Horrible Horace Flies a Kite
Children LOVE Him: Parents HATE Him
Horrible Horace Flies a Kite
Chapter One
A Brown Paper Bag
Horrible Horace’s father came home from work looking unusually pleased with himself. Because he worked nights, it was still morning, and his wife was busy shepherding the children out the door. Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria were pulling on coats and jamming hats over their heads when he stopped them.
“Off so soon?” he said, grinning. “Before you’ve seen what I’ve got for you?”
With great ceremony, he produced a brown paper bag.
“They’re late!” their mother scolded. “Off with you, Horace and Maria.” She opened the front door and herded them out. “I’ll follow on my bicycle and catch up before you reach the crossroads.”
Though she sent them off on their own each morning, she always made sure to meet them at the busy crossroads a mile from home.
“But I haven’t shown them what’s in the bag!” the father protested.
“It can wait until evening,” she said firmly.
Later, at school, Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria could think of nothing else but the mysterious brown paper bag.
“I bet it’s a bazooka,” said Horace, eyes wide with excitement.
“A bazooka?” Maria frowned. “How could he fit a bazooka into such a small bag?”
“If it’s not a bazooka,” Horace declared, “then it must be a machine gun!”
Maria sighed. “Ever since you watched that Terminator film, you’ve been obsessed with guns and explosions.”
“Well then, Miss Know-It-All,” Horace challenged, “what do you think is in the bag?”
Put on the spot, Maria considered her answer. “A Diplodocus.”
Horace roared with laughter. “A Diplodocus? They’re bigger than buses! What sort of bag do you think it is—an elastic bag that stretches for miles?”
“I meant a model of a Diplodocus,” she said, annoyed. “Dad promised to get us one after we watched that dinosaur programme last week.”
“I still think it’s something better,” he muttered.
“Then we’ll just have to wait until after school to see who’s right,” Maria said calmly.
“Fine,” said Horace, crossing his arms.
That evening, the moment they returned home, both children rushed past their mother and into the house.
“Where’s Dad?” they cried.
“He’s not in the kitchen!” Maria wailed.
“He must be in the sitting room!” said Horace. But he wasn’t there either.
“Upstairs!” Maria gasped.
They dashed upstairs, checked every room, but he was nowhere to be found.
“He’s vanished!” Horace grumbled.
“DAD, WHERE ARE YOU?” they shouted. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Back in the kitchen, their mother stirred the pot of tea. “Did you find him?”
“No,” they replied, crestfallen.
“More haste, less speed,” she said wisely.
“What?”
“Like the race between the hare and the tortoise.”
“Oh,” Maria said with dawning understanding.
“I see,” Horace echoed. “So, the tortoise won because he took his time?”
“That’s right.” She placed two plates of scrambled eggs and toast in front of them. “Eat your dinner, and when you’re finished, I’ll tell you where your father is.”
“Hurray!” they cheered, attacking the food with gusto.
After their last bite, Horace asked, “Well? Where is he?”
“Yes, tell us!” Maria pleaded.
Their mother teased them with a mysterious smile. “He’s down the end of the garden, burning the rubbish. Go fetch him—and tell him his tea’s ready.”
They didn’t need telling twice. They were already halfway down the garden path before she’d finished speaking.
“Ah,” she murmured fondly, “they might as well enjoy life while they’re young.”
Smoke hung thick at the end of the garden, stinging their eyes and filling their lungs.
“Dad, where are you?” Horace called.
“Where are you, Dad?” Maria echoed.
“I’m here,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the smog.
“Where exactly?” Horace shouted.
“We can’t see anything!” Maria coughed.
“Stay put,” their dad called. “I’ll come to you!”
Then came a yelp. “OW! Darn rake!”
They peered into the smoke. Moments later, their father emerged, covered in soot with a fresh bump rising on his forehead.
“Dad!” they cried. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” he said, trying to look innocent.
“The bag!” Maria declared.
“What’s in the bag?” Horace demanded.
“All right, all right,” he said, wiping his hands. “Let me have a wash first.”
Once cleaned and seated at the kitchen table, their father let out a sigh. “Ah, that’s better. My feet are killing me.”
Their mother handed him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, plus a mug of tea.
“Eggs again?” Horace moaned.
“Toast?” Maria groaned.
Ignoring their complaints, their father ate slowly—deliberately slowly.
When he finished, the children were practically vibrating with impatience.
“DAD, YOU PROMISED!” they cried in unison.
“All right, you win,” he chuckled. He disappeared out the back door.
“He’s gone to the shed,” Horace said knowingly. “That’s where he hides stuff.”
“I still think it’s a Diplodocus,” Maria said.
“I’m hoping for a bazooka,” said Horace.
Their father returned, brown paper bag in hand.
He reached in and pulled out…
A DVD.
“Mary Poppins,” he announced proudly.
Silence.
“Mary Poppins?” Maria said flatly.
“We don’t like her,” said Horace.
“But everyone likes Mary Poppins!” their father protested.
“Maybe a thousand years ago,” said Maria.
“A million years ago,” added Horace.
Their mother took the DVD. “Let’s watch it together. Then we can all decide.”
“What?” groaned Horace. “That’s worse than watching paint dry!”
“It’s worse than waiting for global warming to begin,” moaned Maria.
“No arguments,” their mother said, herding them into the sitting room.
An hour and a half later, the credits rolled. Maria and Horace stood up, looking dazed.
“Well?” their father asked hopefully. “What did you think?”
“Anyone for some Fizzing Fruit juice drink?” their mother offered brightly.
“Yes please,” Horace said. “I need it after that ordeal.”
“Me too,” Maria said. “That movie left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Was it really that bad?” their father asked.
Their mother returned with a tray of colourful fizzing drinks.
“Was there anything you liked?” their father asked again.
Horace hesitated. “Well… one thing.”
“What?” Maria demanded.
“The kites,” he whispered. “I liked the kite scene. In fact…” His eyes lit up. “I’m going to make one! That’ll be fun!”
His father beamed. “So I wasn’t completely wrong, then.”
Maria rolled her eyes and stormed off. “You’ve gone stark raving mad, Horace! How could you like anything about that film?”
Horace grinned after her. “The kites,” he said again, softly. “It was the kites.”
Chapter Two
A Kite to Build
All through school the next day, Horrible Horace had only one thing on his mind: kites. Big ones, small ones, red ones, blue ones, old-fashioned ones and fantastically new ones.
“Watcha,” said Barmy Bernard, his best friend, plonking down beside him.
“Watcha,” said Horace absently.
“You’ve lost something, haven’t you?” Bernard asked.
“Someone,” Horace corrected. “I’ve lost someone.”
“Who?”
“Tinkering Tommy. Have you seen him?”
Bernard nodded. “He’s behind the bike sheds—in his office.”
Now, “his office” was what Tinkering Tommy called the soggy patch behind the school’s bicycle shed. Because it was damp and smelly, nobody ever went there—which suited Tommy perfectly. He had even bolted a homemade seat to the wall and labelled it Director of Inventions. That’s where he’d go to tinker and think in peace.
Horace found him perched there now, scribbling in his notebook with a pencil stub.
“Watcha,” said Horace.
Tommy blinked. “You’ve never come here before. What brings you to the dampest office in town?”
“I need your help,” Horace said, ignoring the puddle squelching beneath his foot.
“Go on.”
“I want to build a kite.”
“A kite?” Tommy said, perking up. “That’s the easiest thing in the world to build!”
“Yes, but this one needs to be special. And big. Very big.”
Tommy grinned. “Size is no problem—unless the wind blows it into orbit.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” said Horace. “So… can you help?”
“Absolutely. When do we start?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? What’s the rush?”
“Because,” said Horace darkly, “Cheeky Charlie is making one, too.”
“Charlie hasn’t got enough brains to build a paper plane.”
“True,” said Horace. “But Meddling Maurice is helping him.”
Tommy gasped. “Not Maurice! The same Maurice who built a papier-mâché wind turbine to power Miss Battle-Scars’ overhead lights?”
“The very same.”
Tommy leapt to his feet. “Then it’s a race! Not just for the biggest kite—but the best!”
“And the fastest-built!”
“Hooray!” they cried, throwing their fists in the air. “Hooray for Mary Poppins and her blooming kites!”
That evening, Horace wolfed down his tea in record time.
“I’m going to Tommy’s!” he told his mother.
“Be home by seven,” she warned. “No exceptions!”
“Got it!” he shouted, jamming on his cap and darting out the front door.
At Tommy’s front door, he gave the knocker—a rather creepy brass Lincoln Imp—a sharp rat-a-tat-tat. It always gave him the shivers, but he ignored that tonight. Important kite matters were afoot.
Tommy’s mum opened the door.
“Oh! Hello, Horace. He’s upstairs—go on up. He’s expecting you.”
Horace bounded up the stairs three steps at a time. “Can I come in?”
“Course,” Tommy called back. “Take a look at this!”
He handed Horace a giant sheet of blue paper, covered in lines, scribbles, and calculations.
“It’s a blueprint,” Tommy explained. “Our kite. You can keep that one—I’ve got a copy too.”
“Wow,” Horace breathed. “It’s amazing! What’s this bit up here, though? You forgot to finish it.”
“Nope,” said Tommy. “That space is for its name.”
“Our kite gets a name?”
“Everything great has a name—ships, planes, submarines… Why not our kite?”
“It’s not just any old kite,” said Horace proudly. “It’s the mother of all kites!”
“Exactly. So, what do we call it?”
It took them nearly till seven o’clock to agree on a name. But when they did, they both wrote it proudly across the top of their blueprints: INVINCIBLE.
“Invincible will be so bold, so bright, so brilliant,” said Tommy, “that Charlie and Maurice will be utterly humiliated by their feeble attempt.”
“They won’t know which way to look,” said Horace smugly.
They made a pact: tomorrow morning, they’d go into town to buy every single thing they needed for building Invincible.
Saturday dawned cloudy but full of promise.
As they walked down the street, Horace was still ranting. “If Cheeky Charlie thinks he’s going to outdo me, he’s got another thing coming!”
“Let’s build it first before we start declaring victory,” Tommy said. “There’s a lot of stuff on this shopping list—and all of it costs money.”
“I’ve got money,” said Horace. “Rainy day savings. And guess what? It’s raining.”
Sure enough, a few drops had begun to fall. Tommy held out his hand and laughed. “And here comes the bus!”
By late afternoon, they had returned from town, arms full of bamboo sticks, string, coloured paper, glue, paint, and bits and bobs of engineering wonder.
“Right,” said Tommy. “Now where are we going to build it? My bedroom’s no bigger than a shoebox.”
“We can’t build it indoors,” Horace agreed. “But I know the perfect place.”
He led Tommy past the school, around the edge of the playing field, and stopped in front of the air raid shelter.
“No,” said Tommy, backing away. “Not that place! No one goes in there! It’s spooky!”
“That’s why it’s perfect. No one will find us. No one will interrupt.”
“But it’s dark. And creepy. And… possibly haunted.”
Horace pointed to a black cable snaking into the corner of the shelter. “That’s power. There must be a light.”
“But what about rats?”
“There are no rats,” Horace lied boldly. “Let’s go.”
Grumbling, Tommy followed him down the mossy concrete steps. Inside, Horace found the switch and flicked it. The shelter lit up—dimly, but enough.
“See? Plenty of space,” said Horace.
Tommy glanced nervously around. “What’s that door at the back?”
“Let’s find out,” Horace said.
They opened it—and gasped.
It was a treasure trove! Stacked to the ceiling were boxes and crates: bunting, raffle tickets, leftover tombola prizes, even a dunk-the-teacher booth.
“The school fete’s stash!” said Horace.
“Well,” said Tommy, “no turning back now.”
They unpacked their materials, spread out the blueprints, and got to work.
By Sunday evening, the air raid shelter was a mess of glue, string, and coloured paper. But Invincible stood proudly in the centre of it all, ready and waiting.
Tommy wiped sweat from his brow. “So? What do you think?”
Horace stepped back, hands on hips. “It’s good. Really good. In fact, I think it’s the best kite in the world.”
“Better than Cheeky Charlie’s?”
“I haven’t seen his,” Horace admitted, “but I can guarantee it’s nowhere near this. Look at this stitching! Look at the size! Ours is the mother of all kites.”
Tommy beamed. “Agreed!”
Horace scratched his head. “Only… I can’t help feeling something’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“I don’t know what… but it’s something. Oh well, it can wait. I need sleep. I’m bushed.”
Chapter Three
Rivals!
Monday morning arrived with a groan. It was a school day, which meant kites had to be set aside—at least for now.
Miss Battle-Scars had plans of her own.
“Take out your arithmetic books,” she barked. “We’re having a test.”
“A test?” the children moaned, as if the week couldn’t have started worse.
“Yes, a test,” she confirmed. “And when it’s over, I’ve got something to tell you.”
The class perked up instantly.
“Is it a school trip?” asked a red-haired girl, eyes wide with hope.
“Or another special treat, like those curly milkshake straws?” piped up a boy.
“We’re getting the rest of the day off, aren’t we?” said another, grinning wildly.
The room erupted with cheers, despite Miss Battle-Scars repeatedly insisting, “No, no, no!”
After the test, Miss Battle-Scars allowed the children outside to play—a small consolation. While they ran free in the yard, she settled down to mark their arithmetic, enjoying the rare moment of peace.
Meanwhile, Horrible Horace made a beeline for the bicycle sheds.
“Watcha,” he said to Tinkering Tommy, who was sitting motionless on his squeaky seat behind the damp brick wall.
Tommy didn’t answer.
“What’s up?” asked Horace.
“Oh—sorry. I was just… thinking,” said Tommy.
“Be careful,” Horace smirked. “You might have a brainstorm.”
“I’ve been thinking about the kite,” Tommy said seriously. “Because it’s so big, it’ll need loads of wind to lift it. And that worries me.”
“Worries you?” Horace frowned.
Tommy nodded. “Honestly, I think it might be too dangerous for two kids to fly.”
Horace bristled. “What? No one—no one—is flying Invincible except us!”
“Okay, okay! Keep your hair on,” said Tommy, raising his hands in surrender.
“Sorry,” Horace muttered. “It’s just… this was my idea. I want to be the one to fly her.”
“Forget I said anything,” Tommy replied. “When shall we test it?”
“Saturday?”
“Sounds good. Park or quarry?”
“The quarry?” Horace asked, surprised.
“There’s a nice hill there,” Tommy explained. “Perfect for catching the wind.”
At the mention of wind, Horace felt a chill crawl up his spine.
“What about Cheeky Charlie and Meddling Maurice?” Tommy added. “Should we tell them?”
“Absolutely not!” said Horace. “The less they know, the better.”
The rest of the week passed painfully slowly. Miss Battle-Scars, clearly on a mission, tortured them with two more tests—English and History.
By Friday afternoon, the children were a bundle of nervous energy. As the final bell rang out—ring-a-ling-a-ling—they surged from their classrooms like bees from a shaken hive.
“Hurray for the weekend!” they cried, arms in the air.
Saturday morning. Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy stood outside the abandoned quarry, struggling to carry the mighty Invincible between them.
“I can hold it on my own if you’re quick,” Horace puffed. “Go open the gate!”
Tommy ran ahead and tugged the rusty iron gate—but it wouldn’t budge.
“What’s taking so long?” Horace called out. “My arms are turning to jelly!”
“It’s stuck… or locked. Weird. It wasn’t like this last time.”
“Just give it a yank! You’re not wrestling a bear, it’s only a gate!”
Grunting and straining, Tommy finally forced the gate open with a loud screech.
“Finally!” groaned Horace. “Come help me with the kite. My muscles are melting.”
But Tommy had spotted something. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the bolt on the inside of the gate. “It was locked from the inside.”
Horace shrugged. “Inside, outside, who cares? Let’s go!”
They hauled Invincible up the hill—only to freeze in horror.
Cheeky Charlie and Meddling Maurice were already there.
“What are you doing here?” Horace demanded.
“It’s a free country,” said Charlie, lounging with a smirk. “Why are you here?”
Maurice folded his arms. “Yeah—what’s it to you?”
But Horace and Tommy weren’t listening. Their eyes had locked onto something terrifying: a massive kite, resting proudly on the ground behind the boys. It was enormous.
“How… how did you build it that big?” Tommy gasped.
Maurice tapped his nose smugly. “Trade secret, losers.”
“I’ll knock your block off!” Tommy growled.
Charlie and Maurice just howled with laughter.
Fifteen minutes later, the kite showdown was ready to begin.
“We should be up there,” Horace grumbled, glaring at the top of the hill.
“There’s plenty of wind here,” said Tommy, licking his finger to check. “More than enough.”
He was right. The sunny morning had turned gusty—perfect kite weather.
Charlie and Maurice hoisted their kite triumphantly.
“Now this is a kite,” Charlie crowed.
“The father of all kites!” Maurice declared.
Horace and Tommy carefully raised Invincible—only to be met with another roar of laughter.
“A kite with no tail?!” Charlie cackled. “That’s a new one!”
They were right. In all their excitement, Horace and Tommy had forgotten the tail.
The boys retreated, red-faced, to their supply box.
“Please tell me we brought something we can use,” said Horace.
Tommy rummaged through a bag and pulled out a scrap of pink cloth.
“Pink?” said Horace, appalled.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Tommy. “Where are the scissors?”
“In the green bag,” Horace muttered.
With the scissors and cloth in hand, they set about fashioning a tail—only to realise they had no string.
“Where’s the string?” Tommy asked.
“I thought you were bringing it,” Horace replied.
“But I thought you were—oh no… it’s still in the air raid shelter, isn’t it?”
Horace nodded miserably.
“We’ll have to call it off,” Tommy sighed.
“Wait—what if we use some of the control string?”
“We can’t,” Tommy said. “That’s unbreakable—but only if we don’t mess with it. It’s too risky.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Horace asked.
“No,” Tommy admitted.
With a grimace, he carefully used a portion of the control string. Soon, the tail was attached.
Horace eyed it gloomily. “Pink… really?”
“It’s a tail,” said Tommy. “Be thankful we’ve got one.”
They returned to the hill.
“HAW HAW!” Charlie hooted. “Look at that silly tail!”
“Did you forget your doll, too?” Maurice jeered.
Tommy clenched his fists. “I’ll knock your—”
“Easy, Tommy,” Horace interrupted. “They’re trying to wind you up. Ignore them.”
He pointed at their kite. “See their stitching? It’s a mess.”
Charlie frowned. “Oi! What’s wrong with our stitching?”
“It’s awful,” Horace replied coolly. “Look at ours.”
Maurice bristled. “You insulting our workmanship?”
“I’m just saying,” Horace smirked. “Ours will fly. Yours might fall apart.”
Charlie stepped between them. “Don’t listen to ‘em, Maurice. Let’s launch the father of all kites. Let the sky decide who the true champions are!”
Chapter Four
The Mother of All Storms
The two rival teams now stood shoulder to shoulder, poised for launch—though much of their earlier confidence had vanished. The wind had become fierce, almost monstrous, and the boys could barely hold onto their kites while they were still on the ground. The thought of them in the air was frankly terrifying.
Reluctantly, and after much muttered grumbling, they agreed to wait. Perhaps the wind would calm. Perhaps the storm would pass.
They waited… and waited… and waited some more.
The wind eased—slightly—but remained far too strong for anything that wasn’t nailed down, let alone the mother and father of all kites.
Tired of standing around, Horrible Horace flopped onto the grass and promptly dozed off.
He awoke to the sound of whispering.
“Come on, Meddling,” Cheeky Charlie hissed. “I’m tired of waiting. Let’s launch Eileen and show them who’s best!”
Horrible Horace sat bolt upright. “Eileen?” he cried, bursting into laughter. “You named your kite Eileen? With a pink tail?”
“It’s named after my mum,” Charlie mumbled defensively.
“Oh brilliant!” Horace whooped. “Why didn’t you bring her along to wave her namesake aloft?”
“She only gave us her old frocks for the tail if I promised to name it after her,” Charlie admitted.
Even Tinkering Tommy struggled not to laugh. “That’s… oddly touching.”
“Well, that shuts us up,” Horace conceded. “Now come on! We’re launching Invincible!”
The two rival teams lined up. Without waiting for the wind to consult them, both kites tore into the sky with a whoosh and a snap.
“I shouldn’t have done it!” Charlie cried. “It’s too strong—I can’t hold her!”
Horace was having his own struggles, but he gritted his teeth and let out more line. “Hold tight, Invincible!” he muttered.
“She’s too high!” Tommy yelled. “Bring her down before the string snaps!”
“She can’t snap!” Horace replied triumphantly. “One hundred percent nylon—guaranteed unbreakable!”
He was right. Invincible held firm. But poor Eileen, cobbled together with twine from Maurice’s dad’s potting shed, was fraying by the second.
“I’m bringing her down!” Charlie cried.
“You mean she’s dragging you down!” Horace sneered. “Go on, admit it—we’ve won!”
As Eileen descended in defeat, Invincible soared. She rose higher than any kite had any right to rise.
“You’ve proved your point,” Tommy called. “Now bring her down—it’s too dangerous!”
“Not on your Nellie!” Horace shouted. “I’m going to see how high she can go. Maybe… maybe to the clouds!”
Just then, a monstrous gust caught Invincible. It lifted her—and Horace—straight into the sky.
“Let go!” Tommy screamed.
“Jump!” shouted Charlie.
“You’re going to heaven!” howled Maurice.
“I heard that!” Horace snapped. “Who called me a berk?!”
“You’re flying, you berk!” Maurice shouted. “Look down!”
Horace looked—and screamed. His feet dangled. The ground was vanishing beneath him.
“I can’t see you!” he yelled. “It’s all foggy up here!”
The boys below searched the sky.
“There!” Maurice pointed. “Between those two clouds!”
“He’s heading for the stratosphere!” said Charlie.
“He’s gone,” whispered Tommy.
High above the quarry, Horrible Horace clung to the string like a limpet. The clouds swallowed him. Vapour swirled in his eyes, and the smell—oddly enough—was… sweet?
Sniff, sniff. “Is that… sweets?”
Yes. There was no mistaking it. Humbugs. Bull’s-eyes. Sherbet fountains. Liquorice whips. Fizzy fandangles.
“Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “It’s a sweet shop in the sky!”
He reached out and brushed the cloud. It felt soft—like candyfloss.
Then—bonk! Something hit his hand.
“Ow!” he yelped.
Bonk! Bonk! More impacts.
“What the—?”
He grabbed at the air, missed—then snatched again.
“Gotcha!”
He opened his fist.
“Toblerone,” he whispered. “A flying Toblerone.”
Suddenly—whap! A Mars Bar hit his chin.
“What is this? A confectionary warzone?”
Chocolate flew at him from every angle: seventeen Mars Bars, twenty-three Milky Ways, four Fruit & Nuts, three Turkish Delights, two Galaxies, and finally—a glowing bar of Fizzing Fruit Chocolate Supreme.
He ate it, of course.
The wind shifted. Invincible dipped. Horace plunged into another cloud.
This one didn’t smell sweet.
Sniff… sniff…
“Cheese?” he said.
Sniff again. “Cheese and onion!”
CRUNCH.
A shower of crisps rained down on him.
“Ugh! Spitting! Coughing! This is awful!”
Up again he shot, through the cloud and out the top.
“Phew,” he gasped. “That was horrible.”
Down he dropped once more.
CRUNCH.
“Salt and vinegar this time!” he grinned. “My favourite!”
Up and down, through clouds of food and fog, the Horrible boy soared. But ahead loomed a darker, stranger cloud than any before.
“This one smells different,” he whispered. “No sweets. No crisps. Just… doom.”
The cloud drew closer.
“Maybe it’s full of cabbage,” Horace said in horror. “Or warmed-up cauliflower!”
He whimpered. “I hate warmed-up cauliflower!”
As Invincible dove into the thick, black mist, Horace steeled himself.
“This is it,” he muttered. “Whatever’s inside—I’m ready.”
The cloud swallowed him whole.
At first, there was nothing. No impact. No scent. No snacks.
“Strange,” he whispered. “Too quiet…”
The fog began to thin. A shape appeared in the distance.
“What’s that?” he breathed.
He leaned forward.
Something was there—something not of sweets or crisps or cauliflower.
Something… unexpected.
Chapter Five
My Name is IMPS!
Closer and closer Horrible Horace drifted, until he was near enough to make out the mysterious object ahead. But this was no chocolate bar drifting lazily on the breeze—it was alive. It moved this way and that with clear purpose.
Curious, Horace leaned forward. It wasn’t big—no taller than a five or six-year-old child—but that’s where the similarities ended. It had a hunched back, an elongated jaw, and two red piggy eyes that glowed faintly. Pointed ears stuck straight up from its head, and its skin shimmered a silvery grey.
Horace stared in awe. “When I grow up,” he whispered, “I’m going to get a suit made out of that exact same colour.”
Peering closer, he realised the creature was working—busily sorting piles of chocolate bars, mountains of crisps, and sweets of every shape and size.
“What’s it doing?” Horace murmured.
Drifting in, he reached out to touch it.
SNAP!
The creature whipped its head around and bit at his fingers.
“Oi!” Horace yelped, pulling back and counting his digits. “You nearly bit my fingers off!”
The creature snarled something in gibberish.
“Sorry, what?” Horace said. “You’ll have to repeat that in English.”
With a dismissive grunt, the creature turned its back and returned to its work.
“Want a hand?” Horace asked. “Only one, mind—the other’s keeping me from falling out of the sky.”
The creature turned again, eyes flicking to the unbreakable kite string. It began tugging at it—hard.
“Stop that!” Horace shouted. “You’ll make me fall!”
“And what if I don’t stop?” the creature asked—this time, in perfect English.
“You’re speaking English now!”
“What business is that of yours?” it replied, tugging again.
“Stop it!” Horace warned. “Or I’ll give you a walloping!”
The creature cackled. It gave the string one final yank—so hard that Horace lost his grip and plummeted into the cloud below.
“Right!” Horace growled, sleeves rolled up. “You’ve had it now!”
With a mighty swing, he knocked the creature flying—straight into a pile of crisps.
“No! Not the crisps!” the creature squealed, scrambling to protect them.
Horace struck again—sending it cartwheeling into a heap of chocolate bars.
“Not the sweets!” it cried.
“Then talk,” Horace demanded. “Tell me what you’re doing with all these snacks!”
The creature glowered, rubbing its jaw.
“You want me to tell you?”
“Yes!”
“You’re sure?”
“I knocked you for six once,” Horace warned. “I’ll do it again!”
“Very well,” it said. “Screalo, altorus, my kelo—”
“GIBBERISH!” Horace shouted. “Stop that nonsense!”
“Oh, sorry,” said the creature with exaggerated innocence. “Where was I?”
“You were about to tell me what you’re doing up here with all these sweets!”
“Was I?”
Horace raised a fist. “I won’t ask again.”
“Fine,” said the creature, picking up a bar of chocolate. “Try this. Then you’ll understand.”
“I’d rather have one in a wrapper,” Horace said warily. “That one looks suspiciously fresh.”
With a shrug, the creature passed him a Galaxy Super Special—already wrapped.
“Be it on your head,” it muttered.
Horace tore it open and took a bite. “So,” he said with a mouthful, “what’s your name?”
The creature pointed to itself. “My name is… nothing important.”
“Come on,” Horace insisted. “Everyone has a name. Mine’s Horrible Horace. Out with it!”
“All right,” it said slyly. “But only after you’ve finished eating.”
“Fine,” Horace said, munching away.
A few minutes passed. The creature watched him intently.
“Do you have to stare?” Horace asked.
“Yes,” it answered. “I like to see how you react.”
“Well I don’t like being watched.”
The creature turned away with a whimper.
Feeling guilty, Horace sighed. “Okay, you can watch.”
The creature clapped its hands with glee.
Soon after, it said, “You’re halfway through your Galaxy Super Special. It won’t be long now…”
“What do you mean?” Horace asked, frowning.
“Until I can tell you my name, of course!” said the creature with a crooked grin.
Satisfied, Horace finished the bar—but almost immediately, he clutched his head.
“Ow… my head!” he moaned. “What’s happening?”
The creature stepped forward, expression unreadable.
“You promised to tell me your name!” Horace groaned.
“I did,” it said. “My name… is IMPS.”
“Imps?” Horace repeated. “Don’t you mean Imp?”
“No, I do not,” it sniffed. “Why would we want to be called Imp?”
“We?”
“Yes, we,” it said. “There are lots of us.”
As if on cue, dozens more silvery-grey creatures emerged from the fog.
Feigning bravery, Horace muttered, “You remind me of the doorknocker on Tommy Tinkering’s house.”
“Doorknocker?”
“Yes. A Lincoln Imp.”
“Lincoln!” the first Imp squealed. “Oh, we’re quite popular there!”
The others murmured excitedly.
“Have you ever been to Lincoln Cathedral?” asked the first Imp.
“No.”
“Shame! Our effigy’s on the ramparts. We’re very mischievous, you see.”
“Mischievous how?”
“Watch.”
The Imp picked up a packet of crisps, slipped something inside, then resealed it.
“Open it,” it said, handing it to Horace.
He sniffed it—salt and vinegar, his favourite—and couldn’t resist trying one.
He took a bite… and gagged.
“BLEURGH! It tastes like RUBBER!”
The Imps shrieked with laughter, slapping their thighs in delight.
“What did you put in there?!”
“Just one of these,” said the Imp, revealing a flexible twig. “A Rub-a-dub.”
“They dissolve,” it explained. “No evidence left behind.”
“And the chocolate bars?” Horace asked, rubbing his throbbing head.
“Migraines,” the Imp said cheerfully. “We lace them.”
A second Imp approached with a liquorice shoelace and a suspicious packet of sweets.
“Want to try these?”
“Absolutely not!” Horace snapped.
“Wise,” said the first Imp. “They cause ghastly boils.”
Suddenly, the mood shifted. The Imps grew quiet, watchful.
Horace gulped.
He knew what was coming.
They couldn’t let him leave.
Looking skyward, he spotted Invincible’s string—not far. Edging slowly towards it, he prepared to make his escape…
Chapter Six
Twang!
Realising what Horrible Horace was up to, the Imps leapt into action. As one, they charged, hoping to cut him off before he reached the string of Invincible.
But Horace was ready.
With a flurry of punches, kicks, and furious yells, he fought them off, scattering the little silver-grey creatures in all directions. They tumbled into piles of crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers, squealing and flailing as they landed.
“Out of my way, you pint-sized pests!” he roared.
Seizing the string of Invincible with both hands, Horace yanked hard. High above, the mighty kite wobbled in the sky, barely visible through the cloud mist.
“Come on! Move!” he hissed through gritted teeth, pulling until his fingers burned and bled. But the kite refused to budge.
Behind him, the Imps regrouped.
They crept toward him, muttering, cackling, their little fists clenched.
“I’ve got to get out of here!” Horace shouted, and began to climb.
Hand over hand, he hoisted himself up the string, his feet swinging beneath him. But the Imps weren’t done yet. One after the other, they too began to climb, scrambling up the line in pursuit.
And then…
TWANG!
The unbreakable string broke.
It snapped—not above, but below Horrible Horace. A clean break. With a gasp of relief, Horace looked down just in time to see a writhing bundle of Imps plummet into the foggy cloud below.
WHUMP!
The cloud heaved as they landed in it, sending up tufts of thick white vapour and a burst of thunder so loud it nearly knocked Horace’s ears off. Lightning crackled. Sweets, chocolate bars, and crisp packets rained down on the world below like sugary confetti.
“Lucky for everyone most of it’s unwrapped,” Horace said. “Not many kids would risk eating sweets they found on the ground. Well… maybe Tommy Tilbert.”
Then—
TWANG!
The string broke again.
This time, above him.
“Noooo!” Horrible Horace screamed, just before he dropped like a stone straight back into the cloud of Imps.
THUMP.
He landed with a squelch.
Before he could recover, the Imps were on him.
Dozens of them.
Pummelling him, biting him, thwacking him with soggy liquorice sticks and rubbery twigs. “Leave me alone!” he yelled, swatting and kicking and rolling in every direction. “I said STOP!”
And then—
“Horrible! Wake up!”
Horace jolted upright, gasping.
Tinkering Tommy stood over him, shaking his shoulder.
“You were dreaming,” Tommy said.
Horace blinked. “Dreaming?”
“Yep. Judging by the way you were screaming, I’d say it was a proper nightmare. Or maybe a… daymare?”
Horace leapt to his feet and looked around wildly. “Where are they?”
“Who?”
“The Imps! They were everywhere!”
“The only Imp I know is the knocker on my front door,” Tommy replied.
Still panting, Horace looked around. No Imps. No chocolate clouds. No crisp blizzard. Just the grassy hilltop, the quarry below, and a sky full of fast-moving clouds.
“What are we doing here?” he asked cautiously.
“We were waiting for the wind to ease, remember? You said it was too wild to launch Invincible. You lay down for a rest—and, well… dozed off.”
Horace rubbed his head. “It’s all a bit fuzzy.”
“Well, the wind’s eased now.”
“So… no Imps?”
“Not a single one.”
Horace looked around again, just to be sure. Then he cracked his knuckles. “What are we waiting for? Let’s launch this kite!”
Moments later, the two rival teams stood poised again—Invincible on one side, Eileen on the other.
At the top of the hill stood Cheeky Charlie and Meddling Maurice, smug as ever. Lower down, Horace and Tommy prepared for launch.
“I’m not sure there’s enough wind left,” Tommy fretted.
Horace pointed to the sky, where Eileen was already soaring high. “There’s enough wind for them! Come on!”
With a tug and a push, they launched Invincible. Up she went, proud and strong, slicing through the air with her bold pink tail fluttering behind.
“I think she’s high enough,” Tommy said nervously, squinting at the sky.
“Not a chance!” Horace grinned. “She hasn’t even touched the clouds yet!”
He fed out more string.
Higher and higher Invincible climbed, cutting through one cloud after another. The higher she flew, the more excited Horace became.
“See that one?” he asked, pointing to a dark, looming cloud in the distance.
Tommy nodded. “The really big, black, menacing one?”
“That’s the one! Watch this—Invincible’s going through it!”
The moment the kite entered the cloud, the sky exploded with fury.
Thunder. Lightning. A swirling, howling wind. And then, as if summoned by magic (or memory), a deluge of sweets, crisps, liquorice laces, and sticky treats rained from the heavens.
“No, no!” Horace cried. “It can’t be! It was only a dream!”
“Was it?” said a sly voice.
Horace looked up.
From the cloud descended a familiar shape. Several familiar shapes.
IMPS.
Hundreds of them.
Grinning.
Sliding down the unbreakable string like acrobats in a circus.
“NOOOOOOO!” screamed Horrible Horace.
He let go of the string. Let go of Invincible. Let go of everything.
And ran.
Down the hill he flew, his arms flapping like the tails of a hundred kites, overtaking Charlie, Maurice, and even Tommy.
“Wait for us!” they cried.
But Horrible Horace didn’t wait for anything.
Not when there were Imps about.
Chapter Seven
Mr Smith’s Wonderful Emporium
The next day, a quiet and drizzly Sunday afternoon, the four friends met again in the park.
“What got into you yesterday, Horrible Horace?” asked Tinkering Tommy. “You ran like your trousers were on fire!”
“Yeah,” said Cheeky Charlie. “You were off like a rocket. I nearly sprained my eyes trying to follow you!”
“So?” added Meddling Maurice. “What was the big emergency?”
Having had a good sleep and half a day to recover, Horrible Horace now felt calm and collected. He had decided not to tell them anything. Why would he? It had only been a dream. A terribly vivid one, yes, but still just a dream.
“It was the rain,” he said with a shrug. “Didn’t want to get my hair wet.”
Maurice narrowed his eyes. “There’s more to this. I can smell it.”
Horace shrugged again, saying nothing.
“Let’s go to the shops,” he offered, changing the subject.
“Mr Smith’s?” said Tommy hopefully.
“Mr Smith’s Wonderful Emporium!” Cheeky Charlie grinned.
“Race you there!” cried Meddling Maurice.
But Horrible Horace didn’t run. He walked—slowly and deliberately—behind them.
When he finally reached the shop, the others were already inside, ogling jars of jelly babies and shelves stacked with crisps and chocolate.
Meddling Maurice came out first, beaming with satisfaction. “Got myself a liquorice shoelace and a gobstopper. Classic combo.”
Without a word, Horrible Horace lunged.
He grabbed Maurice’s sweets, flung them to the pavement, and proceeded to jump up and down on them like an angry circus clown.
“What the—!” Maurice gasped, horrified. “You lunatic!”
Before Maurice could react, Horace stormed inside.
There was Cheeky Charlie, happily tearing open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
“No! Don’t eat those!” Horace shouted.
Charlie blinked. “Want one?”
Instead of answering, Horrible Horace launched at him, sending crisps flying in all directions like greasy confetti. He crushed the packet beneath his foot with dramatic flair.
Then came Tinkering Tommy.
Tommy had just handed over his coins for a shiny Galaxy Super Special.
Horace shrieked.
“No! Not the Galaxy! Anything but that one!”
Tommy exited the shop holding his prize like a golden ticket. “Look! Got the last one!”
Horace knocked it clean out of his hands and stamped it into the pavement with wild, relentless energy.
“Have you gone completely bananas?” Tommy cried. “I paid good money for that!”
“He did the same to my crisps!” said Charlie.
“And my sweets!” Maurice wailed. “He flattened my shoelace and gobstopper like they were pancakes!”
“I had to!” Horace insisted, eyes wide. “I had to save you!”
The shop bell jingled.
Mr Smith, the elderly shopkeeper with the snow-white moustache and mysterious twinkle in his eye, stepped outside. “Goodness gracious. What’s all this?”
The boys all spoke at once.
“He crushed my sweets!”
“He stomped my crisps!”
“He destroyed my chocolate!”
Mr Smith frowned at the sugary massacre on the ground. “Horace,” he said gently. “Would you care to explain?”
“It’s the Imps,” said Horace.
Tommy groaned. “Not this again…”
But Mr Smith raised a hand. “Imps, you say?”
Horace nodded earnestly. “They live in the clouds—the dark, bumpy, angry ones. They do things to sweets. Horrible things.”
“What sort of things?”
“They put Rub-a-dubs in the crisps to make them taste like old bicycle tyres. And they add migraine ingredients to chocolate bars! I had one myself!”
He rubbed his temple, as if proving the point.
“They do worse,” he added. “They mess with liquorice shoelaces, jelly beans, and sherbet dips. They’re responsible for boils. Spots! Pimples!”
Mr Smith raised an eyebrow, thoughtfully stroking his beard.
“And you think… these sabotaged sweets are sold in my shop?”
“They must be!” Horace cried. “Come to the quarry! I’ll show you!”
Not long after, the five of them stood at the top of the hill in the old quarry.
Mr Smith looked around at the scattered rocks and grass. There were no sweets. No chocolate. Not even a soggy crisp.
“Are you sure this is the spot?” the shopkeeper asked.
“I swear it!” said Horace. “They rained down from a cloud—one just like that one there!”
He pointed skyward. A dark, swollen cloud loomed directly above.
Mr Smith narrowed his eyes. “Oh… like that one?”
“Yes! That one!”
“I’m out of here!” Horace shouted, and bolted down the hill, arms flailing.
The others laughed.
But just as they turned to leave—
“Ow!” cried Tommy. “Something hit me!”
“What was it?” Mr Smith asked, looking down.
He bent to pick something up and held it to the light. “This,” he said.
Tommy peered at it. “It’s a twig.”
Cheeky Charlie took a sniff. “Why does it smell like… rubber?”
Meddling Maurice sniffed too. “It does smell like rubber!”
Mr Smith’s face darkened.
“It’s not a twig,” he said quietly. “It’s a Rub-a-dub.”
The three boys froze.
From the sky came a low rumble.
The dark cloud above them was descending—closer and closer.
Mr Smith’s eyes widened.
“RUN, CHILDREN!” he cried. “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”
And they did.
Even faster than yesterday.
Epilogue
One Final Gust
That evening, back in his room, Horrible Horace sat on his bed, holding a slightly melted toffee apple and gazing out the window. The sky was clear now, the stars winking down at him like they knew something he didn’t.
“They’ll never believe me,” he muttered, peeling toffee from his fingers. “But I know what I saw.”
He glanced at his wardrobe, where the crumpled remains of his once-proud kite, Invincible, leaned sadly against the door. The string had somehow mended itself. Strange, that.
Just then, a breeze tapped on his windowpane. Tap… tap-tap… tap.
He opened it.
Nothing outside—just night.
But on the sill sat a small, silvery object. A rubbery twig. A Rub-a-dub.
It gave off a faint smell of old balloons and mischief.
Horace picked it up with care, then looked to the sky. Way, way up, a single cloud drifted past the moon.
Was that… a tiny red glow in the mist?
A glimmer of giggling?
Horace closed the window, locked it tight, and turned to the mirror.
“I’ll be ready next time,” he said. “Next time, they’ll see who’s really invincible.”
And from somewhere far above, where only the tallest clouds wander…
The Imps giggled again.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 