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Horrible Horace

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Children LOVE Him: Parents HATE Him

This book contains three stories, all of them about Horrible Horace. The first is about his recent kite flying experience, the second is about a little vacation he decided to take one day, and the last story is about his teacher, Miss Battle-Scars’ school chair. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Gerrard T Wilson

STORY #1

 Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Chapter One

A Brown Paper Bag

Horrible Horace’s father arrived home from work, looking very proud of himself. Because he was on night work, it was morning time, and his wife was busy getting their children ready for school. “Off so soon?” he asked his children, Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria. They were donning their coats and hats, preparing to set off for school. “And before you have seen what I have got you,” their father said to them. With that, he produced a brown paper bag for their inspection

“They’re late,” his wife, scolded. “Off with you, Horace and Maria,” she ordered. Opening the front door, she ushered them out from the house. “I’ll follow you, on my bicycle,” she told them. “I will catch up with you before you get to the crossroads.” Although Horrible Horace’s mother dispatched her children to school on their own, each morning, she made a point of being with them at the busy crossroads a mile from home.

“But I haven’t yet shown them what’s in the bag,” her husband protested.

“It can wait until evening,” she told him.

Later, at school, Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria were mesmerised, captivated and enthralled, trying to work out what their father had in the bag.

“I bet it’s a bazooka,” Horrible Horace said to her.

“A bazooka?” Moidering Maria replied. “How on earth could he get a bazooka inside such a small bag?”

“If it’s not a bazooka,” he answered, “it must surely be a machine gun!”

“What has gotten into you?” she asked. “Ever since you saw that Terminator film you have been obsessed with guns, bombs and bazookas!”

“If you’re so smart,” Horace snapped, “tell me he has in the bag. Go on, I dare you!”

Put on the spot by her Horrible brother, Moidering Maria gave it her best shot, saying, “I think it’s a Diplodocus.”

“A Diplodocus,” he howled, laughing crazily at her suggestion. “They are hundreds of times bigger than bazookas! What sort of a bag do you think it is? No, don’t tell me, let me guess, it’s an elastic bag that stretches and stretches and stretches!” he hooted.

“You are now entering the world of fantasy, so you are,” she answered. “You know full well that I meant a model of a Diplodocus. Dad said he was going to get us one, when we saw that program on television last week.”

“I still don’t think it’s that,” her Horrible bother replied.

“Then we will just have to wait until after school, when we go home,” she said to him. “When we will see who is closer to the truth.”

“Right, we will,” Horace answered.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you two,” said the mother, when Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria pushed excitedly past her that evening, after school.

Running down the hallway and into the kitchen, they said, “Where is dad?”

“He’s not in here!” Moidering Maria bemoaned, disappointed that she had not found him in there.

“He must be in the sitting room,” said her Horrible brother. Tearing out from the kitchen, he flew down the hallway and into the sitting room. “He’s not in here either!” he groaned.

“Upstairs!” said his sister. “He must be upstairs!”

Climbing the stairs, two steps at a time, brother and sister frantically searched the remainder of the house for their father. However, despite searching it thoroughly they were unable to find him.

Confused, with no idea as to where he might be, Horrible Horace grumbled, “He’s not anywhere!”

“DAD, WHERE ARE YOU?” they cried out, “WHERE ARE YOU, DAD?”

Returning downstairs, they entered the kitchen, where their mother was making the tea. “Well,” she asked, “did you find him?”

“No,” they answered dejectedly.

“More haste less speed,” their mother said to them.

“Pardon?”

“Remember the race?”

“Race? What race?” Horace quipped.

“The race between the hare and the tortoise, of course,” she answered.

“And?”

“The slowest one won!” she explained.

“Oh,” said her Moideringly mad daughter.

“I see,” said her Horrible son. “More haste less speed, you say?”

Nodding that it was so, the mother put two plates of scrambled egg and toast on the table in front of them, “Eat your meal,” she said to them, “and when you have finished it, I will tell where your father is.”

“Hurray!” they cheered, digging into their food, with gusto.

When they had finished their eating their meal Horrible Horace said, “Well, where is he?”

“Yes, where is he?” Moidering Maria asked her mother.

“Well what?” she replied, teasing them some.

“Where is he?” Maria asked her again.

“Please tell us, mum, lest I die of confusion!” Horrible Horace pleaded.

All right, I will tell you,” she answered, laughing at their innocence. “He’s at the end of the garden, where he is burning the rubbish. When you get there, tell him that his tea is ready.” They never heard what she was saying to them, because they were already half way along the garden path.
CONTD

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