Little Bears

The little bear crept from the woods more nervous deer than fearsome grizzly. Using the darkness, he crossed the meadow, clambered into the suburban garden and sat on the grass. She was there. The same she-bear he saw every night looked down from its bedroom window, only this time, she was in the arms of a child. He knew why the girl would love her, was glad even, so gave a thank you growl and set off home.
The girl child waved goodbye, then took her teddy to bed.

50 Word Stories: The Monster Under My Bed

The monster who lived under my bed had sharp teeth and slitted, emerald eyes that flashed with anger. If anyone disturbed the monster’s sleep it growled and hissed and shot out razor talons. Sometimes, when all was still, it even leapt on the bed smothering me.******I loved that cat.

#FridayFantasy – Petal

Here’s a little children’s story to finish my petal themed day.

She lived beneath a bucket tucked behind the old tool shed. No one ever saw her as it was much too dark and overgrown with wild roses, brambles and a smothering layer of ivy. The latter had grown so haywire that to an outsider the whole ensemble looked like one big, green mess. To Petal it was home.
Petal was one of the little people that some called wood elves, others, flower faeries. Regardless of names, she enjoyed life to the fullest with several chaffinches and a beautiful, lone blue tit that nested near her bucket. It was the chaffinches who first noticed her gone.
All the small creatures of the garden set out to find Petal. Never had there been such a slithering, scurrying, fluttering madness around the garden, but such was she loved that all the creatures panicked.
That was in the Spring. By Summer, the baby chaffinches had fledged and left home, and most had forgotten Petal. When Fall’s russets and golds happened upon the garden, Petal was but a wished for friend. By Winter, she was no more than a memory.
Spring returned to the garden with the twittering call of a blue tit, the one they’d all forgotten when Petal went amiss. It wasn’t alone. There, sat astride the little bird’s back, clutching her daisy chain harness like her life depended upon it, smiled Petal. To the garden’s tiny creatures, she was beauty personified, a goddess in miniature, a perfect being. None of them knew her, though. They were all new. And that was how it had always been.
You see, Petal couldn’t bear to stay too long in the garden, she being a Faerie and living forever, the little ones only months. She didn’t have the heart to stay, so sad it made her. It was easier to let them forget her than she to forget them, as she did and would until the garden was swallowed by time and the only petal in the landscape would be her. Petal knew that day would one day come, but until then, she had new friends to make. And forget.

Clockwork Cornelius

Clockwork Cornelius

Once upon along ago a small child by the name of Cornelius was born. I say born, but to me more exact, he was made. Cornelius’s father called him a Componentised Child. For the less exacting mind it meant he was made of many individual pieces rather than grown into a singular being. Cornelius did not like being Componentised it made him feel inhuman, especially when his father called him Clockwork Cornelius, and then laughed. Nobody likes being made to feel that way.

Cornelius made the best of what his father had built him of: a metal coil; an old watch; an empty can; four stainless steel spoons; some electrical wire; oh, and the head of his long dead brother. It was the latter component that caused the most distress; his brother still controlled their tear ducts.

Cornelius wept almost continually. His father, a bad tempered man, did not like that. So, one night when Cornelius was asleep, or turned off, he removed his eyes. His father was very pleased with himself after that; Cornelius never wept any more.

Not being able to see troubled Cornelius even though he did not actually require sight to sense the world around him. He troubled over the fact that if he could see without eyes, what else could he do that he did not realise?

One day, Cornelius took it upon himself to see if his arms were actually made from bird’s wings, after all, he could chirrup like them so why not fly? He jiggled his way to the cliff edge, whilst his mother and father were making tea, and jumped.

Clockwork Cornelius could not fly. At least, not this time, but everything can be improved.

The Drowned Ones (Micro-Fiction)

Eleanor spied the lights in a rock pool twinkling like the stars. But there were no stars it was day? She put her finger in the water and gave it a quick stir. The dark liquid was too cold to leave her little digit there longer, so she made it a ferocious whirling. Minutes passed before the agitated surface settled, long tedious minutes. When it did the lights were still there. It was like seeing a town all lit up at night from a hillside, a friendly place where your grandma might live. Eleanor couldn’t take her eyes off those lights, they called to her.

Eleanor’s mum saw her daughter remove her sandals, her bonnet and periwinkle cardigan. She even smiled. Eleanor was such a thoughtful daughter tidying away her clothes to go paddling. She watched as Eleanor leant forward as to look at something, rise back, and then step forward without hesitation. She vanished in a spray of sea water.

They never found that pretty girl just her belongings and the seashells she’d collected. But her momma knew where she’d gone. Oh, she knew. She only hoped they’d be as good to Eleanor as they had been to her.

Christmas Town

Hapless wanderer found a place

White of snow with ruddy face

Where deer patrolled instead of dog

And blizzard did replace the fog

The folks were small, much smaller than

Your average girl, or boy, or man

And though they worked most every day

The end result was good, they’d say

Here I stayed, for wanderer me

In Christmas Town the place to be

With those who loved the time of year

And sought to bring all children cheer

Touching Heaven

“You should be asleep.”

If the little girl heard her mother, she did not reply. The child stood on a stool reaching up to the window glass just too small to attain it. The apartment window, left ajar by her momma, allowed the night to pour in bathing her in the forever. The child’s nightgown shimmered in the moon’s silvered rays, a slight sea breeze playing with her milk-white hair, an ocean of starlight flickering in her wake. All was perfect in that stillest of nights.

“Didn’t you hear me, Celeste?

“I’m thinking, momma.”

“Midnight is not a time for small children to be thinking, it is time for sleeping.”

“I can’t help it, I’m worried.”

“Why?” asked her mother, her face washing from frown to concern.

“I’m scared I shall never see it again.”


“The moon.”

“That is what the boats are for.”

“For what?” Celeste replied.

“To take you there in your dreams, when the night is darkest.”


“Yes, that is why poppa and I made this our home, so you should never have to feel afraid.”

“But if the moon disappears, then how will I find it again?”

“It will not,” breathed her momma. “You will never lose the moon or stars, or any of the magical things of the night. Not for a very long time, anyway, and even then, maybe never,” she smiled and picked her daughter up in her arms.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I was like you once, dear Celeste. Poppa and I named you after the heavens to remind us to never lose track of such things. Your name means heavenly, you see.”

“Does that mean that you are magic, too?”

“Yes, when we are with you.”

“Then, please never leave,” she said with a yawn.

“That is the thing with heaven it is always at the end of your fingertips.”

“Yes,” said Celeste, as she clung to her momma’s, smiled, and closed her eyes.

The End.

The Place Where Mothers Are Made

Are you sure you wish to know the way? 

You do. 

Then follow my words and do not stray for mothers are made in no other way.
Behind the old mill stands a mistletoe hedge covered in globes of mystical white. Dig deep, look through, and if you’re lucky you’ll find a lane. It isn’t always there, magic doesn’t work like that. Follow the lane to Nowhere Wood and enter with an open heart. Don’t stray from the path. Things could get unpleasant.
After the wood comes the land of stars, where mountains climb and eagles soar: eagles are the keepers of the route, but only if they wish to show it. Pick one and follow it over whichever range it flies. I know that sounds impossible, but things move slower in fantastical realms. Climb and climb, then climb again, until you reach the star filled heavens that crest the massifs. Choose your star and jump for it. 
You won’t, you say!

You must trust this old man. 

There is no other way.

Now, where was I?
Jump and clasp the star between your palms and hold on. Oh, and don’t forget to close your eyes. The star won’t take you anywhere if your eyes are open. The place where mothers are made is more secret than the place you go to at the end. If you catch my meaning, that is. You’ll know when you can open them again, you’ll here needles. 
Here’s the most important part of all. Listen good or some child, somewhere, in some time and some place won’t get their mother and that would be a crying shame.

Peep through the windows of the little, log cabin you find yourself outside and you’ll see a lady old as time itself. She’ll be crocheting mothers for all the children of the world. She’s the mother maker, you see. She makes them all. That’s all she does. It’s a full time job and she puts her heart and soul into each and every one. Her needles are the ticking of our hearts and that’s the truth.
You don’t believe me!

You must.

You never know, it could be yours she’s knitting.

Now, what was I saying. 

Ah, home.
Before you leave, you must write your name in the visitors book, as folk can only visit the place where mothers are made once and once only. When you’re done, close your eyes and wish for home. You’ll wake up back outside the old mill. 
I’m a crazy old fool, you say.

Then you’ve no love and no soul and I pity you. 

You’re sorry. 

You should be.

Oh, and one more thing before you go. 

Please push this slip of paper under the old woman’s door.


Because I want her to know I still love her. 

We don’t all get to see our mothers as much as we’d like and I’m no different.

What does it say?

Why, just what we should all say to our mothers.

I love and miss you.


The Palace of the Moon

 Journey or pilgrimage, Varon no longer recalled, but to stand before The Palace of the Moon was all he could have ever dreamed. Beauty had just been redefined to the eyes of that traveller of the moonbeam lanes.
 The universe had forgotten the colours of night. Instead, indigo ruled in the heavens, the stars providing a contrasting spray of peppercorn black. A gentle moon hung low, as he’d seen it in so many misting visions, a spectral presence, reassuring and calm.
 The palace itself stood atop a silhouetted hill, the blinking, cats-eyes lights of its towers punctuating the foreground. A fantastical vista to some, but not to Varon for it was his dream, his creation, his destiny.
 Yet, despite all that he’d envisioned it was what Varon had not foreseen that forestalled his final ascent. The night danced in colour. High above the moon rose a rainbow. A rainbow in the night, impossible, but true, and a fluctuating reminder that even in the land of Faerie all is unexpected wonder.
 Varon deposited his backpack on the ground, threw his fleece jacket to one side; he’d never require it again, and prepared to climb. There was no going back, and no reason to want to. He would never wake to darkness again.