TYPES OF STORY - by KanzaSohail&UjalaaKaleem

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There are many different types of stories. The most important consideration when choosing a tale to tell is whether you like it enough to tell it with enthusiasm. Stories should communicate to you a need to be told. Some of the different categories of stories available to storytellers are: --

Fable - a short moral story not based on fact, using animals as characters, such as, Aesop's Fables - The Fox and the Grapes, Lion and the mouse and others.

Fairytale - The best-known would be Grimm's fairytales about imaginary folk, such as elves, giants, witches, gnomes, and fairies. Closer to home is Mary and the Leprechaun, by Irish-Australian writer John Kelly.

Folk tale - a traditional story, in which ordinary people gain special insight, transforming them and enabling them to overcome extraordinary obstacles. See The Magic Orange Tree & other Haitian Folktales by Diane Wolkstein.

Legend - a story based on the life of a real person in which events are depicted larger than life, for example, The Stories of Robin Hood, or King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

Myth - a story about gods and heroes, explaining the workings of nature and human nature. See Psyche and Eros or Inanna by Diane Wolkstein.

Parable - a fictitious story told to point to a moral, for example, The Sower and the Seed from the New Testament of the Bible.

Personal story - a life story from your own or your family's experience, such as, Streets and Alleys by Syd Lieberman.

Religious story - an historical and philosophical story based on a particular culture and religious persuasion, for example, The Story of Lazarus from the Bible.

Tall tale - an exaggerated story, often humorous. Fishing stories, Australian Bush stories, see The Loaded Dog by Henry Lawson.

Traditional tale - a story handed down orally from generation to generation, such as the Polynesian stories - Maui, and The Coming of the Maori.

We want you guys to tell us that what type of story you like so that we can post stories according to your choice

Short Story: Revenge As Sweet As Jam Tarts

.By:Kanza Sohail
Tom slipped inside his dark hovel and slumped into the furthest corner, sulking and feeling very sorry for himself. Once again the others had excluded him from the fun. It wasn’t fair. Ever since he’d dropped that blasted cat in the well, he had been an outcast from the group. That cat had it coming to her anyway. She was to blame for his little pets, the mice, ending up blind. Cruel beast that she was, she would torture and play with the little creatures, then let them go injured and bleeding so she could do it all over again the next day. Whenever the game was over, she would sit washing her paws, and purring as if butter wouldn’t melt. What was the big deal anyway? Goody two shoes, Tommy Stout had rescued her, no harm done.
But he, Tommy Thin, had been castigated and blamed for all manner of other nursery world crimes too. They said he had pushed Humpty off the wall. What a cock and bull story that was. He never went near Humpty that day. Anyway, what a crazy thing for an egg with a roly poly bottom to try to do. And as for frightening Miss Muffet, and stealing the pig, and tripping up Jack, he was innocent of all of these crimes, but nobody would believe him. Now they were going to have a Halloween party without him. He felt the pangs of anger rumble deep inside.
It had gone on too long and he would stand for it no more. He clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and began to plan his revenge. He had an idea. He would teach them all a lesson. They would be sorry. His self pity turned to hatred, and he got up, feeling rejuvenated, and left his house. He strutted up the hill towards the castle where his one and only friend lived. He knew the Knave of Hearts would enjoy plotting with him, and he also knew the Knave had the kind of underworld connections he needed.
‘How many apples do we need for the ducking game?’ asked Jack, jumping over the candlestick and rummaging in the bag of apples on the porch.
‘One each, of course, and we’ve got 11 guests coming so there will be 13 of us altogether,’ said Jill. She carefully laid 13 cups and 13 plates on the table.
‘Thirteen?’ said Jack. ‘Isn’t that a bit unlucky? Can’t we invite one more?’
‘There’re no other kids around this week, except that horror Tommy Thin and his pal the Knave. You know what’ll happen if we invite them. The knave will stuff his face with all the cakes, and Tommy’ll play nasty tricks on everyone.’
‘I guess so,’ said Jack.
‘I wonder what everyone will dress up as,’ said Jill. ‘I hope they all come as something scary. The scarier the better for Hallowe’en. I’m going to be an ugly, wicked old witch with a huge wart on my nose. I’ve been practising my witchy voice. Listen Jack.’ Jill began to screech in a high pitched thin trembly voice, ‘Come inside my dears. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Haaaahaaaa, heeee, cackle cackle.’ She turned to Jack, ‘What do you think?’
‘Pretty realistic Jill. You even scared me for a minute. But wait til you see my skeleton’s costume. It’s so cool. I can’t wait to get dressed up.’
‘We’d better get on with stuff for the party first. I’ll do the sandwiches and make the witches brew, if you go up the hill and fetch the water for the apple ducking. And for goodness sake don’t fall down. We haven’t time to mend your head today. Then we’ll hang up the decorations together and light the Jack o’ Lanterns. Everyone’ll be here in a couple of hours, as soon as it gets dark.’
Tom and the Knave huddled together over the Knave’s computer in a corner of the castle library and whispered their plans. ‘It’s easy,’ said the Knave. ‘We just have to announce the party on NurseryNotes.com and all manner of awful creatures’ll turn up and gate crash it. And with everybody in fancy dress nobody’ll know who anybody is, and it’ll cause havoc. We can go dressed up too and see the fun for ourselves.’
‘I knew you’d help,’ said Tom. ‘Isn’t revenge sweet!’
‘As sweet as jam tarts!’ said the Knave.
Jill was lighting the final Jack o’ Lantern when their guests began to arrive. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were first, arguing as usual which one of them was the best Superhero. ‘Sparkman is way better than Flashguy,’ said Tweedle Dee.
‘Oh yeah? Want to fight me to prove it?’ answered Tweedle Dum.
‘Not tonight, you guys. This is a night for fun not fighting,’ said Jill. ‘Look. Here comes a ghost carrying a spider, and an old hag with a flock of sheep. It must be Miss Muffet and Bo Peep. Come on in everybody,’ said Jill. ‘Leave the door open for the others.’
The night was pitch black, no moon, and no stars. While the friends were having a great time playing In and Out the Haunted Houses and singing at the tops of their voices, strange mounds began to appear all over the hillside. Like boils bursting, one by one they split open and grotesque little men with sharp pointed noses, long spindly limbs, and bulging eyeballs emerged. Although the night was still, the tops of the trees mysteriously began to shake, and it seemed as if the leaves had come to life as black shadowy creatures took to the skies. From a nearby bridge came the sound of water bubbling furiously as if it were boiling, and out of the stream climbed a screeching army of ugly, hairy trolls. The three groups gathered together and began the advance on the children’s cottage; the Bogeymen and Trolls marching, the Vampires flying above them.
Tom and the Knave lurked in the shadows outside the open door, grinning as their wicked plan took shape. ‘Let’s slip inside with the other uninvited guests,’ sneered Tom.
‘No!’ said the Knave. ‘Better not. It’s safer outside. Let’s watch through the window.’
‘But they’re only gate crashing the party. They won’t do any real harm to anybody. I want to go inside,’ said Tom.
‘I said no. We don’t know these underworld creatures. They could be dangerous. We’re safer outside for now.’
Tom and the Knave watched as the intruders grew closer and closer. Tom began to feel anxious. Perhaps they had gone too far. Perhaps they had unleashed an evil force over which they had no control.
Little Boy Blue, dressed as a dragon, and Georgy Porgy as a wizard, stepped onto the porch to carry in the water trough for the apple ducking game. ‘You’ve got more guests coming,’ shouted Georgy. ‘They’ve got really scary costumes on.’
‘We didn’t invite….’began Jill when the evil landed.
The onslaught of the gatecrashers was so fast that it seemed like a tornado swept through the room. Blackness descended, as every Jack o’ Lantern was extinguished. ‘What are they doing?’ whispered Tom, peering through the window. ‘It’s so black I can’t see anything.’
‘Hmmm. This could be more serious than I thought,’ said the Knave.
The children were so traumatised by the intrusion that for a second there was silence. And then the panic started. They screamed, first one and then another, until the room was just one big scream. But no sound came from the Vampires or Bogey Men or Trolls. They did whatever they were doing in silence while
the children’s voices could be heard shrieking.
‘Get off me,’
‘Let me go!’ ‘
‘That hurt.’
‘Please stop.’ ‘
‘What d’you want?’
‘Don’t do that!’
‘What’s going on?’ Tom asked again. ‘I thought they would just eat the food, and take over the games. I thought they were just gatecrashers. What are they doing to the kids?’
‘Maybe we’ve gone too far this time,’ said the Knave. ‘Maybe we should get out of here before they see us.’
‘What d’you mean Knave? We can’t just leave the kids at their mercy. We’d better get help. Who are these creatures? Why did they put out the lights?’
‘That’s the answer. You said it. Come on. I know exactly what to do,’ said the Knave.
‘What did I say? What do you mean?’ asked Tom trembling with fear.
‘The lights! You said why did they put out the lights? I know why they put out the lights, Tom. Follow me. Quick. Before it’s too late.’
The Knave took off for the castle at top speed, with Tommy Thin running along behind trying to keep up. The pair burst through the gate and into the castle. The Knave bounded up the spiral staircase almost knocking over his mother, the Queen of Hearts, with a tray of freshly baked tarts in her hand. She’d just recovered her balance when Tom rushed past her too. ‘What on earth is going on? What’s the great hurry?’ she said.
The boys ignored her and continued racing to the topmost turret of the castle. Standing on the edge of the parapet, the Knave reached up and turned one of the castle’s floodlights so that it pointed exactly at Jack’s house. Without thinking about his own safety he nimbly ran along the wall and turned another one in the same direction. ‘Tommy,’ he yelled, ‘there’s a switch just behind you. Can you reach it?’ Tommy nodded.
‘I’ve just one more lamp to turn….’ said the knave, once again balancing on the top of the wall high above the ground, as he reached out to the last lamp. He couldn’t quite touch it. He stood on the tiptoes of one foot and stretched as far as he could, but as he turned the lamp to face the cottage he lost his balance and ended up hanging by his finger tips.
‘Switch on the lights now Tommy,’ he yelled as he lost his grip and plunged 70 feet towards the ground. His mother, still holding the tray of freshly baked tarts, happened to be looking up in disbelief at her son’s daring when he came crashing down onto the tray of jam tarts.
Meanwhile Tommy watched from the castle ramparts as the evil Bogeymen ran from the cottage and disappeared back into the hillside, the grotesque Trolls rolled down the bank into the bubbling river, and the sinister black Vampires returned to the trees and vanished from sight in an instant. The nursery rhyme characters began to appear on the porch, looking shocked but none the worse for their ordeal. Tom raced down the spiral staircase two steps at a time and out into the courtyard. ‘Are you all right Knave? What did you hurt? Oh my God, look at all that blood. Where’s it coming from?’
The Knave began to laugh. He was shaken and bruised, but the blood was only jam. Luckily the tray had broken his fall and the only real damage was to the tarts. His mother was not amused though…she’d spent all day baking for the children coming to Trick or Treat at the castle. ‘Look what you’ve done now!’ she scolded.
‘Not to worry Mum. I don’t think any of the kids will be coming to the castle tonight.’
He picked up the best of the tarts and put them back on the tray. ‘Come on Tommy, I think I know some kids who’ll be pleased to see us, especially if we come bearing tarts.’
‘But Knave, how did you know that the lights would do the trick?’ asked Tom.
‘As soon as you mentioned that the gatecrashers had put out all the lights, I realised they were all creatures of the dark. I’ve read about them before in one of the books in my library. They can’t survive in the light. That’s why they live where they do, underground, underwater, and deep inside tree trunks.’
‘Do you think Jack and the rest will let us join the party now?’ asked Tom.
‘I think they should be very grateful to us. After all, we saved them from a terrible, unimaginable fate, didn’t we?’ said the Knave.
‘But we’d better not mention it was our announcement on NurseryNotes.com that brought the evil creatures out in the first place,’ said Tom.
‘Mum’s the word,’ said the Knave, winking at the Queen of Hearts, as he and Tommy Thin set off in the direction of the children’s cottage carrying a tray of rather bashed but delicious jam tart.

Short Story: The Scent Of Elsewhere

by ujalaa kaleem
November 1643
Darkest night.
Sheets of rain descend on the thatch of the inn and seek to breach its ancient barrier. Most of the water is carried down the slope and splashes on the stone and mud below. Some however finds gaps in the woven reed and forms into rivulets that twist as they descend. They steer an erratic course to penetrate through to the room below.
The pretty girl hitches up her skirt and moves from behind the bar carrying a bucket to catch the latest of many such intrusions. One thin stream falls from the thatch and finds an oak beam. It drips suddenly onto the back of a small mouse that shakes itself and scurries along the beam to a more secure perch. The creature’s bright eyes regard the scene below and its nose twitches as it peers through the candlelight and studies the old man.
Leaning forward over the table and hugging his beer, the man is watching the girl as she returns to the bar. She runs a wet hand through her long hair, and raises her chin to the newcomer, wordlessly asking his pleasure. The old man sets his dark and hungry thoughts aside for a moment and switches his gaze to the man at the bar. This man is fresh from the storm outside, his black cloak drips onto the flags at his feet, the candles still flicker from his passing , and the iron handle of the heavy door still swings from recent use. He regards the girl through matted hair.
“Your best ale.”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“There’s just one” she takes a tankard and pulls on a pump “and this is it”.
This forces a laugh from the other two occupants of the inn. Two farmers deep in the shadows at the far side of the room, look up from their cards.
“You tell him Rosamund.”
The stranger turns slowly and nods to the men.
“I’m told.” They return to their game.
The stranger throws two coins onto the bar and takes a drink. He studies his tankard for a moment.
“That’ll do fine. Rosamund.”
“Hmph” The girl spins around, grabs a cloth and sets to polishing a line of tankards. Across the room the old man stirs. He rubs his eyes, and when he speaks his voice is gravel.
“You may not believe this stranger, but that’s a better reception than most get” he laughs from the throat and it turns into a wet cough. The stranger turns and leans back onto the bar, he gestures to the door.
“It’s a better reception than this bleak night has given me so far”. The old mans eyes follow his gesture and he nods wordlessly, then..
“Bleak indeed, have you wandered far stranger?”
The man looks at him and tilts his head.
“Wandered?”
“Why yes. I heard no hooves and heard no request for stabling, and..” He gestures with his flagon “Those boots suit a walking man”.
The stranger regards him for a moment with a hard stare. Then he grins.
“Yes old man. Far.”
A new sound rises over the hiss of the rain. The clatter of horseshoes on a wet stone road. The sound increases and causes all those inside to stop whatever they are doing. The stranger and the old man hold each others gaze, frozen. The girl holds her position and her breath - one hand is holding the cloth buried deep in a glass - and the two card players turn to the nearest window although there is nothing but the night visible without. As the riders pass, each bottle along the shelf behind the bar chinks against its neighbour and their contents ripple. Abruptly the sound is gone and the hiss of rain resumes. The stranger takes a swig of his beer and speaks to the door.
“The Kings men. That was a disciplined troop.”
The old man nods slowly but then stops.
“Or the Wild hunt.”
“The Wild hunt?”
“Aye, the Lord of Faerie sends his riders abroad on nights such as…..”
“I know what the Wild hunt is old fellow, and I know that it is a tale for children.”
He turns back to the bar and holds his tankard out the girl.
“I knew that I had wandered far from the town, but I didn’t realise I had wandered so far from reason.”
“Hah!” This from one of the farmers.
The girl takes his tankard and fills it, holding his stare. She seems to have softened somewhat and gives him a smile.
“Don’t mind old Thomas stranger, he’ll wear you away with his stories. Many are the paying customers who have walked out that door on worse nights than this rather than hear his babble.”
The stranger takes his beer.
“Is that right Thomas? Are you bad for trade? Well, I’ll not be forced out. I’ve come too far and I’m too cold. Maybe we’ll have a story or two eh?
Thomas raises his eyes, unsure if he is being mocked. The barmaid shakes her head.
“I warn you sir”
The stranger waves her away and moves to sit opposite the old man. He touches their tankards together and the candle between them flickers as if excited.
“Well Thomas, the Wild Hunt was it? What other tales of Faerie do you have? It seems like the night for it and I have nothing but time.”
Thomas hugs his beer again and grunts.
“I think you would make fun of me sir. Have you come from the town to amuse yourself with the likes of us tonight? If so I will give you no such entertainment...”
Then he leans forward and his voice softens. There are discoloured teeth within his sly smile.
“..if however your interest is genuine, then I have something to tell. I know why the Wild hunt rides.”
Above him, still peering down from the oak beam, the small mouse shakes itself. It has tired of the smoky room and the sounds it cannot understand. There are babies waiting for its milk and it needs the warmth of the nest. As it turns to run home a shadow falls. The cat has approached silently and is crouching low on the beam, tense and ready. The mouse gives one shrill scream as the predator’s claws rip its life away.
Old Thomas looks up briefly but sees nothing. Then, fixing the other mans eyes, he begins..
“Now, as you probably know, the land of Faerie wraps around our world like a cloak – like your cloak. It exists within and without, all around us but distant. The fair folk can travel to us but we cannot travel to them, leastways not unbidden.”
He looks past his companion to the girl, and then to the card players. All are apparently ignoring him, and the stranger knows they must have heard all this many times, but he senses they are listening.
“Their land is wondrous to us, more beautiful than we can imagine. They are beings of light, immortal and terrible as they are mischievous. There are towers of gold and valleys of…..”
“Just a minute old Thomas. If they are so..wondrous, why bother with us at all? Why not ignore this mundane realm of rain and sadness?”
“Ah well young man. They have a fascination with our kind you see, always have. They cannot understand our short lives or our…our weight. For all their glory, we have feelings that they don’t possess. We are somehow deeper. They study us..”
He leans back and takes a deep drink.
“..yes that’s it. They study us.”
“What? Such as a doctor of Physic may study a caged rat?”
“Aye, yes sir, a caged rat. Then there is the sport.”
A sharp gust of wind beats at the windows and the heavy door creaks above the sound of the storm. All within turn their eyes there for a moment. The stranger turns back.
“Ah yes the sport, the Wild hunt. I have heard the Faerie Lord sends his knights forth to roam our world on nights such as this. They hunt the white stag which is so dear to him, yet they never catch it.”
The old mans eyes widen.
“Ah, so you have a little country knowledge within you.”
“I have heard little boys tales if that’s what you mean, but that’s all they are, and I fear this is just another, though I am no child Thomas. I think it’s time for me to go back to the barmaid, for she is prettier than you and I must arrange lodging.”
He makes to stand, but the old man grabs a fold of his cloak and pulls him back.
“No Sir it’s not what you think. True the tales are often told, but they’re told wrong. The stag is not what they hunt. Not mostly anyways.”
The man sits back down and narrows his eyes.
“Oh no? So what is it they hunt?”
Now there is a lull in the wind and rain, for one brief moment something approaching silence inhabits the Inn. When old Thomas speaks his voice is as a hiss.
“They hunt the lost.”
The storm resumes.
“The lost? What are the lost?”
“Not what sir. Who. The lost maidens of Fairy, those who have chosen to leave the realm behind. Those whose fascination with mortal man is so great they have passed into our world to live amongst us as ordinary girls and women. They have sacrificed all the long ages of eternity to burn brightly and briefly among us. Their wings fade and wither, as does most of their magic. They are..they are as we are.”
The stranger tilts his head, his interest sparked again.
“And they live amongst us?”
“Yes sir, they work our fields, they whore our towns, and they serve our noble ladies. Some of them evenareour noble ladies.”
“You speak nonsense old fella. Interesting nonsense I grant but nonsense nevertheless. If such a world existed, and if such beings lived within it, why would they possibly relinquish all that for..” he gestures around “for this?”
He turns and sees Rosamund leaning on the bar, clearly intent on the story also but scratching at the wooden surface and feigning disinterest.
“No offence to your fine inn my girl.”
“Well it’s keeping you dry tonight friend. Shall I make up a room?”
He nods “Aye. Do that.”
She gives him a playful smile that maybe has more within it, and leaves through the door behind the bar. He regards Thomas who now has his arms crossed.
“So the Lord, he seeks them out?”
“Yes sir he does. He is a jealous lord, and the realm of Faerie will not give up its own kind easily.”
“So he sends out his hunt to fetch them back?”
“No, there is no return to glory for them. They are hunted and killed. They have relinquished their immortality, and they are truly shown what this means. It is said that in the last moment of their lives they regain their light and become for a moment what they once were.” He took a drink and wiped his lips. “Then they fade to dust, as must we. The fair folk call them ‘Tinks’, and they are lower to them than vermin.”
“Hah! Tinks.” His companion banged his tankard down. “What a story you tell. I have never heard this, and I doubt that it has reached the ears of children either, or they would never sleep again.”
“That’s true my friend, and yet there is more.”
“More you say? Speak on old Thomas.!”
The girl returns and nods.
“There is a room at the end ready for you when you’ve drunk enough ale and heard enough nonsense.”
“Room yes. Beer yes!” The stranger raises his tankard, apparently feeling the effects of the strong drink on an empty stomach.
“Let’s have some more over here, and one for my tale weaving friend.”
She takes their tankards away and begins to fill them. He turns back to the old man.
“So. More.”
“Well. The Wild hunt is a ruse sir. They are fairy folk and believe it or not, ill suited to killing their own kind. There are other kinds of hunter.”
“Other kinds?”
“Yes, and we must not speak of them lightly young man, for they are as deadly to us as they are to any former maid of Faerie.”
He leans forward and speaks in a whisper. The younger man mirrors him irreverently.
“The Faerie lord hires assassins, mortal men to seek out these women. They are hunters, mercenaries who can move through this world of ours more easily than those from beyond. They work for faerie gold and the promise of long life. They are mongrel’s sir, vicious dogs who kill without mercy.”
“And how do they find these girls?”
“Ahh, you see. There’s a scent, a sweet odour they can’t quite rid themselves of. It’s said to be quite wonderful and can make a man dream himself away. It’s said to be the smell of the meadows and vales of the otherworld. The hunters are trained to detect it. They are given a small amount of magic to sharpen their senses. Although mortal in almost every way, the lost maidens cannot hide their true selves and it gives them away.”
“So they are found, and killed, but how?”
“Well how do you think?”
“Er..Strangled with silk? Thrown under horses?” The stranger is clearly enjoying the chance to involve himself in the tale. “I know! They are made to listen to Old Thomas night after night. At the end of a week they take their own lives willingly. Ha!”
Thomas shakes his head although he is smiling. The stranger turns to see if the others are sharing in his joke. Rosamund stands at the bar with her hands on her hips, their full tankards foaming and ready.
“Ah sweet Rosamund. Bring us the ale!”
“And have you lost the use of your legs?”
“Nearly girl. The beer is stronger than I’m used to. Soon I’ll be good for nothing.”
Mischief creeps into her eyes.
“Nothing? Well that won’t do.” She hefts the tankards and brings them to the table. He gives her four coins and winks.
“This’ll be the last eh?”
She raises her eyes and moves over to the farmers who are also waving their empty tankards. He pushes Thomas’s drink towards him and gestures.
“So. How are they killed?”
“Why, with iron sir, an iron sword or dagger, an iron spear or even a pin.”
His companion’s eyes widen. “Yes! Of course. Iron is fatal to the Fair folk. I have heard this. Just a graze or a scratch.”
“Yes sir, or of course a thrust to the heart. They fear the metal above all else, and it is one part of their heritage these lost girls can never leave behind. They must beware it all their days on earth.”
“So who are these men, are they known in our world?”
“Why yes sir. Their names slip in and out of stories and legends, some are forgotten and some are thought of as pirates, warriors, highwaymen and bandits, but that is not what they are. I will give you one name and you can tell me if it is familiar. Caleb Blackmoor.”
The stranger narrows his eyes rubs his forehead. His hand pauses there.
“Why yes. I have heard this name. A captain of our king turned robber. Parchments were up all over the town some time ago. A wanted man. A feared man.”
“Aye. Feared. Feared by them above all.” Old Thomas sits up straight on his bench. For a moment some of his years seemed to slip away, and a poise, a gravity comes to his features.
“I, you see, was also a captain of the king for many years. I fought and I was feared.”
He winks and uncertainty stirs in the others eyes. The old man stands slowly. He is taller than the stranger has imagined, and stronger. There is nothing of the frail vagrant about him now. A chink of metal reveals a sword hung at his belt, and on his buckle the Kings crest.
“Are you…..are you he? Is this why you tell me this tale? Must I fear you?”
The farmers muted conversation has stopped and the younger man feels their eyes at his back. For a moment there is just the rain and the wind. Then one of the farmers bursts into laughter. Rosamund squeals and bangs the bar, giggling. Thomas’s shoulder slump.
“No young sir. You must not fear me. I’m just a sad old soldier, a teller of tales who needs a piss.”
He shuffles from behind the bench and limps towards the door by the bar. The stranger lets his breath go and turns to face the others. They are still laughing and he holds up his hands.
“Alright alright. I am taken for a fool. It was a fine tale and I was convinced. I am glad to have been your entertainment on this bleak night.”
With a tilt of their heads the two card players raise their glasses and Rosamund makes a shallow curtsey. He turns back unsteadily to his beer.
“Rosamund girl! Look here! What’s this? There’s half a rats tail in my rutting ale.”
Her smile disappears and she walks over to him as he gestures to the tankard on the table. As she draws next to him his eyes suddenly clear and he stiffens, all intoxication gone. In one swift and fluid move he reaches behind her head and draws a short iron sword from under his cloak. Both pulling and pushing, he drives the bright blade under her ribs and up into her beating fairy heart. Hot golden blood pours over his hand as the girl shudders and shakes, held firm by his arm. Her eyes meet his with an expression of profound surprise and loss, and her last warm breath breaks on his cheek.
Now Thomas enters the room again. The shadows are dancing as the candles wave and stutter in some unfelt breeze. In that moment he sees something his stories have not prepared him for. He sees the back of the girls blouse move as she slumps over the stranger’s blade. It heaves once and her wings burst through the cloth, casting it aside. For one brief moment they spread and flap, gossamer thin and peacock bright, before they dry and fade to bracken. Her skin likewise glows with an ivory light, and her eyes, as they hold the strangers shine green and bright.
Then all her life and long ages blink out, and she dies with a short sigh.
The man pushes her roughly away and withdraws his sword. She crumples and he bends to wipe the blade on her blouse. As he stands he meets Thomas’ gaze. The old man is frozen to the spot, his mouth works to form words and his shaking hand gestures to the limp body on the floor.
“R..osy. You killed….”
The other forces a grim smile. “Don’t weep for her mate. She’s just a dead ‘Tink’, turncoat scum. She fancied a mortal life..” he shrugs “..and that’s what she got. They all kiss the iron in the end. We see to that.” He gestures to the bar. “I smelled her as soon as I came in. She had the scent about her.” He nods to himself “It really is beautiful.”
Now Thomas points at him, the finger shaking violently now “Who…who are you, and what are you about stranger?”
“Me? I’m Caleb Blackmoor. I kill faeries for gold.”
He spins quickly and his cloak billows as his blade is sheathed. Moments later the old door bangs shut behind him and every candle is extinguished by the blast of cold wet air he has let in. The two farmers are frozen in place, rendered as statues by what they have seen. In the gloom, Thomas can barely see the girls body limp on the stone floor.
In the warm thatch above them, a nest of blind young mice squeal for their mother’s milk. Their pink and hairless bodies crawl over each other in the darkness. The cat turns slowly at their mewling and quietly slinks,

Jacqueline Wilson is the author of award-winning books, including THE SUITCASE KID, THE LOTTIE PROJECT, BAD GIRLS, THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER, VICKY ANGEL, and the Girls quartet and she has won the Guardian Children's Fiction Award, the Smarties Prize, and the Children's Book Award for DOUBLE ACT, which was also highly commended for the Carnegie Medal.

She was born in Bath, Somerset, in 1945, but spent most of her childhood in Kingston-on-Thames. She always wanted to be a writer and wrote her first "novel" when she was nine, filling countless Woolworths' composition books as she grew up. She started work at a publisher and then went on to work as a journalist for D.C. Thomson in Scotland after she had an article published in Jackie magazine. Since having her daughter, Emma, she has been writing full time.

Jacqueline's biggest passion and/or worst vice is buying books. She has over 15,000 books crammed into every corner of her small house—and they've started to creep across the carpets. Her favorite holiday place is Hay-On-Wye, which has about twenty secondhand bookshops.

Jacqueline has written numerous books for young people including: BAD GIRLS, DOUBLE ACT, THE LOTTIE PROJECT, THE SUITCASE KID, THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER, THE BED AND BREAKFAST STAR, CLIFFHANGER, THE ILLUSTRATED MUM and a quartet for slightly older readers, which includes GIRLS IN LOVE (an ALA Quick Pick), GIRLS UNDER PRESSURE, GIRLS OUT LATE, and GIRLS IN TEARS. She has also written a series of crime novels and several plays, which have been broadcast on the radio.

Jacqueline has received countless honors and has won several awards in England, including The Young Telegraph/Fully Booked Award for THE BED AND BREAKFAST STAR, the Smarties Prize, the Sheffield Children's Book Award and the Children's Book Award for DOUBLE ACT. THE ILLUSTRATED MUM was shortlisted for the Whitbread Children's Book Awardand has won the Children's Book of the Year at the British Book Awards and the Guardian Children's Fiction Award. GIRLS IN TEARS received the W.H. Smith Children's Book of the Year Award.  BY:Kanza Sohail

Biography of Barbara Park
Born in Syracuse, NY, February 10, 1944 as Barbara Carol Gorman.

I was raised by my mother and grandfather in Syracuse and graduated from Nottingham High School in 1961. My mother also went to Nottingham high school, but the school had been relocated to a new building by my time there. We even had one of the same teachers. The building she attended was my Junior High School. After high school I attended Sargent College, which is part of Boston University, to study Physical Therapy, and graduated with a BS in 1965. I picked PT knowing very little about it. I pictured working with little children with polio. Fortunately, there was no polio by the time I was in school. Also there was no foreign language requirement, which had been my downfall in HS.

I met Peter B. Steinau in Boston and we were married just after I graduated (6-20-65 in the First Universalist Church in Syracuse). We moved immediately to Chicago, IL. and I worked at Schwab Rehabilitation Center in adult Rehab, which was my goal at that time. We didn’t love city life and moved to Mt. Carol, IL in 1966 so that Peter could attend Shimer College. I worked at Dixon State School and was introduced for the first to working with people with severe developmental disabilities. This would ultimately become my career focus. I worked at Freeport Memorial Hospital from 1967 to 1968. We had our daughter, Kathrine Christina (always called Casey) on 1-12-68. Peter and I separated in the fall of 1968 and both returned to Chicago where I worked at Mercy Hospital in general PT until 1970.

This was a time of Black Power, the Weathermen, and Vietnam protest, and Chicago was not a comfortable place for a radical liberal to be raising a small child. One of my best friends was arrested for destruction of draft records. I decided to "Escape to Wisconsin", so in 1970 Casey and I moved to WI to join a fledgling commune. When this did not working out, we moved to Madison, WI and I got a job as a PT at Central WI Center for the Developmentally Disabled (then known as Central Colony). I have spent the last 30 years there.

Casey and I arrived in Madison with essentially no money. I found a very cheap apartment with one bedroom and a sitting room where Casey slept. There was no kitchen. There was a refrigerator in the closet, a clothes closet in the shared hallway, and no stove. We cooked in an electric frying pan (before the days of microwaves) and did dishes in the bathtub. With the money I saved through this living arrangement I was able to buy a small house in Windsor, WI and Casey started school there.

I had started working on my Master’s Degree when I first moved to WI and worked as a home bound teacher. Ultimately I finished a degree in Mental Retardation at UW-Whitewater and taught a course for them called "Techniques for the Multiply Handicapped" for three semesters until they got a full time person to take over several of the special education courses in this area.

My goal was to "move up" to a better house when I built equity. I sold the house in Windsor after 6 years and was having a house build on Lake WI when I met Robert Park at Camp Upham Woods during a Prairie UU Society retreat weekend. He was separated from his wife and going through stressful times. We rapidly became friends, moved into the Lake WI house (above) together, and ultimately married on 7-11-81. His sons Robin and Mischa have always been a part of our life together. It has been a privilege to watch them grow and love them along their paths to adulthood. Our son, Ian, was born the following year (11-15-82). Even though we were older parents, we were already in the midst of child rearing, so having another child seemed natural.

We decided to move to Madison when Ian was in 4th grade, and bought a house on the southwest side of town (right). It was a good move for us. It was more convenient for Robin and Mischa not to be trucking all the way out to Lake WI all the time and we wanted to move before Ian got into the higher grades. Our neighbors are more compatible. Robert takes the bus to work, after spending years at a long commute.

My passions over the years have included skiing (Ski Patrol for 17 years), gardening and music, and in earlier years included sky diving and motorcycling. I currently sing with the Madison Symphony Choir and direct my small church choir. My current issues are watching over the care of my aging parents in Syracuse and trying to decide about retirement.

Barbara links:

hi my name is ujalaa kaleem,actually i am studying in 7th grade in beacon house school system and am totally crazed in books. i am quiet a fashion lover. And love to go out and have fun.i would loved to welcome you to our blog.If you ask me I love to read mystery novels and fantasy stories. My favourite autor is barbara park and i am a great book fan of hers.Soon i would upload her stories which will make you laugh out loud.i wish you will like my blog.we would be pleasured to have you with us And dont forget READERS ARE ALWAYS LEADERS.wish you would be happy and run your imagination around <3 <3 <3 




hello I am Kanza Sohail and I am in grade 7th in Beacon House School System. Welcome to our blog.our blog is all about reading book.I like mystery and classics book.I also like fairytales. my favourite author is jacqueline wilson. I like her because her books are based on daily life problems,and on her experiences. so It will be an honour for me if you will visit our blog and read books,comment on them,and tell us about your interest so that we will post books according to your interest. you should faithfully read books because you and a book is bestfriend:) <3 :)