Series
Pooh meets Paddington
Eeyore reached the sapling and studied it very long. "I think I found my tail up a tree. Have no way of knowing how it got this far. They all said that it was quite blustery this morning. "I suppose it was." said Eeyore. They all looked up into the tree and they to see what looked like Eeyore's tail. The tree did not look strong enough for Pooh or Paddington or even Eeyore to climb, so Piglet decided to shake off his anxiety and climb the tree. Piglet made it to the spot, and it was Eeyore's tail now.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh meets Paddington
Paddington saw something hanging in the thistle bush and called Pooh over "Is this his tail?" It was just a piece of thin bark. They continued to walk down the path looking in directions. Paddington was getting a little peckish and pulled out a marmalade sandwich and offered to all for he liked to share. Pooh, Piglet and Eeyore had their favorite snacks, and marmalade was not what they wanted at the moment. They noticed something hanging from a tree sapling and walked closer. "Could it be?" Eeyore was first to check it out for he missed his tail much.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Pooh meets Paddington
As Pooh and Paddington was walking through the Hundred Acre Wood along with Tigger and Piglet they bumped into Eeyore and his search for his tail that he seems to lose every now again. Eeyore says "Hi, Pooh, Piglet and Tigger." Eeyore looks at Paddington and introduces himself and says will you help me find my tale? Paddington looks at the others and agrees to help him. "Where do we look first?" They walk down to where Eeyore just left, and they saw a thistle bush. Paddington looked all around it along with the others. They saw something hanging there.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Endurance
If Michael’s apartment were any warmer, the wine would be sweating through the glass before you got it to your mouth. Everyone is already seated, pressed shoulder to shoulder around the battered walnut dining table that doubles as his only real piece of grown-up furniture. A lazy ceiling fan rotates overhead, struggling against the stubborn June heat. Michael stands at the head of the table in a charcoal blazer crisp enough to reflect light, the cuffs of his shirt peeking out at the wrists, his jaw squared like he’s bracing for a finish line.
By Endurance Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Gloaming
Please have a looksee at part one (it's dreadful but it's quite short): Whinberries The sun climbed. Ned stalled near a pond skipping stones for nearly as long as he had by the apple tree. Joanie couldn't get them to skip at all, but she was good at finding flat ones. It felt good to be busy and helpful. For a while anyway. She got hungry, and started to cry. Ned soothed, coaxed, distracted, bullied, or ignored her by turns. "I want to go home, Ned," she whimpered. "Then go," he said. The thought terrified her. "But I don't know the way." "Well, go or be quiet," he snapped. This is how the hours of the afternoon oscillated by. Joanie's mood waxed and waned, and Ned's patience did the same. "Are you sure you know where we are?" Joanie peered around. "It's been ages and I haven't seen any whinberry bushes." "Course l know the way," he said, "It's not far now." This conversation was repeated many times, with slight variations. "It's just over there." "Round that bend." "Down that bank." By the time they reached the right spot, the sun was slinging its honey low over the horizon. "But we haven't even got anything to put them in," Joanie said. "We'll put them in our pockets," Ned cast an expert eye over a cluster of berries, and popped a couple in his mouth. Joanie had a good idea of how he was going to carry the berries back. "I thought you said they all had dog widdle on," she grumbled. "Not these," he said with a juicy grin. "Only the low down ones." Joanie was thoroughly fed up. The ground was uneven and rocky. The first time she fell, he'd been sympathetic. Every time after that, he'd been increasingly impatient. Her knees were scraped and her feet bruised. She itched to say, I want to go home again but she bit her tongue. He wasn't being mean right now, and she wanted it to stay that way. It was at least a bit better when he wasn't being mean. Her belly growled and cramped. The cheese sandwiches their mother packed had been a long time ago. Ned had never been the sort of boy to save any food longer than half an hour. She hunted for berries to fill the aching gap, but it seemed Ned had managed to find the last good ones. The rest were low-down, shrivelled, dog-widdle ones. Joanie rubbed her fists over her eyes, and trudged after her brother on sore feet.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Whinberries. Top Story - August 2025.
I still remember how he looked, hunched over the wireless, late on that Sunday morning. It's my most abiding memory of him. His shirt, the mended one with blue stripes, was open at the cuffs and rolled back to his elbows, showing his sturdy, brown forearms. Mostly, we could only see the back of his head, he was so intent on teasing a signal from that radio. His hair was coal-black, and as neatly combed as if we'd been to church (we hadn't). When he turned to snap at Mother to stop her "bloody clattering" we could see how hard he bit on the pipe sticking out the side of his mouth, and the concentrated scowl over his eyes. That's how I remember him, and the memory brings me dread, even now. The memory of that morning is even worse, I think, than the fear the night before... * It was the last weekend before school started again. Saturday was mild and dry. The clouds felt heavy and low, but only for the grownups. They were too far away for the children to be bothered by them. Nerves pinched at Joanie. She'd prefer to stay at home and read. "Nonsense," her mother said. "Plenty of time for books soon. School starting this week! So! Get out in the fresh air. Get some colour in your cheeks. Ned will mind you -" here she shot a look at him, hard enough to send a lesser boy stumbling backwards, "won't you, Ned." "Course," Ned said, and that was that. * It was a nice day, even Joanie had to admit. Not too hot, nor too chilly. It was a bit exciting and fun to be off by themselves. In charge of how fast they went (she scuttled to keep up) and when they ate lunch (the hard cheese sandwiches were gone inside an hour.) "Here," Ned wiped the crumbs from his mouth and handed the lunch tin to Joanie. His hand was sweaty. Joanie wiped hers on her dress, and scuttled some more, the tin banging against her leg. She hadn't been hungry, not really, but she had a feeling if she didn't eat her share, Ned would finish it off himself, no matter how cross it made her. Ned scooped up a likely looking stick from the path and craned his neck to look up into a nearby apple tree. "Ned, no!" Joanie panted. "Mam said we're to get whinberries. Not apples." "Shut up," Ned was careless about his manners without an adult on hand to remind him. As far as he was concerned, little sisters were annoying and didn't count. "It's probably someone's tree," Joanie fretted. "We'll be in trouble." "You're always such a fraidy-cat." "Am not." "Shut up, then, and help me get these apples." He flailed the stick, and grinned in triumph when it connected and an apple sailed to the ground. "See?" he said. Easy! Look, I'll get another... You collect them, go on. Put them in the tin." "But the tin is for berries." Joanie looked doubtful. Apples were much bigger than whinberries. "Won't hardly be any berries, anyway," Ned swung the stick again. "All the good ones are gone. You'll see. It'll just be the shrivelled ones covered in dog widdle that no one wants. You should have come with us last time, there were loads." Joanie said nothing, but felt sure she hadn't missed much. She wondered if she could skip the pie tomorrow, and just have the custard. It was just like Ned, she thought peevishly, to ruin the best part of Sunday dinner. He was looking red in the face now with exertion and frustration. After his early success, the apples were proving hard to knock out of the tree. "Maybe try getting those smaller ones up there," Joanie pointed. "There's not much room left in the tin anyway." "Good thinking," said Ned, magnanimous for once. His fresh targets were much higher. He tried throwing the stick instead of waving it. Joanie found her own stick and joined in. The tin lay forgotten on the grass. The sun peeped out from the clouds. It was a rare and amicable moment. Joanie managed to hit three apples, although they hadn't fallen from the tree. Ned had been impressed. Joanie beamed. Ned set up a points system and scratched a tally on the stone wall. A man's voice, angry and yelling, made them both jump halfway out of their skins. "Hey! What do you think you're playing at! Hey!!" Ned and Joanie ran. They flew down the path and kept going, sure that the angry owner of the apple tree was right behind them. Pink faced and panting, Joanie asked, "Do you think he got a good look at us?" "At you, probably. You don't run very fast. They'll probably call you the snail when you start school. Or Moanie Joanie." Joanie had been trying hard not to think of that. Dread twisted her insides. Ned rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't start whining again. Come on. Did you get the tin?" Joanie went even pinker. *
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Who's the real monsters
Slowly making my way down the vents I paid attention to every sound that was made. Hannah's conversation kept replaying in my head. She has a mother who's still alive and is most likely close by. Thinking I could use this to my advantage and if she tries to get me sent to either The Thing from the Pit or Nurse Ratchet I'll come down on her hard. That would explain why everyone has been sucking up to her.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silver Whistle - Episode Two (You might enjoy this more if you read episode one first.)
It's Tuesday night, and the regulars are back in. Frank notes the arrival of each one. After they have ordered a scotch from Penny at the bar, they trot to their usual space in the back room. The snooker table has been pushed aside this evening to make room for a round rickety number that is determined to wobble even with folded beer mats under every leg. A curtain seperates the smoky little den from the main bar. Rex deals the cards like he's born to it, but then, that's how he approches most things. Sarge looks as doleful as ever, but that's just his face. He might have a hand full of aces for all anyone knows. Bruno eyes his cards, trying to keep the tremor from his paws. This is not the kind of contest he is most used to. Nigel and Milo, on either side of him, look just as twitchy. A Doberman has joined them tonight. His cigar glowed, but if not for that, he could have been a statue. Toffee the corgi has an eye on the odds, as always. His stack of chips was pretty high. Then the door creaked. Four mastiffs walked in. Not barked. Not growled. Just walked... but with the slow, deliberate, tread of enormous paws. The floorboards squeaked in protest under the weight of muscle. They stood at the edge of the table, watching, their fawn coats gleaming in the lamplight. Except for the largest, whose brindle for was crisscrossed with a network of scars one scored his grizzled muzzle. None of them wore a hat, or a sweater, or even a collar. Frank nudged Penny to offer the newcomers drinks. Penny opened her mouth to remind him they'd never offered a table service, but saw the expression on his face, and bit her tongue. Back at the card table, Bruno did his best not to flinch. “You boys play?” The brindle mastiff stepped forward, his impressive collection of scars rippling and apparently crawling over each other. "We play." Toffee raised an eyebrow. “Buy-in’s steep.” The biggest mastiff curled his lip. He smelled offended. A heavy pouch dropped on the table with a lucrative-sounding thud-clink. The entire table swallowed. Between the smoke and the tension, you could have cut the air with a steak knife. "Well," said Nigel at last, "Deal them in." There was considerable creaking and scooching while the regulars made space for the new arrivals. The mastiffs took this as their due. They settled in, and subtly spread out. Like a middleaged man undoing the buttons on his trousers. The game shifted. The air thickened. Poor Bruno looked like he was about to vibrate right out of his seat. Milo looked like he was a whisker away from climbing across the table and taking all four mastiffs down several pegs. Outside, the wind picked up. It howled, as if it understood the tension creaking under the beams of Silver Whistle. Inside, the stakes changed. Toffee had folded, never a good sign. Worse, he'd packed up his stuff, tipped his hat respectfully, and left. He was not, for once, smiling. Milo's pile of chips shrank with every hand. "I don't know, gents," he said, his bravado dwindling just a fraction. I think this might be it for me. I'm all out." He turned his pockets inside out. They were, indeed, empty. "You got a basket, don't you?" "Well, now, fellas, I dunno..." Milo's brown ears flicked back, trembling. "I can't just.... I mean, Dom and Sally, they're nice folks, but they would definitely notice if a chap your size showed up... I mean, you and l, we look nothing alike, siri, if you get my meaning..." The rest of the table were deathly silent. No one panted. No one scratched. This was the closest Milo had ever come to admitting he was... well... not actually a big dog. The mastiffs waited, hulking in their seats. Milo's teeth showed for just a moment, then he shoved his chips into the middle of the table. *
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
