Daily Archives: November 4, 2013

Originally Intended for Publication on April 1st

Originally Intended for Publication on April 1st

The other day I heard the Earth was flat,

That all these years it’s been like a mat,

That you hardly see or notice there,

Until you are told the Earth is square.

If it is square then I am sure,

What I have learned was oh-so-flawed.

But perhaps it’s all a dream of sorts,

And when I awake all will be as before,

And if it’s not then I must learn,

Not to walk too far lest I fall off the edge.


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Posted by on November 4, 2013 in Stories for children


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Oh to Have Legs (a slug’s prayer)

Oh to have legs like insects and things,

To walk on all fours is something I dream,

Or even just two, like HU-MAN THEINGS.

Would make me so happy, would realise my dreams


I dream of the day, I grow legs and see,

What it feels like to walk, not slime so lowly,

You see, I am a poor slug with no legs at all,

A garbled old thing, just slime and slow drawl.


Now don’t get me wrong it’s not all bad, I confess,

There are some perks living in a damp mess,

But I cannot help wonder about legs, I admit,

Oh lord give me legs, be it two, four or six.


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Posted by on November 4, 2013 in Stories for children


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Are You Normal?

stories for kids

Are you normal?

Are you normal?

Do you want to be,

A faceless person in a heaving sea,

With no aims, ambitions, dreams or goals,

Just happily plodding along that road?


Are you slowly dying?

Don’t you feel the magic of each new day,

The sounds of laughter as children play,

The warmth of the sun on your back, so good,

The song of birds, the smell of wood?


Are you passing time?   

Don’t you wonder at the sky, so blue?

The start and end so vague to you.

I hear you say, ‘I am happy, still,’

So too is an ant that has no will.


Wake up, wake up!

It’s not too late,

There still is time to change your fate,

Renounce the normal, do something MAD,

Shock them all create a fad.


Be yourself, alive with goals,

With dreams and wonders still untold,

Exult this life in your distinctive way,

It’s yours alone; you must have your say,

Lest you slip into oblivion without a trace (left behind).


The Crazymad Writer writes again.


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Harry Rotter

Harry Rotter

Chapter One

No, our best china’s in there!

Mr. and Mrs. Privet, of number twenty-three Dorsley Drive, were anything but normal. They had been normal only a few weeks earlier, but they were now as crazy as anyone fortunate enough to have been incarcerated in the local loony bin.

On the outside, Mr. Privet, a tall, bald and incredibly thin man, appeared quite normal, but just beneath the surface, barely hidden, he was a seething mass of nervous ticks, idiosyncratic behavior, peptic ulcers and, above all, just plain loonyness.

As well as suffering from the same mad ways as her loopy husband, the extraordinarily fat Mrs. Privet was also suffering from the dreadful infliction of hearing voices in her head. She might hear them at any time of the day or night, and would oftentimes jump up in bed screaming in a most alarming way, giving her husband such a fright he’d begin shaking uncontrollably. It was a most dreadful state of affairs altogether. Despite suffering from these awful conditions, Mr. and Mrs. Privet tried to continue living as normal a life as was possible, but hardly a day went by without one of them experiencing a mad interlude that would make most normal people simply roll over and die.

Before I continue on with my story I must also tell you about their son Box, Box Privet. This child (the veritable apple of their eyes) was, like his father, of a tall and incredibly thin physique. At times this trait would cause him to be the butt of jokes and jibes by his classmates and acquaintances. However, he paid little or no attention, because his mind was always set firmly on the love, the passion of his life – electronics. Upstairs, in his small bedroom, Box would work for hours on end with his soldering iron, long nose pliers and tweezers creating, crafting bringing his new ideas to life. It was a lonely existence, but it suited him fine.

I have already told you how Mr. and Mrs. Privet had been quite normal only a few weeks earlier. In all truthfulness the Privet’s had been one of the happiest families in their entire estate of mock Elizabethan detached houses. But now they were mad, living in fear for their lives, the happy and contented existence they had so enjoyed in tatters, a shambles, and a shadow of what it had once been.

You see, the Privet’s had been hiding a secret, a big secret. And while it had been contained and suppressed, as they felt is should still be, they had been enjoying that happy and contented life, but from the moment, the very instant this secret, this terrible secret had escaped from its place of incarceration, a private boarding school going by the name of Hagswords, it came to an abrupt and shocking end.


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Harry Potter?

No, silly, she’s Harry Rotter!


Stories for children and young at heart adults

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The Fog: an extraordinary tale

The Fog

It was a cold November evening, so cold the weak, autumnal sun made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended the previous night. As I approached my friends’ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family tradition to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, including the family’s migration from the tiny outpost of the same name, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of guests had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights.

 Opening the gate, I walked along the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a facsimile of a lion’s head, I gave the door an assertive knock. I waited for my hosts to respond.

  “Is that Jeremiah?” Christine asked, calling to her husband, upstairs.

 “Yes, darling,” Charles replied, making his way downstairs, to the door. Opening it, he greeted me. Seeing how frosty and cold it was outside, he said, “Welcome, Jeremiah. You must be frozen – come in. Hand me your coat and hat, then get yourself to the sitting room.”

 I made my way into the sitting room, where Charles offered me the armchair directly in front of their roaring log fire. Stretching out my hands, warming them, I thanked him for his hospitality.

Entering the room, Christine said, “Jeremiah, it’s so good to see you – and on such a cold night!”

 “You know me,” I chuckled, “out in all weathers…”

 “Out in all weathers is one thing – but this?” she replied, opening the curtains, gazing at the frost covered ground.

 “How about a nice glass of Madeira, to warm you up?” Charles asked.

“Sounds good,” I replied.

Picking up the bottle of Madeira wine that had been resting in front of the fire, warming, he said, “Won’t be a tick.”

I smiled; I had no need to reply, because my two friends, whom I had known all my life, knew me inside out.

 “Here you are,” said Charles, “a glass for the weary traveller.” He handed me a glass full to the brim with the fiery brown liquid. “And one for you, dear,” he added, offering his wife a glass, also.

 As my two hosts joined me, relaxing in their wonderfully comfortable armchairs, sitting in front of the sparkling, crackling log fire, I thanked my God to have been blessed with such good friends. 

 As we caught up with all the gossip, talked about our plans for the future, and reminisced about the good, fun times we had enjoyed over the years, the evening passed quickly (time seems to have that effect, when you’re having a good time, doesn’t it?).

Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that was past eleven, so knocking back the last of my Madeira wine (my fourth glassful, I might add), I thanked my congenial hosts for their hospitality, then extricated myself from the comfortable chair.

 “You’re welcome,” said Christine, giving me a little peck on the cheek.

Handing me my coat and hat, Charles said, “You’re always welcome in our home.”

 Buttoning my coat, pulling the belt tightly closed, I shivered, thinking of the cold night facing me outside. After donning my hat, I was ready to go.

 Charles gasped in shock when he opened the door. “Look,” he said, “I’ve never seen so bad a fog!”

 While we had been cosy and warm inside, drinking our Madeira wine, having a good time, a heavy fog had descended. It was bad, really bad, a pea souper if ever I saw one.

 “You will have to stay here for the night,” Charles insisted. “You’ll never find your way home in that!”



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Sparky Parents

Sparky Parents

I will tell you this, from me to you,
To rear good children all that you need do,
Is be good parents, be shining bright,
The spark of their dreams and the light of their lives.
While they are young and when everything’s new,
Be their best friend, and they with you,
For childhood is fleeting and before very long,
They will have departed the nest and left you alone,
So pull up a blanket lay under the stars,
And dream both together of pipes, cloaks and cars.


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Posted by on November 4, 2013 in Stories for children



Giggle my Boots

Giggle my boots, gaggle my hat,

Goggle my shirtsleeves and fraggle that cat.

I am friggled with laughter, for I know that it’s true,

That you really do love me, not Johnny Lazoo.


You see, Johnny Lazoo, a man of some strength,

Wanted to court you, wanted to bend,

Your ear with his stories, your eye with his looks,

But you never gave him as much as a look.


The day that you said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, I will,’

Was the happiest day of my life; it was brill,

To think that you chose me over Johnny Lazoo,

Makes me friggle with laughter, knowing it’s true.


Before I head off with my bride and my life,

I will give you this piece of excellent advice.

If you are planning to woo your beau, here’s the rub,

Friggle her with laughter and griggle her with love.


The Crazymad Writer writes again.

Stories for children and young at heart adults

By ME, The Crazymad Writer – ARRRRGH.


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