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The Gift That Didn’t Fit

15 Dec

Chapter One: The Immediate Chaos

The air in the Quince living room was thick with the suffocating scent of fresh pine and manufactured guilt. It was 11:37 PM on Christmas Eve, and sixteen-year-old Lily Quince was perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to ignore the dazzling, high-wattage shame radiating from the pile of wrapped goods under the tree.

“Honestly, Mom, why does a human being need a self-stirring cocoa mug?” Lily muttered, batting a stray, metallic ribbon off the sofa cushion and onto the carpet. “It’s exactly what’s wrong with Christmas. Too much stuff.”

Her little brother, Sam, only eight, nodded solemnly, his brow furrowed with devastating sincerity. He was crouched by the fireplace, sketching feverishly in a notebook. “That’s what I keep trying to tell Santa, Lily. We need effort, not expenditure.” He looked up, his eyes shining with pure, tragic longing. “I just hope he remembered the Woven Basket of Live Earthworms this year. I truly don’t know how I’ll run my pet farm without them.”

“You’ll be yearning for a ceramic garden gnome that plays the lute by morning.”

Lily froze, her hand hovering near the tin. “Did… did the shortbread just talk?”

“Was that about the worms?” Sam asked, looking hopeful.

Lily shook her head, feeling a cold dread replace her cynicism. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall, but the typical, cozy feeling of Christmas Eve was absent. Something felt fundamentally wrong with the world. Across the street, they heard the distinct sound of Mr. Henderson, the CEO, weeping inconsolably about his lack of a custom-made tuba.

The Silent Night is Loud

Lily slipped on her coat, unable to wait for morning. If the Shifter had affected the desires of the entire neighborhood, Christmas Day would be a disaster—or a surreal comedy show.

“I’m just getting some air,” she mumbled to Sam, who was now meticulously reviewing his notebook, listing the exact dimensions required for a thriving earthworm community.

The moment Lily stepped onto the porch, the magnitude of the problem hit her like a punch of frosted air. Usually, Christmas Eve was silent and respectful. Tonight, it was a discordant mess of frustration and absurd longing.

Mr. Henderson, usually an impeccably tailored man, was kneeling in his snow-dusted front yard, staring mournfully into an empty, expensive-looking violin case. “They didn’t listen!” he wailed to his terrified poodle. “They brought me a watch! I need the booming resonance! I need the tuba!”

Two doors down, Mrs. Petula, the neighborhood’s notorious gossip, was shrieking at her husband, clutching a gift-wrapped broomstick. “A stick, Gerald! You call this a gift? I explicitly asked for a custom-made chandelier constructed entirely of dried macaroni! My heart is broken!”

Lily pulled her hood tight. The Shifter hadn’t just changed what people wanted; it had filled the absence of that desired object with genuine, heart-wrenching disappointment. It was weaponized absurdity.

She rushed back inside, snatching the Chrono-Crumble Tin off the mantel. “Listen, you rusty, talking dessert container,” she whispered fiercely. “What did you do? And how do I turn you off?”

The grumpy butler voice sighed dramatically from inside the tin. “Oh, the drama! I simply adjusted expectations, young hero. And I am only deactivated by a truly Perfectly Thoughtful Gift. A transaction of the heart, not the wallet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to observe the mailman lamenting his lack of a ceramic foot bath.”

Lily stared at the tin, then down at the gigantic pile of expensive, unwanted electronics destined for Sam. “A perfectly thoughtful gift,” she repeated. “Something that proves I know him.”

Suddenly, a memory sparked: the feeling of peeling away a piece of glow-in-the-dark putty—a tiny, molded star—from her mirror two Christmases ago. And a ridiculous, low-value object immediately sprang to mind: the Worry-A-Day Jar. A simple jar filled with 365 days of Sam’s cheesy jokes and encouraging observations. Lily had scoffed at it then. Now, it felt like the only non-absurd object left in the world.

“That’s it,” Lily whispered, ignoring the tin’s muffled giggling. “The jar. I have to find that jar.”

Chapter Two: The Search for the Sublime

Lily’s bedroom was a landscape of teenage archaeology, a place where sentimental objects went to be buried under layers of homework, fashion magazines, and forgotten technology. The room was the first place she looked for the Worry-A-Day Jar, and it instantly felt like searching for a needle in a haystack—a haystack that suddenly felt full of unwanted and cursed gifts.

She dug through her closet, shoving aside boxes of things she’d asked for but never really used. Under a pile of textbooks, she found a plastic, voice-activated diary she’d begged for last year. It beeped softly.

Diary: “My deepest desire is for a miniature, fully functioning, decorative garden hedge.”

Lily slammed the lid shut. The Shifter was still working its magic on things, too.

She pulled out her winter wear. There, tucked inside a ski boot, was the brightly colored, slightly misshapen Green and Purple Mitten that Sam had knitted two years ago—the one intended to replace the left mitten she always lost. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering how quickly she’d bought a professional black pair instead.

“A thoughtful gift,” Lily muttered, holding up the uneven wool. “This could have been it, except I tossed it aside.”

The Chrono-Crumble Tin, which she’d tucked under her arm like a mischievous football, offered a raspy chuckle. “Close, but no cigar. The magic requires perfect thoughtfulness, not near-perfect discardment. And besides,” the tin added with spite, “it’s nearly Christmas morning. You’re running out of time.”

A glance at her phone confirmed the tin’s warning: 1:15 AM.

Lily began tearing through her desk drawers, scattering papers, pens, and loose change. The desk was where the Jar belonged. Sam had presented it to her with such a proud, serious expression two years ago.

“It’s the Worry-A-Day Jar, Lily,” he had announced. “You open one slip when you’re worried. I filled it with things you need more than homework.”

Lily remembered politely putting it behind her laptop, deeming it too childish. She hadn’t even opened a week’s worth of slips. Now, the space was filled with charger cables and empty soda cans.

Frustration bubbling up, she accidentally kicked a box under her bed. It was a dusty container labeled “Old Toys.” She pulled it out, coughing in the dust cloud. The box contained all the childhood treasures she thought she had outgrown: old picture books, a handful of plastic dinosaurs, and—

Bingo.

Sitting nestled between a stuffed unicorn and a broken kaleidoscope was the Worry-A-Day Jar: a simple, painted mason jar, the lid wrapped with a glittery pipe cleaner, looking utterly out of place amidst the chaos of her teenage room.

Lily carefully lifted the jar. The hundreds of small, folded paper slips inside were the only thing that felt real and pure in the whole magical, ridiculous night.

“Okay, Shifter,” she whispered to the tin under her arm. “I have the tool. Tell me how to use it to reverse the spell.”

The Chrono-Crumble Tin cleared its metallic throat. “You must craft the desired gift—the earthworm basket—with an act of love so genuine that it proves you truly saw the recipient. The key is in the Jar, child. The key is in the words.”

Lily frowned. “The words? The terrible jokes and advice?”

“They are proof of his attention,” the Shifter corrected with a rare note of seriousness. “You need to read the slips, understand how he sees you, and reflect that sincerity back in your gift to him. Go now. The sun rises in four hours.”

Lily clutched the Jar and the Tin, the strange weight of the magical responsibility settling on her shoulders. She had to rush downstairs, read her brother’s heart, and then craft a perfectly thoughtful earthworm basket before the world woke up to the most disastrous, absurd Christmas morning in history.

Click HERE to read the rest of this story

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2025 in fantasy story, funny story, humor, humour

 

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Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

20 Nov
Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Children LOVE him

Parents HATE him

Click on the link, below, to read this exciting new story

https://thecrazymadwriter.com/horrible-horace-2/horrible-horace-2/

 
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Posted by on November 20, 2025 in fantasy, fantasy story, funny story, horrible horace

 

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The Whistling Moon

03 Oct
The Whistling Moon

The Whispering Woods were always a place of mystery, but none was as profound as the legend of the Whistling Moon. Old Man Tiber, his beard as white as winter snow, would spin tales by the crackling fire, his voice a low rumble. “They say,” he’d begin, “that when the moon hangs full and low, a melody drifts down from the heavens, a song of forgotten dreams and futures yet unwritten.”

Ríona (pronounced REE-uh-na), a young girl with eyes the color of the forest moss, listened intently to every word. She longed to hear the Whistling Moon, to feel its magic weave through her soul. One crisp autumn evening, as the moon, round and luminous, began its ascent, Ríona ventured out, leaving the warm glow of Tiber’s cottage behind.

The forest was alive with the hushed sounds of the night. Leaves rustled like whispered secrets, and the distant hoot of an owl echoed through the trees. Ríona walked deeper, her heart thrumming with anticipation. Finally, she reached a clearing she knew, a place where the ancient oaks formed a natural amphitheater, open to the vast, inky sky.

She settled on a bed of soft moss, gazing up at the celestial orb. It hung there, a pearlescent disc against the velvet black, seemingly larger and closer than ever before. A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it a faint, ethereal sound. It was soft at first, like the sigh of the wind through reeds, then it grew, weaving intricate patterns of sound that seemed to dance in the air around her. It wasn’t a tune she recognized, yet it felt intimately familiar, a melody that resonated deep within her spirit.

The Whistling Moon’s song filled the clearing, a symphony of gentle hums and clear, pure notes. It spoke of journeys across starlit skies, of quiet moments of joy, and of the enduring beauty of the world. Ríona closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her, feeling a sense of peace she had never known. When the last note faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the night, Ríona opened her eyes. The moon still shone, perhaps a little less brightly now, as if having poured its heart out in its song.

She returned to her cottage a changed girl. The Whistling Moon had not only sung to her, it had sung through her, leaving an echo of its magic in her heart. From that day on, Ríona carried a quiet knowing, a gentle wisdom that seemed to hum just beneath the surface. And sometimes, when the moon was full and bright, if you listened very carefully in the Whispering Woods, you could still hear a faint, beautiful melody, a reminder of the night the Whistling Moon sang its song to a curious young girl named Ríona.

The Silence of the Whistling Moon.

The Silence of the Whispering Woods

 

Years had woven themselves into Ríona’s life since she first heard the moon’s song. She was no longer the wide-eyed girl, but a young woman whose presence brought a quiet stability to the village. Her eyes, still the color of forest moss, held the steady, unchanging rhythm she had learned.

Then came the year of the Silence.

It began on the night of the full Harvest Moon—the very night when the Whistling Moon always poured its melody down upon the earth. The sky was clear, the orb hung low and vast, yet no song came. Not a whisper, not a hum, only a dense, unnatural quiet. It was the absence of sound that felt louder than any storm.

The villagers stirred with immediate dread. Old Man Tiber, now frail and trembling, muttered, “The bond is broken. The moon has turned its face from us.”

And indeed, the earth seemed to follow. Within a week, the apples on the high branches shriveled. The spring-fed stream, usually a rushing source of life, shrank to a sluggish trickle. Fear, cold and sharp, replaced the harmony Ríona had helped maintain. The villagers, desperate, looked to her, but their eyes held a new doubt. Was her wisdom a blessing, or had she somehow angered the celestial muse?

Ríona felt the silence deepest of all. It was not just outside; it was within her, a hollow echo where the moon’s rhythm once resonated. Her inner compass was spinning wildly. She knew then that her quiet knowing was not about hearing the song, but about understanding the silence.

She dressed in her plainest cloak and carried only a simple wooden staff. She knew she couldn’t wait for the sound to return; she had to find out where it had gone. She walked past the borders of the village and plunged into the deepest part of the Whispering Woods, a region known as the Gloomwood, where the trees grew so thick the sun rarely touched the ground.

The air here was heavy, almost resistant. After walking for hours, she came to a small, hidden pool. It was not stagnant, but its surface was eerily still, perfectly reflecting the massive moon above.

She looked up at the moon, then down at its mirrored image in the water. The lunar light felt cold, detached.

“Why the silence?” Ríona whispered, the sound absorbed instantly by the heavy air. “What have we forgotten this time?”

She knelt by the pool and noticed something odd. Beneath the reflected moon, at the very bottom of the pool, was a clump of dark, fibrous roots. They were not water plants; they looked like the aggressive, choking roots of the Gloomwood trees, seeking out the deepest water source. They had woven themselves into a dense, interlocking net, covering a small, smooth stone.

Ríona reached into the icy water and slowly, carefully, began to pull the roots away. They resisted her, slick and strong. She pulled and tugged, remembering the moon’s lesson: patience. She did not rip or tear, but worked them loose, strand by strand, until they finally broke free.

The small, smooth stone was then revealed. It was a piece of pale quartz, naturally shaped like a crescent moon.

As soon as the last root was severed, the air around the pool shimmered. The surface of the water rippled violently, and the reflected moon seemed to breathe.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered. But it wasn’t the sweet, ethereal whistle of the moon above. It was a low, powerful hum, emanating from the little quartz stone in her hand.

Ríona realized the truth: The Whistling Moon did not just sing to the world; it needed the world to receive and amplify its song. The little quartz crescent, a tiny piece of the earth that mirrored the moon, was the community’s receiver. The selfish, tangled roots of the Gloomwood, seeking all the water for themselves, had choked its ability to sing.

As she held the stone, the soft, bright light returned to the stream, and a gentle breeze, carrying the faintest echo of the moon’s true whistle, began to stir the leaves. The bounty would return, for the harmony was found not in a grand song, but in clearing the things that silence the small, essential voices.

Ríona returned to the village, not with a triumphant shout, but with the quiet knowing restored. She did not preach or explain the roots. She simply placed the clean quartz crescent on a stone altar near the now-reviving stream.

That night, the Whistling Moon sang again. And the villagers, hearing the melody, didn’t just feel joy; they felt a sudden, collective understanding: their harmony with the natural world depended not on the grand gestures of the heavens, but on their own vigilance in protecting the small, sacred things that keep the connection alive.

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2025 in Uncategorized

 

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Steampunk in Ballykillduff

16 Sep

The Steampunk Daleks of Ballykillduff

Prologue: A Strange Copper Glow

On most Tuesdays in Ballykillduff, nothing more dramatic happens than the post landing in the wrong cottage and the weather deciding to be three kinds of rain at once. Mrs. O’Toole hangs out washing and scolds the sky. Old Seamus McGroggan studies his pipe as if it might tell him who ate the last custard cream. And young Mick—ambitious, daft, and acrobatic—tries to cycle backwards down the main street while balancing a loaf on his head. (It is, he insists, “training for the circus.”)

But on this particular Tuesday, at precisely half past eleven, a copper light spread over the village like someone had polished the clouds. The hens went quiet. The sheep froze mid-chew. Father O’Malley paused with the parish bell rope in his hand and whispered, “Saints preserve us.”

Then came the sounds:
HSSSSSS… CLANK-CLONK! WHOOOOMP-TCHAK! TOOT-TOOT!
Gears rattled. Pipes sighed. Something big exhaled steam with the weary dignity of a very old kettle.

Mrs. Byrne put down her shopping basket. “That’ll be the weather packing in for the year,” she said.

“Or the circus,” said Mick hopefully, wobbling.

A shadow rippled across the crossroads. And through the copper-coloured sky, down they came: brass-plated, rivet-studded, monocle-winked, stovepipe-hatted… Daleks.

“Ah,” said Seamus softly to his pipe, “we’re doomed so.”

The first of the strange machines landed with a THOONK that made the turf stacks shiver and the pub sign spin half a turn. Its dome lifted a fraction; a curl of steam puffed out like a sigh of satisfaction.
“ATTEND!” wheezed a crisp, Victorian voice through a whistling grille. “THE AGE OF STEAM COMMENCES.”

“Will it take cash,” Mrs. Byrne whispered, “or does it run on scones?”

The brass teapot-on-wheels swivelled its monocled eyestalk. “WE REQUIRE… TEA.”

“Right,” said Mrs. O’Toole, squaring up. “That we can manage.”

And Ballykillduff held its breath.

Do you want to read more?

Click on the link, below, and enjoy.

Steampunk Daleks

 
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Posted by on September 16, 2025 in ballykillduff, dalek, daleks, fantasy story, humour, steampunk

 

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The Pickled Newt Incident

05 Aug
The Pickled Newt Incident

“The Pickled Newt Incident”

(As told in hushed tones by woodland creatures and highly suspicious teapots.)

In a village called Splotz, near the Crackling Cliffs’ root,
Lived an elf known as Fle—
And a jar marked “Newt.”

It sat on a shelf marked “Do Not Unseal!”
Right under the sign that read “Definitely Real.”
It bubbled, it gurgled, it muttered in rhyme,
And occasionally leaked a peculiar green slime.

“Now don’t touch the jar,” said old Fle with a wink.
“It once tried to marry a badger, I think.”
But Alice, quite curious (and rightly so),
Said, “Why keep a pickled newt sealed long ago?”

Fle sighed, then he paced, then he sat on a drum.
(He sits anywhere when his knees go numb.)
And thus he began, with a wiggle and groan,
To tell of the night he’d once meddled… alone.

“I was younger then—only two hundred and ten,
With a broom, a balloon, and a borrowed goose pen.
I’d just brewed a soup made of socks and some glue,
When a newt in a cravat said, ‘Good evening to you.’

He asked for a snack, so I offered some cheese—
But he sneezed on my cat and dissolved half the trees.
Then he danced on my roof, ate my weather forecast,
And declared he would marry my gramophone… fast.

So I pickled him, neatly, in vinegar brine,
With mustard, three cloves, and a touch of moonshine.
For ninety-nine years he’s been floating in stew,
Occasionally shouting, ‘I do, I do, I doooo!’

And that, dear Alice, is why—if you please—
One must never serve cheese to amphibians with knees.”

Alice blinked twice, then looked toward the shelf.
And slowly edged farther away from the elf.
“Is he dangerous?” she whispered, aghast.

Fle shrugged.
“Only if he gets out of the jar made of glass.”

Just then, the jar rattled, and a soft burp was heard—
Followed closely by a very rude word.
Fle sprang to his feet (as far as he could),
And stuffed the jar under a cloak made of wood.

“No more questions,” he said, “about pickling fate.
Let’s talk about teapots. Or how I once flew a plate.”

The Pickled Newt Incident

 
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Posted by on August 5, 2025 in Alice, Alice in Wonderland, fle

 

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32nd December.

02 Feb

32nd December.

If you liked Harry Potter you will love this story
As I sat uneasily atop my hound-horse, a large and fast animal as much greyhound as horse, I slipped my left hand into my jacket pocket and felt the cold steel of my trusty old lighter. Grasping tightly securing it in my sweating palm I carefully removed it from my suit pocket exposing the shiny metal to the bright rays of sunlight. My eyes, looking down onto my now open hand, squinted as the reflected rays tore away in several distinct directions, and my fingers clutched its familiar presence ever tighter. It was only a common and ever so ordinary cigarette lighter, but I felt an affinity with it; like that of an old friend. I ran my fingers along it, like petting an dog, then suddenly an almighty crack of thunder exploding directly overhead, in a tempestuous fury, brought my attention back to the task in hand the outcome of which promised life or death to each and everyone of us. So, without further ado, I cleared my mind and began speaking. I began reciting words, words which had only seconds earlier entered my tired brain, I said…”

“I hold this item in this my hand
To act as a bridge in these our plans
We need a distraction, a disturbance right now
To help Kakuri and the HU BA HOU.”

“No sooner had I finished speaking, and the last word left my lips, the sky began to darken. The dark clouds, appearing from nowhere, grew larger and larger and blacker and blacker until they had joined together in one congealed mass of undiluted anger. In a few short minutes the sky had changed from a deep summer blue to a black so dark day had turned into night.
Some of the assembled hound-horses sidestepped nervously, their handlers struggling to calm them. The wind began to blow, soft at first, but increasingly stronger. Then the heavens, opening in a deluge of rain, spewed thunder and lightning the likes of which I had never before seen; a storm, a full-blown storm was upon us.”
“And a storm was exactly what Kakuri needed. Through the driving rain, speaking directly to the HU BA HOU, she said, ‘Now my friend, it’s up to you – do your best.’ And with those words still lingering in its cavernous ears the huge animal took off at full-gallop heading straight for the Timeless Gates guarding the walled city of Onisha. The animal, sensing this was the final offensive, kept its large heavyset and armour-plated head well down. The storm now so intense Kakuri had, after only a few seconds, lost all sense of direction. She had no way of knowing if she was still on course, all she could do was trust the HU BA HOU, and hold on for dear life.”
“As if that were not enough for me to be worried about Kiliki had, meanwhile, given the order to the impatient, assembled Onishians to attack. And who could blame their impatience? It was their land, and they wanted revenge! The entire rag-tag collection of Onishians and their assorted animals plus the Orlu (a separate race of small ever obliging speedy people) were now hot on Kakuri’s heels with no intention of being left behind in the middle of nowhere, and in such a terrible storm. Soaked to the skin they all rushed headlong into the unknown. Some shouted, others roared and still others screamed with the delight they felt rising up against the man who had promised so much, who had given so little and who taken everything.”
“I could see the huge beast’s armour-plated defences, which had, only hours earlier, been carefully crafted by the ingenious Orlu, sparkling brilliantly in the reflected lightning flashes. The plates, of every conceivable shape and size, colliding with one another clanged loudly in a surreal musical tempo, and if there was anybody, within the walled city, still capable of seeing through the blinding, driving rain they would have been filled with the fear of God.
Suddenly, just short of the still-defiant gates, the HU BA HOU stopped. We all stopped dead in our tracks, wondering just what could be the problem. Then the tank, the ugly humpy-tank of an animal, clawing at the ground (like a bull), rising on its hind legs (like a horse) while roaring its own unique ear-shattering cry lifted its large, ugly head one last time before hurling itself forward with the gates set firmly in its sights, nothing could stop it now…”

“Watching, from the relative safety of a short distance behind, my mind wandered trying to remember how this had all come about. Why, only a few days earlier I had been all set for Christmas. I remembered sitting comfortably in front on the TV, looking forward to a well-earned rest. And now, here I was in an alien land about to follow a fair maiden atop an abomination of a creature called a HU BA HOU in an assault on a walled city, searching for a man called Miafra – for a man who would be a god. Searching for a man who had stopped time, stolen the chi (the free will) of the people and drained the powers of the most revered Mystic in the entire land. My thoughts, racing, drifted back to Christmas Eve those few short days ago…”

fantasy story

eBooks for children; fantasy stories.

 
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Posted by on February 2, 2021 in fantasy, fantasy story, free, free ebooks, Uncategorized

 

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Wot and Nott’s Race Against Time

13 Oct

Part One – The Fabled Crest

Wot and Nott’s Race Against Time FREE eBook download

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Posted by on October 13, 2015 in eBook download, fantasy, fantasy story, free, free ebooks

 

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Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU

11 Nov

If you liked Harry Potter you will love this story

An Extract:

31st December
Sitting atop his hound-horse, Nott withdrew his cigarette lighter from out of his pocket, then reciting some words that had mysteriously come to him only a few earlier, he said, “I hold this item in this my hand, to act as a bridge in these our plans. We need a distraction, a disturbance right now to help Kakuri and the HU BA HOU

Nott had no sooner finished speaking when the sky above him begin to darken and grow angry. Dark clouds appearing from out of nowhere grew larger and larger and blacker and blacker until they had joined together uniting in one congealed mass of anger. In a few short minutes the sky had changed from a deep summer blue to a blackness so dark, day had turned to night. Some of the hound-horses nervously sidestepped, their handlers struggled to calm them. The wind began to blow, soft at first, but increasingly stronger. Then the heavens opened in a deluge of rain, thunder and lightning – a full-blown storm was upon them…

A storm was exactly what Kakuri had needed, and through the driving rain she spoke to the HU BA HOU, “Now my friend, it’s up to you – do your best.” And with those words still lingering in its ears the huge animal took off at full-gallop heading straight for the Timeless Gates guarding Onisha City. The animal, sensing that this was the final offensive, kept its large heavyset and armour-plated head well down. The storm was so intense Kakuri had, after only a few seconds, lost all sense of direction – she had no way of knowing if they were still heading for the Timeless Gates and all she could do was trust the HU BA HOU, and hold on tight.

As if that were not enough to be worried about, Kiliki had meanwhile given the order to the assembled and impatient Onishians to attack. The entire rag-tag collection of Onishians and Orlu (not forgetting their assorted animals) were now hot on Kakuri’s heels with no intention of being left behind out in the middle of nowhere, and in such a terrible storm. Everyone was soaked to the skin as they all rushed headlong into the unknown. Some shouted, others roared and still others screamed with the delight they felt rising up against the man who had promised so much, who had given so little and who taken everything.

The armour plating sparkled with the reflections of the lightning flashes. It clanged as the plates collided with one another and if there was anybody in the city capable of seeing through the blinding rain they would have been filled with the fear of God.

Unexpectedly, the HU BA HOU stopped just short of the gates. Everyone following stopped dead in their tracks, wondering what could be the problem. Then the tank, the ugly humpy-tank of an animal standing just short of the gates clawed at the ground (like a bull), rose up on its hind legs (like a horse) and roared with the ear-shattering cry unique to itself. And raising its large head one last time emitted another ear-shattering roar before hurling itself forward with the gates set firmly in its sights…

Nott, watching from the relative safety of a short distance behind, wondered how this had all come about. Why, only a few days earlier he had been all set for Christmas, and a well-earned rest. And now he was in an alien land, about to follow a fair maiden atop an abomination of a creature called a HU BA HOU, in an assault on a walled city searching for a man called Miafra, a man who had stopped time, who had stolen the chi (the free will) of the people and who had drained the powers of the most revered Mystic in the entire land; a man who would be a God.

CONTD

 Click here to purchase this exciting new eBook

 
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Posted by on November 11, 2014 in children's stories, Christmas story, fantasy, Stories for children

 

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