I received my first rejection letter before Christmas. I’m sure it won’t be my last. I do fully intend to submit more stories and I will continue to write.
At this time of year it is hard to find the time in between the constant carousing to write anything new. But I have started to call this my period of research. If it is true that you should write about what you know then perhaps I should give children’s stories in favour of books on boozing and stuffing your face with mince pies…
Friday, December 31, 2004
Sunday, November 21, 2004
The facts about fishing with worms.
Intended for children ages 9 to 10 years old.
Junior felt the fluttering of the wounded bird's heart skip a beat, slow, and eventually stop altogether. He knew it was just nature's way; creatures were born and they died. No matter how much he understood and could accept that he still felt the unwelcome burning behind his eyes that suggested tears. He took a deep breath to loosen his tightened chest, "It's too late for this one."
The vet looked around from her box of instruments, "Oh!" She glanced at Junior and then, to avoid his embarrassment, to where the tiny body lay in his open hands. "It’s for the best you know. It was very badly hurt." She gently picked up the little bundle of feathers, "I'll… um… dispose of this."
"I'd better get off or I'll be late." Junior rubbed has hands against his trousers. "I'll see you tomorrow." He looked around for his bag, "I'm gonna go fishing after school."
Junior saw them before they saw him. As he came around the corner of the boiler house Beef and his gang were leaning against the wall looking every bit like a pack of rabid dogs.
If he turned around now Junior would have to go right around C-Block to the other entrance. Also the gang might see him, and he knew that the last thing you did in front of pack animals was to turn your back on them. Junior wasn’t scared of them; he was much bigger than they were and was sure he could thrash them in a fight. It was just that he didn’t need that sort of aggravation.
Striding purposefully past the pack, Junior kept his head up and ignored them all.
"Hey! Loner," Beef shouted after him. "You better watch out, someone might come along and chop that pony tail off, you big ugly girl."
Junior didn't answer, but Beef's jibe had rattled him. To tease him about his hair hurt. In Niue it was the custom that boys didn't cut their hair until the coming of age ceremony. He hated the ignorance and stupidity of some people.
He was still fuming when he walked into class. He was the first in that day. Junior noticed that there was a broken chair in the corner by the door and ideas of revenge came to mind. He pushed its pieces back together and put it upside down on the table like all of the other chairs. He put it where Beef usually sat, only today he didn't. It was the last unused chair when Fat Joanne came in, late as usual. The teacher and the class teased her for being late and so she was flustered when she sat down. For a millisecond the chair held, and then it collapsed in spectacular fashion. When she fell Joanne grabbed the desk, tipping it over her. Junior had never felt as guilty of anything as he did then.
After school Joanne was sitting in the park as Junior passed with his fishing gear, on his way to the stream. "Hi, how are you?"
She fixed him with her darks eyes, "And what do you care?"
Junior was taken aback by the fierceness of her response. He shrugged and started to walk off.
"Go on then," she called after him. "I thought you were better than the rest of them, but you’re a coward too!"
She had made a great cast. He took the bait and turned back, "What do you mean?"
“You don’t make any effort.” She played the line, “You think that being alone means you are tough,” and reeled him in,”but it just means you end up lonely.”
“Perhaps being alone is better than hanging around with people you don’t like,” he challenged.
“How would you know?” She cocked her head, “Do you think its right to judge people without taking the time to find out anything about them?”
Maybe she was right; he hadn’t been fair.
She stuck out her chin and smirked, “I bet you didn’t know that I am a champion fisher?”
Before he knew it they were talking and laughing together down by the river.
Perhaps making friends was a little like fishing with worms.
(697 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Junior felt the fluttering of the wounded bird's heart skip a beat, slow, and eventually stop altogether. He knew it was just nature's way; creatures were born and they died. No matter how much he understood and could accept that he still felt the unwelcome burning behind his eyes that suggested tears. He took a deep breath to loosen his tightened chest, "It's too late for this one."
The vet looked around from her box of instruments, "Oh!" She glanced at Junior and then, to avoid his embarrassment, to where the tiny body lay in his open hands. "It’s for the best you know. It was very badly hurt." She gently picked up the little bundle of feathers, "I'll… um… dispose of this."
"I'd better get off or I'll be late." Junior rubbed has hands against his trousers. "I'll see you tomorrow." He looked around for his bag, "I'm gonna go fishing after school."
Junior saw them before they saw him. As he came around the corner of the boiler house Beef and his gang were leaning against the wall looking every bit like a pack of rabid dogs.
If he turned around now Junior would have to go right around C-Block to the other entrance. Also the gang might see him, and he knew that the last thing you did in front of pack animals was to turn your back on them. Junior wasn’t scared of them; he was much bigger than they were and was sure he could thrash them in a fight. It was just that he didn’t need that sort of aggravation.
Striding purposefully past the pack, Junior kept his head up and ignored them all.
"Hey! Loner," Beef shouted after him. "You better watch out, someone might come along and chop that pony tail off, you big ugly girl."
Junior didn't answer, but Beef's jibe had rattled him. To tease him about his hair hurt. In Niue it was the custom that boys didn't cut their hair until the coming of age ceremony. He hated the ignorance and stupidity of some people.
He was still fuming when he walked into class. He was the first in that day. Junior noticed that there was a broken chair in the corner by the door and ideas of revenge came to mind. He pushed its pieces back together and put it upside down on the table like all of the other chairs. He put it where Beef usually sat, only today he didn't. It was the last unused chair when Fat Joanne came in, late as usual. The teacher and the class teased her for being late and so she was flustered when she sat down. For a millisecond the chair held, and then it collapsed in spectacular fashion. When she fell Joanne grabbed the desk, tipping it over her. Junior had never felt as guilty of anything as he did then.
After school Joanne was sitting in the park as Junior passed with his fishing gear, on his way to the stream. "Hi, how are you?"
She fixed him with her darks eyes, "And what do you care?"
Junior was taken aback by the fierceness of her response. He shrugged and started to walk off.
"Go on then," she called after him. "I thought you were better than the rest of them, but you’re a coward too!"
She had made a great cast. He took the bait and turned back, "What do you mean?"
“You don’t make any effort.” She played the line, “You think that being alone means you are tough,” and reeled him in,”but it just means you end up lonely.”
“Perhaps being alone is better than hanging around with people you don’t like,” he challenged.
“How would you know?” She cocked her head, “Do you think its right to judge people without taking the time to find out anything about them?”
Maybe she was right; he hadn’t been fair.
She stuck out her chin and smirked, “I bet you didn’t know that I am a champion fisher?”
Before he knew it they were talking and laughing together down by the river.
Perhaps making friends was a little like fishing with worms.
(697 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Monday, November 15, 2004
I have finally got around to submitting a story...
I have sent ‘I’m a… …farmyard animal’ off to a couple of publishers, one here in the UK and one back in NZ. I also slipped in a little drawing as an aside.
So... fingers crossed.
So... fingers crossed.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
A Boy, a Bird and a Bogglewump
Intended for children ages 6 to 8 years old.
Hinckley Mint was your average seven-year-old boy. That is to say he did average seven-year-old boy things that often got him into trouble with grown-ups. The reason he was alone in his family's back garden was that most of his friends were away on their summer holidays. It might also have had something to do with being caught posting frogs through Miss Toddle's letterbox.
As he lay on the lawn Hinckley watched a line of ants dragging the crumbs from one of his biscuits across the path. His scruffy blonde hair stuck up all over the place and his hands, face and knees were different shades of dirt-brown, grass-green and grazed-red. The sun baked down on Hinckley's back making him feel all warm and relaxed.
A big black bird with a large yellow beak landed near dad’s old shed and hopped around. All of a sudden it let out a screech and flapped its wings trying to fly off, but it couldn’t.
"Help me. I’ve been caught by the Bogglewumps!" The bird shouted to Hinckley.
He couldn’t believe it. Hinckley scurried over to the frightened bird, "Calm down, your foot’s caught." He unhooked the tiny snare and stroked the bird’s feathers.
"Thank you." It said, "My name is Ordinary-Paul. What’s yours?"
"Um… Hinckley," he replied, not sure what the rules were about talking to strangers when they were animals. "What just happened?"
"It's the Bogglewumps, they set traps to catch animals so they can make them their slaves."
"What’s a Bogglewump?"
"We are," said a nearby voice.
Ordinary-Paul let out another screech and jumped behind Hinckley.
Down amongst the long grass and bits of rubbish Hinckley saw a group of little people. They were dressed in clothes made from sweet wrappers and had bottle caps for hats. They were waving tiny, but very sharp looking, spears. One of them, the leader perhaps, waved a banner with the words 'BEST BEFORE END' on it "We’re going to take our bird back now!"
"I won’t let you," said Hinckley using his toughest voice.
"Oh yeah!" The Bogglewump leader stepped forward, "You and who’s army!" He laughed and the rest of the Bogglewumps cheered.
Hinckley took another biscuit from his pocket and crumbled it behind his back without anyone noticing. "My army is just coming."
The Bogglewumps strained to look. Fighting for position, they started shouting to each other.
…"Where’s his army?"
…"Over there! "
…"Yikes! There's thousands of them."
Ordinary-Paul turned around and saw Hinckley's Army. Columns of ants were marching towards them waving their antennas.
"Do you give in?" asked Hinckley, "Or do I send in my troops?"
"Call them off," squeaked the leader. "You can keep the bird."
"Halt!" commanded Hinckley, and the ants stopped. Ordinary-Paul noticed that they had reached the pile of crumbs.
"My army is all over this garden, so you had better promise to leave the animals alone."
Bogglewumps backed away. "We promise!" they said as they scampered off.
"That was pretty smart," said Ordinary-Paul. "Thanks again."
"No problem."
"I can do magic too," said Ordinary-Paul as he started to hop about and flap his wings. "Lie down and close your eyes. I’m going to make the sun disappear."
Hinckley didn’t believe him but he did what Ordinary-Paul asked. To his surprise the red glow of light shining through his eyelids actually faded and went dark. "Wow! You really did it!"
"Did what dear?"
Hinckley opened his eyes and saw his mum standing over him, blocking out the sun. Looking around he also saw the bird, in a tree. It winked at him. "Oh! …Nothing mum."
(600 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Hinckley Mint was your average seven-year-old boy. That is to say he did average seven-year-old boy things that often got him into trouble with grown-ups. The reason he was alone in his family's back garden was that most of his friends were away on their summer holidays. It might also have had something to do with being caught posting frogs through Miss Toddle's letterbox.
As he lay on the lawn Hinckley watched a line of ants dragging the crumbs from one of his biscuits across the path. His scruffy blonde hair stuck up all over the place and his hands, face and knees were different shades of dirt-brown, grass-green and grazed-red. The sun baked down on Hinckley's back making him feel all warm and relaxed.
A big black bird with a large yellow beak landed near dad’s old shed and hopped around. All of a sudden it let out a screech and flapped its wings trying to fly off, but it couldn’t.
"Help me. I’ve been caught by the Bogglewumps!" The bird shouted to Hinckley.
He couldn’t believe it. Hinckley scurried over to the frightened bird, "Calm down, your foot’s caught." He unhooked the tiny snare and stroked the bird’s feathers.
"Thank you." It said, "My name is Ordinary-Paul. What’s yours?"
"Um… Hinckley," he replied, not sure what the rules were about talking to strangers when they were animals. "What just happened?"
"It's the Bogglewumps, they set traps to catch animals so they can make them their slaves."
"What’s a Bogglewump?"
"We are," said a nearby voice.
Ordinary-Paul let out another screech and jumped behind Hinckley.
Down amongst the long grass and bits of rubbish Hinckley saw a group of little people. They were dressed in clothes made from sweet wrappers and had bottle caps for hats. They were waving tiny, but very sharp looking, spears. One of them, the leader perhaps, waved a banner with the words 'BEST BEFORE END' on it "We’re going to take our bird back now!"
"I won’t let you," said Hinckley using his toughest voice.
"Oh yeah!" The Bogglewump leader stepped forward, "You and who’s army!" He laughed and the rest of the Bogglewumps cheered.
Hinckley took another biscuit from his pocket and crumbled it behind his back without anyone noticing. "My army is just coming."
The Bogglewumps strained to look. Fighting for position, they started shouting to each other.
…"Where’s his army?"
…"Over there! "
…"Yikes! There's thousands of them."
Ordinary-Paul turned around and saw Hinckley's Army. Columns of ants were marching towards them waving their antennas.
"Do you give in?" asked Hinckley, "Or do I send in my troops?"
"Call them off," squeaked the leader. "You can keep the bird."
"Halt!" commanded Hinckley, and the ants stopped. Ordinary-Paul noticed that they had reached the pile of crumbs.
"My army is all over this garden, so you had better promise to leave the animals alone."
Bogglewumps backed away. "We promise!" they said as they scampered off.
"That was pretty smart," said Ordinary-Paul. "Thanks again."
"No problem."
"I can do magic too," said Ordinary-Paul as he started to hop about and flap his wings. "Lie down and close your eyes. I’m going to make the sun disappear."
Hinckley didn’t believe him but he did what Ordinary-Paul asked. To his surprise the red glow of light shining through his eyelids actually faded and went dark. "Wow! You really did it!"
"Did what dear?"
Hinckley opened his eyes and saw his mum standing over him, blocking out the sun. Looking around he also saw the bird, in a tree. It winked at him. "Oh! …Nothing mum."
(600 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Thursday, September 23, 2004
And the wind blew
Intended for children ages 11 to 12 years old.
The cliffs around this part of the coastline are tall and white. Waves constantly chew away at the chalk leaving rubble on the thin shingle beach like crumbs on a plate of dad's favourite cheese.
I liked to walk along the cliff top, as mum would often say, to clear out the cobwebs. I needed to escape the unspoken and menacing tension at home. It felt like I was in a no-mans-land in the middle of some uneasy truce in my parent's own private war. I couldn't help feeling that they were only staying together because of me, and to discover new and inventive ways of hurting each other. So, whenever I could, I came out to walk through the grass and scrub to where the land ended and the sea's domain started.
Venturing closer to the cliffs, away from where the Painted Lady and Red Admiral butterflies waltzed together, to where the black-tipped gulls swooped and dived. Drawn irresistibly ever close to the fragile edge by some submerged Sea-God. As I stood with my toes at the end of the world, looking down at the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the shore, I felt the sea's untamed presence all around.
Even up here I could taste and smell the moist, salty breath of the sea. I heard it rushing past my ears howling and groaning and felt it grabbing at my clothes. The gulls circled around, catching updrafts to surge up the cliff. Laughing and screeching at me, all manic and wild-eyed.
I kicked a stone and watched as it tumbled in a steep arc towards the foam and wondered what it would be like to fall from this height. How long would it take? Would time flash by or go in slow motion? The pounding in my ears almost drowned out the gusts of air and screaming gulls. What if you changed your mind halfway down?
I stepped back from the edge and turned away from the mocking birds to look towards the cottage. Sturdy flint-grey stonework under the slate roof gave it a stubborn, squat, appearance as it crouched, hunkering down, its face towards the sea in defiance. The paint on the window frames and front door was weathered and scarred by the elements.
A girl sat on a bench in front of the cottage. She waved and I nodded back. Like me she was slight and blond, though where my hair was fiercely scraped and tied back and hers flowed freely around her pale shoulders. A tartan rug was across her legs and I noticed that under the tasselled hem shiny callipers imprisoned her legs. I must have been staring because, when she caught my eye again, she smiled a sad, embarrassed, smile. I turned my head away in shame.
A sea of grasses dotted with small islands of coarse bushes surrounded the house. The breeze played on them like the waves on the sea behind me. Stronger gusts sent grassy breakers crashing against the cottage. They broke upon the girl, sending her rug flapping. Slowly she spread her arms wide, her fingers testing the air like the white wingtips of a fledgling albatross eager to break its earthly bonds. She leaned her long thin neck back and let the breeze toss her hair about into a shimmering golden halo. Closing her eyes she smiled, and flew.
I felt my heart skip a beat and turned back to face the sea.
I closed my eyes to the sea's stinging breath that coated me in a salty rind and sent tears rolling towards my ears. Escaped strands of my hair whipped at my face. I opened my mouth to taste my lips and my breath was sucked out with a moan. I felt light-headed with exhilaration, as if I was being lifted like a kite on a string. I spread my arms wide and let the wind take me, stretching the last earthly restraints that grasped at my legs like flailing hands, until at last...
…I was free!
I soared upward. Away from the hard land, angry sea and on into the bright sky above.
The seagulls cried with surprise and excitement and the wind blew.
(700 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
The cliffs around this part of the coastline are tall and white. Waves constantly chew away at the chalk leaving rubble on the thin shingle beach like crumbs on a plate of dad's favourite cheese.
I liked to walk along the cliff top, as mum would often say, to clear out the cobwebs. I needed to escape the unspoken and menacing tension at home. It felt like I was in a no-mans-land in the middle of some uneasy truce in my parent's own private war. I couldn't help feeling that they were only staying together because of me, and to discover new and inventive ways of hurting each other. So, whenever I could, I came out to walk through the grass and scrub to where the land ended and the sea's domain started.
Venturing closer to the cliffs, away from where the Painted Lady and Red Admiral butterflies waltzed together, to where the black-tipped gulls swooped and dived. Drawn irresistibly ever close to the fragile edge by some submerged Sea-God. As I stood with my toes at the end of the world, looking down at the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the shore, I felt the sea's untamed presence all around.
Even up here I could taste and smell the moist, salty breath of the sea. I heard it rushing past my ears howling and groaning and felt it grabbing at my clothes. The gulls circled around, catching updrafts to surge up the cliff. Laughing and screeching at me, all manic and wild-eyed.
I kicked a stone and watched as it tumbled in a steep arc towards the foam and wondered what it would be like to fall from this height. How long would it take? Would time flash by or go in slow motion? The pounding in my ears almost drowned out the gusts of air and screaming gulls. What if you changed your mind halfway down?
I stepped back from the edge and turned away from the mocking birds to look towards the cottage. Sturdy flint-grey stonework under the slate roof gave it a stubborn, squat, appearance as it crouched, hunkering down, its face towards the sea in defiance. The paint on the window frames and front door was weathered and scarred by the elements.
A girl sat on a bench in front of the cottage. She waved and I nodded back. Like me she was slight and blond, though where my hair was fiercely scraped and tied back and hers flowed freely around her pale shoulders. A tartan rug was across her legs and I noticed that under the tasselled hem shiny callipers imprisoned her legs. I must have been staring because, when she caught my eye again, she smiled a sad, embarrassed, smile. I turned my head away in shame.
A sea of grasses dotted with small islands of coarse bushes surrounded the house. The breeze played on them like the waves on the sea behind me. Stronger gusts sent grassy breakers crashing against the cottage. They broke upon the girl, sending her rug flapping. Slowly she spread her arms wide, her fingers testing the air like the white wingtips of a fledgling albatross eager to break its earthly bonds. She leaned her long thin neck back and let the breeze toss her hair about into a shimmering golden halo. Closing her eyes she smiled, and flew.
I felt my heart skip a beat and turned back to face the sea.
I closed my eyes to the sea's stinging breath that coated me in a salty rind and sent tears rolling towards my ears. Escaped strands of my hair whipped at my face. I opened my mouth to taste my lips and my breath was sucked out with a moan. I felt light-headed with exhilaration, as if I was being lifted like a kite on a string. I spread my arms wide and let the wind take me, stretching the last earthly restraints that grasped at my legs like flailing hands, until at last...
…I was free!
I soared upward. Away from the hard land, angry sea and on into the bright sky above.
The seagulls cried with surprise and excitement and the wind blew.
(700 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
A Wizard in the Woods
Intended as part of a series of stories called: Jests, Japes and Wizard Pranks
Intended for children ages 5 to 7 years old.
Finally the school term had ended and I was running home with the summer holidays stretching out before me. I was thinking of all the things Japes and I would get up to; when he jumped out from behind a bush barking. We chased each other up the path to our house.
"Jests! Japes! Mind my Dahlias!" Mum was kneeling by the flowerbed in front of the porch.
"Sorry!" We took the front steps two at a time and were halfway down the hall by the time the screen door banged shut behind us.
Within five minutes I had dumped my bag and was raiding the kitchen. I stuffed a handful of biscuits in my right jacket pocket a freshly baked muffin in the left. Mum always said we should have a balanced diet. Japes thirstily drank from his bowl, splashing water everywhere as he nudged it around the floor.
"Here we come!" I yelled as we burst out the house and leapt the front steps.
"Be back before six!" Mum shouted.
We were walking towards the woods sharing a biscuit when Brunt jumped out in front of us. "What have we here then?" He smiled evilly. "Nice biscuits. Give them to me little weed."
Japes put his ears back and growled, but in one quick move Brunt pointed water pistol at him and shot Japes right in his face. "Cool it mutt!"
Japes yelped and shot off like a rocket into the trees and as Brunt laughed I ran too.
I was only a little way into the wood when I found Japes with a stick in his mouth. "I don't think this is the time to play boy," I said looking back to see Brunt walking our way.
"But it's always time to play fetch." I looked around in surprise but I couldn't see anyone, only Japes with the short black stick at his paws.
"Who… said… that?" I stuttered.
"I did, dummy," said Japes. "That's funny, you usually say 'What's up boy?'" He cocked his head to one side, "You can understand me!"
A sparkle of light shone off the shiny stick. I picked it up, "Strange, it looks like a magicians wand."
"Look out behind you!"
At Japes' warning I turned around to find Brunt right behind me. In fright I hit him with the wand, "Leave us alone you pig!"
There was a flash of light and a loud pop, and when the smoke cleared there was a very surprised pig standing where Brunt used to be. The Brunt-Pig squealed and ran away.
"Oh dear!" I said. "I know he was a bully, but I didn't mean to turn him into a pig!"
"Don't worry, it's not permanent."
Japes and I spun around towards the strange voice. I knew he was a wizard straight away because he had a pointed hat covered in stars.
"It will probably wear off by the time he gets home. Though I doubt he will ever look at a ham sandwich the same way again," he smiled.
That was when we met Wizard Pranks. We knew then that this was going to be the best summer holidays ever.
(528 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Intended for children ages 5 to 7 years old.
Finally the school term had ended and I was running home with the summer holidays stretching out before me. I was thinking of all the things Japes and I would get up to; when he jumped out from behind a bush barking. We chased each other up the path to our house.
"Jests! Japes! Mind my Dahlias!" Mum was kneeling by the flowerbed in front of the porch.
"Sorry!" We took the front steps two at a time and were halfway down the hall by the time the screen door banged shut behind us.
Within five minutes I had dumped my bag and was raiding the kitchen. I stuffed a handful of biscuits in my right jacket pocket a freshly baked muffin in the left. Mum always said we should have a balanced diet. Japes thirstily drank from his bowl, splashing water everywhere as he nudged it around the floor.
"Here we come!" I yelled as we burst out the house and leapt the front steps.
"Be back before six!" Mum shouted.
We were walking towards the woods sharing a biscuit when Brunt jumped out in front of us. "What have we here then?" He smiled evilly. "Nice biscuits. Give them to me little weed."
Japes put his ears back and growled, but in one quick move Brunt pointed water pistol at him and shot Japes right in his face. "Cool it mutt!"
Japes yelped and shot off like a rocket into the trees and as Brunt laughed I ran too.
I was only a little way into the wood when I found Japes with a stick in his mouth. "I don't think this is the time to play boy," I said looking back to see Brunt walking our way.
"But it's always time to play fetch." I looked around in surprise but I couldn't see anyone, only Japes with the short black stick at his paws.
"Who… said… that?" I stuttered.
"I did, dummy," said Japes. "That's funny, you usually say 'What's up boy?'" He cocked his head to one side, "You can understand me!"
A sparkle of light shone off the shiny stick. I picked it up, "Strange, it looks like a magicians wand."
"Look out behind you!"
At Japes' warning I turned around to find Brunt right behind me. In fright I hit him with the wand, "Leave us alone you pig!"
There was a flash of light and a loud pop, and when the smoke cleared there was a very surprised pig standing where Brunt used to be. The Brunt-Pig squealed and ran away.
"Oh dear!" I said. "I know he was a bully, but I didn't mean to turn him into a pig!"
"Don't worry, it's not permanent."
Japes and I spun around towards the strange voice. I knew he was a wizard straight away because he had a pointed hat covered in stars.
"It will probably wear off by the time he gets home. Though I doubt he will ever look at a ham sandwich the same way again," he smiled.
That was when we met Wizard Pranks. We knew then that this was going to be the best summer holidays ever.
(528 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
I heard
Intended for children ages 11 to 14 years old.
I heard the end of the world today. I always thought it would start as a low rumble that you feel rather than hear that would build into a thundering roar so loud that you hear that funny squeaking as your ears distort with the volume. I read somewhere, I think it was in the New Scientist, that the Americans had come up with a sound ray that could shake a person to bits and make their head explode. This was nothing like that though. It was much quieter.
When it happened I was lying underneath my parents' bed. I had taken some of the spare pillows and the winter blanket from the box at the end of the bed and had crawled underneath with them until I was wedged in tight. I could smell the dust in the carpet and the musty smell of the blanket mixing with lemon-fresh fabric-conditioner mum used on the pillowcases. It was a safe place to come where I could daydream.
I often made up stories in my head where I was trapped, perhaps in the rouble of the house after an earthquake. Some unexplained disaster would have occurred and I would be pinned immobile under tonnes of masonry with only a few small gaps where a little air and light could filter through. It wasn't anything to do with self-harm or any of that mental stuff, it was actually about heroically rescuing someone else. Usually it would be a beautiful girl who was also trapped and I would have to overcome my pain and rescue her. Everybody would think I was a hero and I would become famous and the girl who would end up falling in love with me.
I was under the bed when my mum and dad came in. Mum sat on the edge of the bed. I could see her sandals; they were the ones she wore at the beach that had pink and orange plastic flowers on them. Dad was pacing up and down; he was wearing his old brown work shoes. He must have just finished mowing the lawn because I could see bits of grass stuck to the heel.
"It can't go on any more," dad's voice sounded strange, hoarse. "I know we agreed to wait for the sake of Ben, but I can't stand it anymore."
"He's only a child Richard!"
"I know Carol," dad sat down next to mum on the bed. The springs groaned. "But he's nearly twelve now and it would be better to do it now before he goes to High School."
The bed was pushing down on me and I couldn't move. The air seemed stuffier and my mouth was as dry and dusty as the carpet.
I could barely hear mum above the sound of blood pounding in my ears, "What are you suggesting?"
"I could get a flat nearer to work. I'd only need a few bits and pieces and I would make sure you and Ben had everything you needed."
"Damn right you will!" Mum jumped up and rounded on dad. "I can't stop you from going. Even if I wanted to. But I can damn well make sure you look after your son!"
"I know, I know!" dad had stood up and stepped towards mum but she moved away and turned around. The grass had come off his shoe onto the carpet. Mum always insisted we wipe our feet before coming into the house. "Look we'll talk to Ben tonight, quietly and calmly."
I always thought the end of the world would be louder than that.
(600 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
I heard the end of the world today. I always thought it would start as a low rumble that you feel rather than hear that would build into a thundering roar so loud that you hear that funny squeaking as your ears distort with the volume. I read somewhere, I think it was in the New Scientist, that the Americans had come up with a sound ray that could shake a person to bits and make their head explode. This was nothing like that though. It was much quieter.
When it happened I was lying underneath my parents' bed. I had taken some of the spare pillows and the winter blanket from the box at the end of the bed and had crawled underneath with them until I was wedged in tight. I could smell the dust in the carpet and the musty smell of the blanket mixing with lemon-fresh fabric-conditioner mum used on the pillowcases. It was a safe place to come where I could daydream.
I often made up stories in my head where I was trapped, perhaps in the rouble of the house after an earthquake. Some unexplained disaster would have occurred and I would be pinned immobile under tonnes of masonry with only a few small gaps where a little air and light could filter through. It wasn't anything to do with self-harm or any of that mental stuff, it was actually about heroically rescuing someone else. Usually it would be a beautiful girl who was also trapped and I would have to overcome my pain and rescue her. Everybody would think I was a hero and I would become famous and the girl who would end up falling in love with me.
I was under the bed when my mum and dad came in. Mum sat on the edge of the bed. I could see her sandals; they were the ones she wore at the beach that had pink and orange plastic flowers on them. Dad was pacing up and down; he was wearing his old brown work shoes. He must have just finished mowing the lawn because I could see bits of grass stuck to the heel.
"It can't go on any more," dad's voice sounded strange, hoarse. "I know we agreed to wait for the sake of Ben, but I can't stand it anymore."
"He's only a child Richard!"
"I know Carol," dad sat down next to mum on the bed. The springs groaned. "But he's nearly twelve now and it would be better to do it now before he goes to High School."
The bed was pushing down on me and I couldn't move. The air seemed stuffier and my mouth was as dry and dusty as the carpet.
I could barely hear mum above the sound of blood pounding in my ears, "What are you suggesting?"
"I could get a flat nearer to work. I'd only need a few bits and pieces and I would make sure you and Ben had everything you needed."
"Damn right you will!" Mum jumped up and rounded on dad. "I can't stop you from going. Even if I wanted to. But I can damn well make sure you look after your son!"
"I know, I know!" dad had stood up and stepped towards mum but she moved away and turned around. The grass had come off his shoe onto the carpet. Mum always insisted we wipe our feet before coming into the house. "Look we'll talk to Ben tonight, quietly and calmly."
I always thought the end of the world would be louder than that.
(600 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
I am a... ...farmyard animal
Intended for children ages 5 to 6 years old.
Today I am going to be a farmyard animal. Can you guess what I am?
I walk around in the field on four legs.
I am covered in curly wool.
I eat lots of green grass.
I make the sound… Baa! Baa!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a sheep.
I have big webbed feet.
I have feathers, wings and a wide beak.
I swim around in the pond.
I make the sound… Quack! Quack!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a duck.
I live out in the field and I have four legs.
I have horns and a big wet nose.
The farmer gets milk from me.
I make the sound… Moo! Moo!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a cow.
I have wings instead of arms.
I peck the ground with my pointy beak.
I lay eggs for the farmer.
I make the sound… Cluck! Cluck!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a chicken.
I have four short legs.
I have a big flat nose and a little curly tail.
I like to sit in the mud to keep cool.
I make the sound… Oink! Oink!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a pig.
I am tall and have four long legs.
I have long ears and a long tail.
I might let you ride on my back.
I make the sound… Neigh! Neigh!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a horse.
I have four legs and I like to run.
I have a tail that I like to wag.
I will lick your face if you let me.
I make the sound… Woof! Woof!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a dog.
(Word count, 303)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Today I am going to be a farmyard animal. Can you guess what I am?
I walk around in the field on four legs.
I am covered in curly wool.
I eat lots of green grass.
I make the sound… Baa! Baa!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a sheep.
I have big webbed feet.
I have feathers, wings and a wide beak.
I swim around in the pond.
I make the sound… Quack! Quack!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a duck.
I live out in the field and I have four legs.
I have horns and a big wet nose.
The farmer gets milk from me.
I make the sound… Moo! Moo!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a cow.
I have wings instead of arms.
I peck the ground with my pointy beak.
I lay eggs for the farmer.
I make the sound… Cluck! Cluck!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a chicken.
I have four short legs.
I have a big flat nose and a little curly tail.
I like to sit in the mud to keep cool.
I make the sound… Oink! Oink!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a pig.
I am tall and have four long legs.
I have long ears and a long tail.
I might let you ride on my back.
I make the sound… Neigh! Neigh!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a horse.
I have four legs and I like to run.
I have a tail that I like to wag.
I will lick your face if you let me.
I make the sound… Woof! Woof!
Can you guess what I am?
That's right, I am a dog.
(Word count, 303)
© Mark Ashton 2004
I know who did it
Intended for children ages 6 to 8 years old.
My name is Rosie and today is my seventh birthday.
I couldn’t wait for the school day to finish. I was so excited because my Granddad was throwing a party for me and all my friends would be coming.
Where I sat at my desk in class I could see out the window onto the High Street. Lots of people had been walking up and down all day.
As soon as the school bell rang I ran down to Granddads place. He greeted me at the door all dressed up in his best suit. He gave me a big hug and said, "Come and look at the front room." It was all decorated beautifully. In the middle of the table was the biggest birthday cake I had ever seen.
"Who made that?" I asked.
"Guess."
Well, I remembered that I saw Mr. Bobble walking down the road carrying a big box. His hands were all covered with different colours, just like the icing on the cake.
"Was it Mr. Bobble?"
"No. Mr. Bobble made the banner." It was a wonderful Happy Birthday Rosie banner painted in many different colours.
I also saw Mrs. Tinker cycle down the road with her basket on her bike. She was waving at bees that buzzed after her. They could have smelled sugar like that in the cake.
"Was it Mrs. Tinker?"
"No. Mrs. Tinker brought the flowers." There was a lovely smelling bunch of roses in a vase.
I did see Mrs. Fannaker-Pants walk down the road pushing her trolley. I am sure I saw some ribbon sticking out of the top, just like that around the cake.
"Was it Mrs. Fannaker-Pants?"
"No. Mrs. Fannaker-Pants made you a party dress." There hanging behind the door was a pretty pink dress with a ribbon bow at the middle.
"Put it on before everybody turns up." Granddad said. "I’ll be in the kitchen."
I was just fastening my party dress up, when I noticed white footprints on the carpet. I followed them to the kitchen and when I opened the door there was Granddad at the sink. He was washing a big bowl and a big tin. There was a packet of currents on the bench and flour all over the floor.
"I know who did it!" I shouted, "It was you Granddad. You made my birthday cake!"
"I did, just for my special little Rosie."
(400 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
My name is Rosie and today is my seventh birthday.
I couldn’t wait for the school day to finish. I was so excited because my Granddad was throwing a party for me and all my friends would be coming.
Where I sat at my desk in class I could see out the window onto the High Street. Lots of people had been walking up and down all day.
As soon as the school bell rang I ran down to Granddads place. He greeted me at the door all dressed up in his best suit. He gave me a big hug and said, "Come and look at the front room." It was all decorated beautifully. In the middle of the table was the biggest birthday cake I had ever seen.
"Who made that?" I asked.
"Guess."
Well, I remembered that I saw Mr. Bobble walking down the road carrying a big box. His hands were all covered with different colours, just like the icing on the cake.
"Was it Mr. Bobble?"
"No. Mr. Bobble made the banner." It was a wonderful Happy Birthday Rosie banner painted in many different colours.
I also saw Mrs. Tinker cycle down the road with her basket on her bike. She was waving at bees that buzzed after her. They could have smelled sugar like that in the cake.
"Was it Mrs. Tinker?"
"No. Mrs. Tinker brought the flowers." There was a lovely smelling bunch of roses in a vase.
I did see Mrs. Fannaker-Pants walk down the road pushing her trolley. I am sure I saw some ribbon sticking out of the top, just like that around the cake.
"Was it Mrs. Fannaker-Pants?"
"No. Mrs. Fannaker-Pants made you a party dress." There hanging behind the door was a pretty pink dress with a ribbon bow at the middle.
"Put it on before everybody turns up." Granddad said. "I’ll be in the kitchen."
I was just fastening my party dress up, when I noticed white footprints on the carpet. I followed them to the kitchen and when I opened the door there was Granddad at the sink. He was washing a big bowl and a big tin. There was a packet of currents on the bench and flour all over the floor.
"I know who did it!" I shouted, "It was you Granddad. You made my birthday cake!"
"I did, just for my special little Rosie."
(400 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
And Joshua flipped his lid
Intended for children ages 11 to 14 years old.
It was a cold day on Thursday, the rain wouldn’t let up, the wind whistled around the schoolyard, and Joshua flipped his lid.
Joshua is one of my cousins. His younger brother, Jake, is in my class.
Josh had seemed different for while now. Sometimes he would be jumping all over the place, talking twenty to the dozen, and doing all sorts of stupid things. Other times he would be really sulky and just sit in the back of class complaining of aches and pains. Jake said his parents were always talking quietly together and taking Josh to the doctors.
"They say he is having some tests done," said Jake at lunchtime.
"I thought it was normal for teenagers to be pains?" I opened up my sandwich. Hundreds-and-Thousands in chocolate spread, you could always tell when Mum was away on business and Dad was looking after us. "My big sister is like it all the time."
"This is different though," Jake looked worried. "I overheard Mum say something about being I’ll when she was younger."
We didn’t hear the fight as our classroom is at the other end of school from Joshua’s, but we knew something was up when an ambulance and cops drove into the car park.
We were all looking out the window when Miss Wolesley came into the room and whispered into Mr. Dean’s ear and came over to Jake.
"Jake," she looked pale. "You need to come with me. Your Mum and Dad are on their way."
As Jake stood up to leave our eyes met. He looked petrified.
It was all around the school by home time. Apparently Joshua’s teacher was trying to get him to sit down and Joshua flipped his lid. He actually thumped Mr. Williams and started screaming and yelling all sorts of stuff. All the kids were saying that he had gone completely nuts.
When I got home Dad was sitting at the dining table with my sister. They both looked at me when I came in and I could see Shelly had been crying.
"What’s wrong? Is it Josh?"
Dad got up and put his arm around my shoulder. "Joshua is not… well." Shelly started crying again.
"He is going to be alright isn’t he?"
"Sure he is," Dad squeezed my arm. "He has an illness called Bipolar Disorder that gives him bad mood swings.
"Is this what Auntie Joan had when she was younger?"
Dad raised his eyebrows.
"…Jake said he heard something."
He inhaled deeply. "Yes, when your Auntie was Josh’s age she had the same thing." He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "It is something that can be passed on to her children."
"But Auntie Joan seems fine."
"And so will Josh be once he gets the proper treatment." Dad smiled a tight smile. "They will all need our total support."
Shelly and I looked at each other. "Of course!" I said, "They are family after all."
© Mark Ashton 2004
It was a cold day on Thursday, the rain wouldn’t let up, the wind whistled around the schoolyard, and Joshua flipped his lid.
Joshua is one of my cousins. His younger brother, Jake, is in my class.
Josh had seemed different for while now. Sometimes he would be jumping all over the place, talking twenty to the dozen, and doing all sorts of stupid things. Other times he would be really sulky and just sit in the back of class complaining of aches and pains. Jake said his parents were always talking quietly together and taking Josh to the doctors.
"They say he is having some tests done," said Jake at lunchtime.
"I thought it was normal for teenagers to be pains?" I opened up my sandwich. Hundreds-and-Thousands in chocolate spread, you could always tell when Mum was away on business and Dad was looking after us. "My big sister is like it all the time."
"This is different though," Jake looked worried. "I overheard Mum say something about being I’ll when she was younger."
We didn’t hear the fight as our classroom is at the other end of school from Joshua’s, but we knew something was up when an ambulance and cops drove into the car park.
We were all looking out the window when Miss Wolesley came into the room and whispered into Mr. Dean’s ear and came over to Jake.
"Jake," she looked pale. "You need to come with me. Your Mum and Dad are on their way."
As Jake stood up to leave our eyes met. He looked petrified.
It was all around the school by home time. Apparently Joshua’s teacher was trying to get him to sit down and Joshua flipped his lid. He actually thumped Mr. Williams and started screaming and yelling all sorts of stuff. All the kids were saying that he had gone completely nuts.
When I got home Dad was sitting at the dining table with my sister. They both looked at me when I came in and I could see Shelly had been crying.
"What’s wrong? Is it Josh?"
Dad got up and put his arm around my shoulder. "Joshua is not… well." Shelly started crying again.
"He is going to be alright isn’t he?"
"Sure he is," Dad squeezed my arm. "He has an illness called Bipolar Disorder that gives him bad mood swings.
"Is this what Auntie Joan had when she was younger?"
Dad raised his eyebrows.
"…Jake said he heard something."
He inhaled deeply. "Yes, when your Auntie was Josh’s age she had the same thing." He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "It is something that can be passed on to her children."
"But Auntie Joan seems fine."
"And so will Josh be once he gets the proper treatment." Dad smiled a tight smile. "They will all need our total support."
Shelly and I looked at each other. "Of course!" I said, "They are family after all."
© Mark Ashton 2004
The Smallest One
Intended for children ages 5 to 7 years old.
Mrs Crookback’s class was staring at the big pile of colourful boxes in the middle of the room when she croaked in her old lady’s voice. "Today, children, is a very special day."
Jimmy Little and his classmates looked at each other wondering what was going to happen.
"We have had a delivery of new toys for the school, and you are the lucky children who get to play with them first." Raising her voice above the noise of the excited children, "Each of you, please come choose one box to open."
Tom Towers jumped to his feet straight away, "I’m the biggest so I should have the biggest box," he rushed over and started ripping off the paper. "Wow! A shiny yellow go-kart, fantastic!"
The other children then started to choose boxes excitedly.
Jimmy noticed that Molly Meek was standing shyly at the back. Pushing Molly forward Jimmy said, "You should pick one now, before they all go."
Jimmy Little, the smallest kid in class, got the last box, the smallest one.
"What did you get?" Jimmy asked Molly.
Holding up her hands Molly showed him a pair of padded gloves.
Sally Sweet waved a set of stumps in the air and said, "I’ve got these stick things."
"I have a bat," smiled James Jolly.
"All we need now is a ball and we can play a game of cricket," said Fran Freckles from under a large umpire’s hat.
Jimmy opened his box and pulled out a bright red ball.
Tom Towers sat by himself in the go-kart. "Nobody will push me," he said to Jimmy.
"Why don’t you come and join us?" said Jimmy throwing him the ball.
"Well," said Mrs Crookback to herself. "I guess it really is true that good things come in small packages."
(300 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Mrs Crookback’s class was staring at the big pile of colourful boxes in the middle of the room when she croaked in her old lady’s voice. "Today, children, is a very special day."
Jimmy Little and his classmates looked at each other wondering what was going to happen.
"We have had a delivery of new toys for the school, and you are the lucky children who get to play with them first." Raising her voice above the noise of the excited children, "Each of you, please come choose one box to open."
Tom Towers jumped to his feet straight away, "I’m the biggest so I should have the biggest box," he rushed over and started ripping off the paper. "Wow! A shiny yellow go-kart, fantastic!"
The other children then started to choose boxes excitedly.
Jimmy noticed that Molly Meek was standing shyly at the back. Pushing Molly forward Jimmy said, "You should pick one now, before they all go."
Jimmy Little, the smallest kid in class, got the last box, the smallest one.
"What did you get?" Jimmy asked Molly.
Holding up her hands Molly showed him a pair of padded gloves.
Sally Sweet waved a set of stumps in the air and said, "I’ve got these stick things."
"I have a bat," smiled James Jolly.
"All we need now is a ball and we can play a game of cricket," said Fran Freckles from under a large umpire’s hat.
Jimmy opened his box and pulled out a bright red ball.
Tom Towers sat by himself in the go-kart. "Nobody will push me," he said to Jimmy.
"Why don’t you come and join us?" said Jimmy throwing him the ball.
"Well," said Mrs Crookback to herself. "I guess it really is true that good things come in small packages."
(300 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Lucky Number
Intended for children ages 8 to 10 years old.
My name is Honey and today is my birthday. I like numbers and I am thinking of choosing the number four as my new lucky number. I am now eight years old, which is two times four. My sister calls me four-eyes because I wear glasses; she is twelve years old, which is three times four.
This morning I watched dad in the back yard practising golf. He is forty-eight years old, which is twelve times four. He swung his club and shouted, "Fore!" as the ball went flying.
Mum picked up her car keys and said, "Come on Honey, you don’t want to be late for Mrs. Ulman". Mum drives me to my piano lesson every Tuesday. Mum is thirty-two years old, which is eight times four.
"Thanks for the lift Mum," I said as I got out the car at Mrs. Ulman’s house. It is number forty-four, which is eleven times four. I smoothed down my new dress and skipped up to the front door and knocked.
Mrs. Ulman’s son Moishe opened the door. "Great timing Honey. Mum is just finishing with Jia." He raised his eyebrows, "Wow! Smart dress!" He stepped back, swung his arm out and bowed. "Please, come in your highness."
I punched him playfully on the arm, "Shut up Moishe."
We went into the music room where Moishe’s mum and Jia were sitting at the piano. Jia jumped up and ran over, "Happy birthday, Honey." She gave me a big hug.
"Do you feel any different now that you are eight?" asked Mrs. Ulman.
"Well, I was thinking of changing my lucky number to four", I answered.
Moishe turned to his mum. "Four is a lucky number for us Jews, isn’t it mum?"
"Yes dear. It is certainly very important in Jewish religious celebrations like Passover."
Jia shook her head. "The number four is not lucky to the Chinese. In fact it means death." She drew her index finger across her throat. "The number eight, though, is very lucky. It means you are going to get a fortune very soon."
"Well," said Mrs Ulman, " if Honey can manage to stay in-tune today I think it will be very fortunate for us all. Get it? ‘Four-tune-eight’. She laughed.
"Oh dear," we all said together, laughing too. "Perhaps you should stick to teaching piano."
(Word count: 389 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Four Times Table
1 x 4 = 4
2 x 4 = 8
3 x 4 = 12
4 x 4 = 16
5 x 4 = 20
6 x 4 = 24
7 x 4 =28
8 x 4 = 32
9 x 4 = 36
10 x 4 = 40
11 x 4 = 44
12 x 4 = 48
My name is Honey and today is my birthday. I like numbers and I am thinking of choosing the number four as my new lucky number. I am now eight years old, which is two times four. My sister calls me four-eyes because I wear glasses; she is twelve years old, which is three times four.
This morning I watched dad in the back yard practising golf. He is forty-eight years old, which is twelve times four. He swung his club and shouted, "Fore!" as the ball went flying.
Mum picked up her car keys and said, "Come on Honey, you don’t want to be late for Mrs. Ulman". Mum drives me to my piano lesson every Tuesday. Mum is thirty-two years old, which is eight times four.
"Thanks for the lift Mum," I said as I got out the car at Mrs. Ulman’s house. It is number forty-four, which is eleven times four. I smoothed down my new dress and skipped up to the front door and knocked.
Mrs. Ulman’s son Moishe opened the door. "Great timing Honey. Mum is just finishing with Jia." He raised his eyebrows, "Wow! Smart dress!" He stepped back, swung his arm out and bowed. "Please, come in your highness."
I punched him playfully on the arm, "Shut up Moishe."
We went into the music room where Moishe’s mum and Jia were sitting at the piano. Jia jumped up and ran over, "Happy birthday, Honey." She gave me a big hug.
"Do you feel any different now that you are eight?" asked Mrs. Ulman.
"Well, I was thinking of changing my lucky number to four", I answered.
Moishe turned to his mum. "Four is a lucky number for us Jews, isn’t it mum?"
"Yes dear. It is certainly very important in Jewish religious celebrations like Passover."
Jia shook her head. "The number four is not lucky to the Chinese. In fact it means death." She drew her index finger across her throat. "The number eight, though, is very lucky. It means you are going to get a fortune very soon."
"Well," said Mrs Ulman, " if Honey can manage to stay in-tune today I think it will be very fortunate for us all. Get it? ‘Four-tune-eight’. She laughed.
"Oh dear," we all said together, laughing too. "Perhaps you should stick to teaching piano."
(Word count: 389 words)
© Mark Ashton 2004
Four Times Table
1 x 4 = 4
2 x 4 = 8
3 x 4 = 12
4 x 4 = 16
5 x 4 = 20
6 x 4 = 24
7 x 4 =28
8 x 4 = 32
9 x 4 = 36
10 x 4 = 40
11 x 4 = 44
12 x 4 = 48
Marooned
Intended for children ages 11 to 12 years old.
Martin gazed out of the window of Bella Pasta at the crowds of people wandering aimlessly around Leicester Square. Most of them, like Martin and his mother, were tourists attracted to this small area of London more by it’s name than by anything in particular to see. He wiped tomato sauce from his mouth and drained the last of the Coke, crunching the ice-cubes loudly.
"You little thief!" exclaimed Martin’s mum as she tucked the restaurant receipt into her purse. "That was my drink." She dropped a few coins on the table for the waiter. "You’re for it now," she said, trying to sound scary, and failing. "Come with me, I’ve got the perfect punishment."
They waded their way out of the square through the crush of people past the stalls selling plastic policeman helmets, Union-Jack Flags and T-Shirts with maps of the London Underground printed on them. They went a short way down the busy street until Martin’s mum started up wide steps towards a large entrance.
"What’s this place?" said Martin, looking at the stone columns either side of the double doors.
"It’s called the National Portrait Gallery" Martin’s mum reached for the brass handle. "It has an amazing collection of paintings."
"Amazing… NOT", thought Martin as he followed his mother past the grand stone staircase and into a fancy old room. "There’s hundreds of paintings. I’m going to be stuck here for ages." Sighing Martin plonked himself down on a bench and took out his GameBoy.
Nearby two people were talking about the paintings. "Ah! Yes. This one is of Robert Jeffery. He was marooned on a remote island for stealing a drink don’t you know?"
Martin glanced up. "Marooned for stealing a drink." I can relate to that he thought.
"His is quite an interesting story really." The speaker was a tall man with unruly hair and a deep voice. He looked like Dr. Who from TV, the one with the long scarf and jelly babies. He was with another man who wore an old fashioned jacket that had those funny patches on the elbows. They were looking at a painting of a desperate young man who was half-lying on a rugged rock that was being pounded by fierce waves. "Robert Jeffery was a poor simple teenager from Cornwall pressed into service on the warship HMS Recruit in the early eighteen hundreds."
"Pressed?" Interrupted the other man, twisting his moustache.
"That is where men were tricked or taken by force to serve in the Navy."
"Kidnapped?" Moustache’s eyebrows shot up.
"Sort of. Anyway, the ship was sailing to the West Indies when young Jeffery was caught stealing beer. HMS Recruit’s cruel Captain Lake’s punishment was to abandon Jeffery on the remote island of Sombrero. An inhospitable place without food or water."
"Just for stealing beer? Outrageous!"
Dr. Who ran a hand through his hair, to no effect. "When the admiral found out he thought so too and ordered the captain to return and pick the poor chap up." He tousled his beard too. "They didn’t get back to the island until two months later."
"Surely Jeffery couldn’t have survived that long without food and water?"
"As it turned out he didn’t have to," Dr. Who continued. "Luckily a passing American schooner rescued him after nine days." Dr. Who leaned closer to Moustache. "The evil captain didn’t get off scot-free though. In fact the Admiralty in London and even Parliament became involved and the captain was court-martialled and dismissed." He turned to study the painting. "Robert Jeffery became something of a local celebrity for a short while, they even had an exhibition and called him ‘the Governor of Sombrero’. He eventually returned to obscurity in Cornwall"
Dr. Who and Moustache moved off to the next painting. "Now this one…"
Martin wondered just how scared Jeffery must have felt as he watched his ship disappear over the horizon, abandoned so far from home to die of starvation and thirst. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder.
"Steady!" Laughed his mum. "You were miles away. What were you thinking of?"
"Being marooned." He stood up and took a last look at the painting.
(word count 700)
© Mark Ashton 2003
Martin gazed out of the window of Bella Pasta at the crowds of people wandering aimlessly around Leicester Square. Most of them, like Martin and his mother, were tourists attracted to this small area of London more by it’s name than by anything in particular to see. He wiped tomato sauce from his mouth and drained the last of the Coke, crunching the ice-cubes loudly.
"You little thief!" exclaimed Martin’s mum as she tucked the restaurant receipt into her purse. "That was my drink." She dropped a few coins on the table for the waiter. "You’re for it now," she said, trying to sound scary, and failing. "Come with me, I’ve got the perfect punishment."
They waded their way out of the square through the crush of people past the stalls selling plastic policeman helmets, Union-Jack Flags and T-Shirts with maps of the London Underground printed on them. They went a short way down the busy street until Martin’s mum started up wide steps towards a large entrance.
"What’s this place?" said Martin, looking at the stone columns either side of the double doors.
"It’s called the National Portrait Gallery" Martin’s mum reached for the brass handle. "It has an amazing collection of paintings."
"Amazing… NOT", thought Martin as he followed his mother past the grand stone staircase and into a fancy old room. "There’s hundreds of paintings. I’m going to be stuck here for ages." Sighing Martin plonked himself down on a bench and took out his GameBoy.
Nearby two people were talking about the paintings. "Ah! Yes. This one is of Robert Jeffery. He was marooned on a remote island for stealing a drink don’t you know?"
Martin glanced up. "Marooned for stealing a drink." I can relate to that he thought.
"His is quite an interesting story really." The speaker was a tall man with unruly hair and a deep voice. He looked like Dr. Who from TV, the one with the long scarf and jelly babies. He was with another man who wore an old fashioned jacket that had those funny patches on the elbows. They were looking at a painting of a desperate young man who was half-lying on a rugged rock that was being pounded by fierce waves. "Robert Jeffery was a poor simple teenager from Cornwall pressed into service on the warship HMS Recruit in the early eighteen hundreds."
"Pressed?" Interrupted the other man, twisting his moustache.
"That is where men were tricked or taken by force to serve in the Navy."
"Kidnapped?" Moustache’s eyebrows shot up.
"Sort of. Anyway, the ship was sailing to the West Indies when young Jeffery was caught stealing beer. HMS Recruit’s cruel Captain Lake’s punishment was to abandon Jeffery on the remote island of Sombrero. An inhospitable place without food or water."
"Just for stealing beer? Outrageous!"
Dr. Who ran a hand through his hair, to no effect. "When the admiral found out he thought so too and ordered the captain to return and pick the poor chap up." He tousled his beard too. "They didn’t get back to the island until two months later."
"Surely Jeffery couldn’t have survived that long without food and water?"
"As it turned out he didn’t have to," Dr. Who continued. "Luckily a passing American schooner rescued him after nine days." Dr. Who leaned closer to Moustache. "The evil captain didn’t get off scot-free though. In fact the Admiralty in London and even Parliament became involved and the captain was court-martialled and dismissed." He turned to study the painting. "Robert Jeffery became something of a local celebrity for a short while, they even had an exhibition and called him ‘the Governor of Sombrero’. He eventually returned to obscurity in Cornwall"
Dr. Who and Moustache moved off to the next painting. "Now this one…"
Martin wondered just how scared Jeffery must have felt as he watched his ship disappear over the horizon, abandoned so far from home to die of starvation and thirst. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder.
"Steady!" Laughed his mum. "You were miles away. What were you thinking of?"
"Being marooned." He stood up and took a last look at the painting.
(word count 700)
© Mark Ashton 2003
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