You're lucky you've got a singin' voice, laddie," one of the men said. "If ah didnae hear ya last night youda probably been doon there fer ever."
Jimmy smiled. "Thanks," he said.
"Dinnae thank me. Thank yer ma. She wiz the one that tole me ta come doon an see if ah cud find ye."
"Ma," he said, sitting bolt upright. "She's alive."
"Aye, she's fine," the man said, pushing Jimmy back down on the stretcher. "She's in the hospital. You'll see her in a wee while."
As the ambulance chugged down the street, weaving around the demolished buildings, Jimmy mouthed the words 'thank you' to the heavens and vowed to himself that he'd learn more hymns.

Houdini (Part 4 - final part)

He smiled at her slyly.
“And now it’s mine” he sniggered, as he swung it mockingly.
“You wanted to know why I was so keen to acquire this supposedly worthless piece. Well now I’ll tell you what your brother was so unfortunately late in discovering.”
His cocky emphasis on the word ‘unfortunately’ sent her reeling, but she held her nerve through gritted teeth.
“This stone is from the Temple of Atlantis, the city of the deep.” He announced.
His revelation drew a mixture of gasps, whispered comments, and sceptical outbursts of ‘Liar’, ‘Impossible’ and ‘Rubbish’.
Sternglass’s steely expression remained unchanged; she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her helplessly enraged.

Blackfoot stared into her eyes as he spoke, hoping his words would generate a flicker, if only momentarily, that she was jealous.
“Your brother wasn’t the only one who knew of fabled mysteries” he continued “but whilst he was burdened by the hows, whys and wherefores I trusted the myth. If you believe in it, it believes in you. It’s such a shame that he died before discovering that it is more than a fragment of a ruin. It has its own power, the power to give life and strength beyond all comprehension. And now its mine” he said greedily.

He took the rough blue stone in his fingers and examined it closely before clasping a dirty fat hand around it. His smug grin made her blood boil. She wanted to punch him, scratch his eyes out, kick his stubby wooden foot, yank the big golden hoops from his ears and pluck every last hair from his head.

But it wasn’t long before Blackfoot’s smug expression turned to one of strain. His round face turned from dirty grey to deep purple and his pockmarked cheeks puffed out like a balloon. He tried to speak but his face had grown so fat that he could only open his mouth wide enough to emit a deep moan. Everyone watched rigidly as Blackfoot’s entire body got wider and wider and rounder and rounder. He had become so plump that you could barely make out where his head finished and his feet began. Everyone was mesmerised by the transformation. They weren’t sure whether to laugh at the sight or run for cover for he had became so round he began to sway from side to side. The swaying became rhythmical and grew faster and faster until the swaying turned to shaking and that too got faster and faster. Everyone was beginning to feel slightly nauseous as they watched, seasickness was one thing but watching this was quite another, it was a stomach churner. He shook so much he began to bob around the deck. The crew of both ships jostled around desperately trying to avoid him, afraid of what was going to happen to Blackfoot next.

And then there was an almighty explosion. It sounded like a thousand oranges had being blown to smithereens.

Everyone shied away, trying to shelter themselves, some with arms covered protectively around their heads, others with their backs turned. As the noise subsided they slowly looked back at where Blackfoot had been standing but nothing was there. It was as if he’d just disappeared into thin air. Not a single trace of the villain could be seen, except for Sternglass’s necklace that glinted in the sunlight on the deck.

************

A few days later the crew of The Destructor, still dumbstruck from previous events, had been formally assimilated into Sternglass’s crew. As she settled into her new, plusher quarters on The Destructor, she prised open the last crate that had been brought on board from The Sea Breeze and riffled through its contents.

It contained some spoils from previous conquests; a small pistol that was loaded and cocked, which she placed carefully on the table of her quarters; her brother’s diary; the necklace with the blue stone and a strange book she didn’t recognise until she read the front cover “Mysteries of the Deep”. She chuckled to herself. It was Leon’s book, how did that get in there she thought.

“Calderman” she shouted.

Moments later the Quartermaster entered.
“Yes Captain?”
“Return this to Leon will you please” she asked handing the book over to him.
“Leon, Captain?”
“Yes, Leon, the cabin boy” she added frowning.
“But there is no cabin boy named Leon onboard Captain, not even in Blackfoot’s crew” he replied nonplussed,
“But that’s impossible I…oh my goodness” she gasped as she clasped her hand over her mouth. It all seemed to fall into place.
“Captain?” Calderman asked concerned.
“It was my mistake. That will be all Calderman, you may go about your business”

When the Quartermaster left her she sat down.
“Leon” she said as she stroked the cover of her brother’s diary, her fingers traced back the letters of her brother’s name on the cover “L…E…O…N”

She picked up “Mysteries of the Deep” and it fell open at the page on ‘The Remains of Atlantis’. Her eyes were drawn to text that that been underlined on the page and she read it slowly.

“…Legend has it the stone gives strength and power for those who believe in it, but when taken by those who wield it for evil shall feel its wrath”

She placed the necklace around her neck and patted the stone gently.

“He knew,” she whispered contentedly.

Jessica’s eyes sprang open. One glance at her watch told her it was 6.15am and her mother would be frantic. She jumped out of the deckchair, threw it under her arms and scrambled up the beach and over the dunes, she had to get back before her mother woke but not before she turned to look out over the ocean and said…

“See you tomorrow”.

Heroes for hire

"How do you write to superheroes?" Dylan asked as he stared down his fishing line.
"You what?" replied his brother who stopped baiting his hook and frowned at him.
Dylan looked up. "I'm serious, Ian," he pleaded. "Do they have like fan clubs or something?"
"I dunno," Ian snapped as he finished spearing his maggot and cast his line back into the water. "Whaddaya wanna know for anyway?"
Dylan paused before he answered. He wanted to size up whether his brother was going to think he'd gone completely mad.
"It's school sports day at the end of the month," he began. "And it's always so boring. The same people win each sport all the time. I mean I could tell you now that Sam Parker will win the one hundred metres, Lym Streep will take the hurdles, Mathew Lewis will jump the highest and Robbie Porter will jump the furthest."
"There are other races ya know."
"Yeah, but it's no fun."
"You're just jealous you can't compete this year," Ian said wrapping his knuckles on the illustrated cast that encased Dylan's right leg. "That'll teach you for trying to fly off the shed. Taping a bin bag to your back does not make you Batman. Anyway where do superheroes fit into sports day, or shouldn't I ask?"
"I thought I'd...invite them...to take part," Dylan said coyly.
His brother laughed so hard tears poured down his cheeks. He had to lay down his rod and fish a tissue out of his bag to wipe his eyes."You do realise, Dylan, that superheroes aren't real?"
"How do you know?" Dylan huffed. He hated it when people laughed at his ideas. It made him feel small and pointless.
"Because they only exist in comics and films and games, and stuff, that's why. Now quit daydreaming and pay attention. It looks like you've got something."
Dylan stared down his line. Something was tugging at it, creating gentle ripples in the water. Dylan didn't care now. He'd lost interest in fishing.

******

"Look what I got out of the library today?" Dylan said holding up a thick, paperback book.
Ian tilted his head to read the title. "Stars and their agents," he said.
"And look here," Dylan said thumbing through the pages to one that he'd marked with a scrap piece of paper. He pointed at the bottom corner. "Superman. Agented by Doris Campion. Email dcampion@herosforhire.com," Dylan said with smug satisfaction. "Believe me now."
"Whatever," said Ian. "You'll never get them to agree to come and besides, even if you do, how are you going to pay them to attend?"
"I'll tell them it's for charity. Miss Beets is always saying we should try and come up with ideas to raise money for the school."
"If you manage to get one superhero to come to your sports day I'll eat whatever you fish out of the River Dean. Raw!" Ian said.
"Fine with me. You've got a deal!" Dylan retorted.
Although Dylan was sure his plan would work he resisted telling anyone else about it. At least not yet. If his own brother mocked him he knew his classmates were bound to cremate him.
Over the two weeks since he sent emails to twenty of the top superheroes in the 'Stars and their agents' book, Dylan received sixteen letters thanking him for the invitation but politely declining. Dylan's heart sank into his stomach. He scrunched every one of them up into a ball, thrust them into the kitchen bin and slammed the lid shut.
"Be careful, Dylan or you'll break that," his mother complained as she poured frozen peas into a pan of boiling water. "What's the matter anyway?"
"Nothing!" Dylan mumbled before hobbling out of the kitchen.
As he passed the sitting room door Ian snickered from the sofa. "No acceptances yet then?"
Dylan huffed, hopped upstairs and flicked on his computer. He was so mad there was only one thing that would take his mind of his depression; a game of Zombie Mayhem.
But when his computer warmed up it pinged loudly four times. He had four new emails.
Absentmindedly, Dylan clicked on his email icon, thinking the emails were from Declan. Declan was the new boy in school who, like a limpet, had latched on to Dylan. Dylan didn't mind really. He felt sorry for him, and besides, Declan had a fantastic collection of Superman comics. The thought of Superman now though fired him up with rage. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to read a comic again.
But the emails weren't from Declan. One was from Doris Campion. With a shaky finger Dylan clicked on the email to open it up, wanting but not wanting to read it.
"Dear Dylan, thank you for your kind letter, dated 2nd September," it began. "Having consulted with my client, Superman, I can happily say that he would be delighted to attend you school sports day and compete in your Superhero Olympics. Although just between you and me, he's been looking for an opportunity to beat the pants of Batman given the caped crusader has just made a fortune at the box office with his recent movies. Yours sincerely, Doris Campion. PS Please confirm if Batman is indeed attending."
Dylan was so excited was barely able to click on the other three emails. His hands were shaking, his heart was pounding.
The other emails said the same. Dylan now had four acceptances to attend his sports day from Superman, Batman, Spiderman and Mighty Mouse.

The next day Dylan glided into school on his crutches with a grin he could hook round his ears. He knocked on the door of the head teacher's office, proud to deliver some wonderful and unexpected news. But Mr Smythe didn't share Dylan's enthusiasm.
"You really should have consulted with me on this beforehand, Dylan. We don't have the facilities to support a competition that I fear will result in considerable damage to our sports ground," Mr Smythe said shaking his head.
"But think of all the money it will raise. Everyone in the town will come to our sports day now. We could even sell merchandise; t-shirts, baseball caps, pens, lunchboxes, bedcovers. The list is endless. This school could be the richest in the county."
It appeared that Dylan plucked the right string when he started talking about money. Dylan saw Mr Smythe's eyes suddenly light up. Mr Smythe sat back in his chair and rocked to and fro as he rubbed his chin.
"Okay," he said. "I'll allow it. I'll make the necessary arrangements regarding promoting the event though. I think you've done enough."
Dylan wasn't stupid. He knew Mr Smythe said that so he could be in charge of any money making schemes, but Dylan didn't care. He got what he wanted.

It didn't take long for the rumour to spread. Everywhere Dylan went he was questioned about his idea. The younger kids quizzed him at school about how they could get autographs, the older kids wanted to know how they could hire them, women in supermarkets asked him if the superheroes were single and men asked him if they were planning on getting rid of the town's criminals while they were here.
When the sports day finally came round Dylan was relieved. It got to the point where he couldn't leave the house for having to field a barrage of questions.
The school sports ground was packed full of townsfolk wearing beaming smiles and t-shirts with the words 'Superhero Olympics 2009' emblazoned on them. Everyone was eager for the finale programme once all the school events were over. Dylan didn't watch those. He was in the changing rooms pacing up and down on his crutches.
"You'll wear a hole in the floor you keep doing that," his mother said.
"I'm nervous," Dylan replied. "What if they don't show up?"
"They will. They never let anyone down," she said just as there was a gentle rapping at the door.
Dylan's mum opened it and there standing in the doorway were the formidable forms of Dylan's heroes. If he didn't have his crutches to keep him upright Dylan was sure he would have fallen into a crumpled heap on the floor.
"Come in," Dylan's mum said, making way for them.
"You must be Dylan," Superman said as he boldly strode towards him, his chest puffed out.
All Dylan could do was nod. He'd completely lost the power of speech.
"Please to meet you," said Spiderman extending a hand to Dylan. "Don't worry I won't web you."
Dylan shook it gingerly.
Batman nodded and Mighty Mouse flew up to Dylan's face. "Here I come to save your day!" he said, his red cape flapping behind him.

When the last school event had been won the highlight of the day, the reason everyone was there, finally arrived. Given it was Dylan's idea he was allowed to lead out his heroes onto the track.
As they all appeared from the tunnel the crowd erupted into screams and applause. Dylan was so proud he felt like a superhero himself.
The head of the sports department, Mr Curry, announced over the public address system that the Westfield Secondary School and town were pleased to welcome their honoured guests.
"The first event in this the first Superhero Olympics, will be the four hundred metres," Mr Curry bellowed down the microphone.
Dylan guided Superman, Batman, Spiderman and Mighty Mouse to the starting grid. But just as the gun went off something strange happened. Everyone seemed to notice it, even Dylan. He got a bizarre sense of deja vu. He was sure that he'd seen the race already and that Superman was the winner. But when the gun fired Mighty Mouse was already at the finish line before any of the other contestants had left their starting blocks. Superman instantly objected saying that Mighty Mouse had turned back time so he could put himself on the finish line before Superman. The complaint was overruled by the school sports judge because Superman could not prove that time alteration had taken place.
Superman stormed off to the next discipline-the pole vault.
"First to take the pole is earth's own Kal-El: Superman," announced Mr Curry.
The crowd roared with approval.
Superman took hold of his pole and held it aloft. He ran towards the vault but thrust the pole down with such brute force he snapped it in two.
The judge ruled disqualification.
Superman, in a fit of anger, picked up one of the shards of pole and launched it into the sky. He threw it so far it speared the school blimp, which slowly deflated and plummeted down to earth. There was a loud crash beyond the sports ground and the sound of car sirens wailing.
"Next to take the pole is our contestant that proves you don't have to be big to be mighty. It's Mighty Mouse."
Mighty Mouse lifted his pole with one finger, giving a sly look to Superman, and took off toward the vault. Mighty Mouse might have been mighty but because he was small and light when he pulled the pole back the force and momentum of the pole propelled him through the air and out of the sports ground.
"Oohh, bad luck Mighty Mouse," Mr Curry said. "Next up we have Spiderman."
Spiderman decided he didn't need a pole and so fired a stream of webbing up to the vault which spread across the bars and pulled himself over, landing perfectly with both feet on the mat.
The crowd erupted in applause.
"A perfect dismount," cheered Mr Curry. "And last we have Batman."
Batman who was clearly bitter about finishing last in the four hundred metres was determined to show he was worthy of his title and so launched himself at the vault, but because Spiderman had failed to clear his webbing Batman got tangled up in it and never even made it over the bar.
"Trapped like a fly. Bad luck Batman," said Mr Curry. "So the winner of the pole vault is Spiderman."
Dylan who was sat on the sidelines watching the events unfold was beaming with pride and joy. It was the most perfect day he could ever have planned. He opened his backpack, tore open a bag of popcorn and settled himself down for the remainder of the competition.
The shot putt was next, which Mighty Mouse won as not only did he throw the shot putt the furthest his was the only one that actually landed on the field. Superman's landed in Australia, which was instantly disqualified as use of other continents as landing zones was prohibited. Superman stamped his feet as that particular rule had not been previously explained to him. Batman got tangled up again as his spun round to launch his putt but this time got wrapped up in his own wings and Spiderman, who used his elastic webbing to throw his putt, was taken aback quite literally when it pinged back and smacked him in the face.
"The penultimate event on today's programme," said Mr Curry to a chorus of disapproval from the crowd, "will be the long jump. First up is Batman."
Every one could tell Batman was determined as he was at the start line before Mr Curry had even announced his name. Clearly he was keen to get some points on the board before the event was over, but he ran so fast down the track toward the sand pit that his wings acted like a parachute and whisked him backwards. The crowd were silent.
Dylan could hear poor Batman protesting. "No, not backwards," he yelled. "Oh damn these wings. I'm cutting them off when I get home."
Spiderman, who was sat on a chair on the side line with one leg crossed over his knee, breezily offered the next go to Superman. It was only when Superman launched himself at the sand pit and collapsed face down in front of it, without even scuffing the sand, that Dylan realised why Spiderman was so laid back. Pointing out of the sand was a familiar green glow of Kryptonite. The judge ruled Spiderman should be disqualified from that event from cheating, which he shrugged off. Superman was announced the winner of the long jump because although Mighty Mouse did jump he completely buried himself and so nobody knew where he'd landed.
"So as sad as it is for me to say," said Mr Curry. "The last event of the day is the high jump."
The crowd again booed and pleaded for more but it was clear the superheroes were ready for a final show down to decide the ultimate winner of the Superhero Olympics. As the assistants prepared the high jump Dylan noticed that the contestants were acting a little strange. Superman and Batman appeared to be very chummy, chatting and nodding to each other and looking on at the assistants as they erected the jump; Spiderman was on his mobile talking very quietly whilst Mighty Mouse was flying round the sports ground trying to fire up the crowd to cheer for him.
When the jump was ready Spiderman was announced to take the first jump. Batman and Superman stood at either side of the jump which didn't alarm Dylan at first but when Spiderman ran to perform his flip over the bar he tripped on something and crashed into the mat. Dylan noticed Batman reel something into this bed and then casually step away from the jump, whistling to himself. Spiderman was furious. He pounded the mat with his fist claiming he was tripped. But the judges didn't see anything. Mighty mouse was next and gave a perfect jump. In fact he was so cocky about winning he actually landed on the bar and moon-walked across it before jumping onto the mat. The other contestants sneered at him. Batman was up next but just as he went to take his jump Spiderman fired a web stream that wrapped around his feet and he pull him back. Again Spiderman was disqualified but again he shrugged and said he was happier to wipe the smug grin of Batman's face than win. Last to attempt the high jump was Superman.
Dylan heard him muttering to himself, "just take it stead, don't over exert yourself, you're loosing here you need to save face, you're reputation as the ultimate superhero is at stake."
But just as Superman started toward the jump a familiar black-clad phantom figure appeared from the sky. It lowered itself right in front of Superman and hovered in the air.
"General Zod," Superman huffed. "Could you not have waited five minutes before turning up? I'm just about to jump."
General Zod said nothing. He simply smiled and began flying round the sports ground, picking up shot putts, javelins, hurdles and judges and hurled them around the grounds. Everyone on the stands ducked as flying sports objects whizzed past their heads. Superman had no choice but to forfeit the jump and kick Zod's butt back to Krypton.
At that point Mr Curry came back on the public address system. He cleared his throat and said in a shaky, squeaky voice, "Following on from the slight interruption of interstellar war, I can proudly announce that the winner of the Westfield Sports Day and Ultimate Superhero Olympian goes to...Mighty Mouse."
Dylan was, as chief organiser, given the golden clenched fist trophy to give to Mighty Mouse, which, in spite of the fact that it was four times the size of the superhero, he handled with ease. The crowd, fully recovered from their brush with death at the hands of a disgruntled Kryptonian, clapped and cheered for their miniature hero. It was a title well deserved, and Dylan agreed.

The weekend after the successful and much talked about sports day, Dylan hurried down to the River Dean. He sat on the banks for hours waiting patiently for his first catch, hoping the current would give him something large for Ian to eat.
"You said, and I quote, that you would eat whatever I fish out of the river. Raw," Dylan said with glee when he arrived home.
His brother winced. Dylan could tell that Ian now wished he could take back the bet he had placed, but Dylan wasn't going to let him get away with it. He fished around in his backpack, pulled out what he caught and plopped it on the kitchen table. It was a large, weathered, old, soggy, leather boot.

"Mum," he grinned. "You better get Ian a sharp knife."