Monthly Archives: January 2012

Will Blyton’s Diary 3

January 1974

 

I’m in Bongo’s secret shed stamping my feet to keep them warm.  He is banging away on the drums.  I blow on my hands, gently folding the image of the strange creature I saw over and over in my mind.  It is the only ghoul I have ever seen, apart from The Toad, Ferret and Snot and they don’t count because they are alive.  If only I could have gotten a photograph of the phantom.  I would be splashed all over the Gazette as The Groaningsea Ghosthunter.   Mum would be shocked, Dad would not notice and I would be proud.  I sigh heavily into my hands.

How can I be The Alternative Detective when I saw a ghost and didn’t get a photograph of it?  The faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot appear in my mind singing “cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.”   I must be brave.  I must prove myself.  Another problem flings itself at me – maybe ghosts would not appear on photographs.  At least if I had been brave enough to click the camera, I would know that for sure.  I slap my palm onto my forehead – nothing is stopping me from trying to take a photo of the ghoul, except my fear.  I offer Bongo a Bull’s Eye to lure him into doing what I want.

It is getting dark and Bongo keeps looking behind him as we place our bikes against the oak tree.  I slap my inside jacket pocket heavily.  His eyes dart to it and his eyes light up at the thought of his beloveds. – that’s what he calls Bull’s Eyes.  Chocolate Limes are dearly beloveds – that is a secret between Bongo and myself – I had to swear on the cracking of my camera lens not to tell a soul.

I hand Bongo a tin of black shoe polish  – he takes the top off and smears it all over his face – his icy blue eyes look as if they are popping out of his head.  I take my specs off, colour my face in and then replace both specs and shoe polish to their rightful places.  I take my camera from my bag and remove the lens.

“You won’t be able to take any photos if that thing we saw flies at you,” says Bongo.  I wave a finger at him.

“It won’t see us, perhaps it can’t see us.  It might be from another dimension.  We could simply be wafts of wind to it.”  I sprout out so much rubbish, it even surprises me at times.

We bend down and creep across the wild overgrown garden onto the weedy terrace.  Suddenly, we see a light in one of the downstairs windows.  We crawl on hands and knees along the terrace and appear at the window which has the light in it.  It is faint, we can hardly see anything.

“It’s a candle,” whispers Bongo.

“I didn’t know that ghosts needed candlelight to see, did you?” I ask.

At that moment, a white, soulless face appears behind the candle and stares with large, luminous eyes through the window.  My legs want to run but my hands try to point the camera.  It will not go where I want it to.  After a shaking battle, I point and click.

“Come on Bongo, let’s go,” I say.  I turn to look for him but all I can see is his piglet wiggle moving with speed as far away from the house as he can go.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Will Blyton’s Diary 2


 

January 1974

Sunday morning.  It’s pitch black.  I route around for my torch.  I can’t put the lights on, I might wake Mum and Dad and my cover will be blown.  I am having an early start with my pal Bongo.  The job is finding out what is going on at Boris Death’s old house.   Recently things seem to be happening there.  It has been empty for years.  No-one dares to go near it, in case the ghost of Boris as a werewolf jumps out at them.  It’s said that at midnight, he walks the grounds.  The Toad said that he once saw Boris as Frankenstein but he didn’t  flinch.  In fact, the Toad reckons that he pulled a face at Frankenboris who duly ran off.  I can’t say I blame him as The Toad is the ugliest person I have ever seen, apart from his mates Snot and Ferret.

I get dressed and  am ready to go.  I quietly open the bedroom door and sneak down the stairs.  Hopefully, I will be back before The Thunderous Mother wakes from her Sunday morning lie in.  I listen, I can hear Dad.  He sounds like a foghorn calling out to other ships in the mist.  No wonder Mum has to stuff her ears with dried up chewing gum.

Dad’s foghorn could have been a warning sound.  I stand in the street ready to mount my Chopper bike and look at the mist.  The sea fret dances around the street lights as if to music.  Bongo had better be up and waiting.  I’m starting to think this creeping around Boris Death’s old house at 6.30 on a Sunday morning is not such a great idea.  I must go.  I have to prove to myself that I’m not a total coward.  I see myself when I am cornered by The Toad, Ferret and Snot – cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.

I make myself peddle down the street.  Bongo sits on the wall with his chubby knees pulled up to his chest.  I’m a bit flummoxed as to why he’s wearing shorts on a cruel January morning.  I decide not to mention it but I can’t stop my eyes from staring at his muffin knees.

“Mum’s washed all my trousers except those bright orange ones Gran bought me for Christmas.  You can see me a mile off in those,” he mutters glumly.  It is hard not to laugh but I have to agree that we could hardly go undercover with Bongo resembling a giant tangerine.

The wind cuts into my cheeks as I pedal furiously against it.  We stop when we reach the woods which surround Boris’s old house.  The question is whether to leave our bikes at the edge of the wood and chance them being stolen or to wheel them with us to the house.   It is 6.30 on a Sunday morning, the idea that our bikes might be spotted or stolen is mad compared to the thought of having to wheel them through the woods.  We leave them propped up against an Oak tree.

I decide to go first.  I am proving myself.  I click my torch on and shine it in the clearing ahead.  The white tail of a rabbit scuttling away bobs up and down before my eyes.  The sea fret hangs around the trees like giant spiders’ webs.  I feel a strong pulling on my jacket sleeve.  Bongo has seen something.  I turn quickly, shivers run down my spine.  Who would have thought early morning could be as spooky as late nights?

“Have you got any Bull’s Eyes?” he hisses.  I might have known.  Bongo has two things on his mind – eating and playing the drums.   I rustle around in my pocket and pull the bag out.  Bongo’s crane like hand has a good rummage around and he grabs as many Bull’s Eyes as he can.  We have been friends for years so I have learned a way of holding the bag so that he can get no more than four of my delicious offerings at one time.  He crams them into his mouth so that his cheeks bulge.

We set off again.  When we reach the clearing for the house I stop sharp and Bongo knocks into me.

“What did you stop for?” he asks.  I put my finger to my lips and point towards the house.  We both strain to look.  The thinnest woman I have ever seen is standing on the weed covered terrace looking around.  She has long, black hair, a white face and very red lips.   We gulp.

“Is she a ghost?” whispers Bongo?

“No human dresses like that at 6.30a.m. on a Sunday morning,” I reply.  We run.

Leave a comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Will Blyton’s Diary 1

January 1974

Today will be a perfect day –  unless they find me again.  At that point I will no longer want to be Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective.  I’m an optimist though and I’m sure I can get through the day without …

It’s a usual winter Saturday in Groaningsea.  The clouds are so black they could have been up Gran’s chimney.  Dad’s gone off, as usual, to open his second hand book shop and Mum’s roped me in to help with the weekly dusting down of the Floating Wreck Lighthouse Museum.  I get paid for  it.

Once inside, the wind whistles around the lighthouse as if it is a ghost who’s frightened itself with its hollow eyes and black tongue.  I don’t care.  I’ve got a tatty copy of a Sherlock Holmes mystery and a nice, full bag of Bull’s Eyes.  The problem is how to get from under The Thunderous Mother’s steely eye.   Being the detective that I am, I know that she isn’t fond of The Boris Death commemorative room.   So I offer to dust in there.

I suppose I’d better explain about the Boris room; for when I become a famous detective and my diaries are read world wide after my demise.  Boris Death is a famous, horror movie star who was born in Groaningsea.  In fact, he is the only notable person, except yours truly, of course, ever to come out of this small seaside town.  The commemorative room tells the story of Boris’s ghoulish career.  There is Frankenstein  Boris in a glass case which lights up and makes the noise of a thunderstorm.  A Dracula Boris, bites the neck of a woman in a white nightdress.  Whilst a figure of Boris as a werewolf eats live sheep.  The best is a wax figure of Boris dressed as Dr Jekyll looking through a mirror.  It is not his own reflection which peers back but that of the gruesome, distorted Hyde!

Anyway, you get the picture – yours truly is sitting there with his feet up on a Boris coffin with a mouth full of Bull’s Eye’s, a duster in one hand and my tatty Sherlock in the other.  Every time I turn a page, I flick the duster.   I have a sneaky read and get paid 50p for my dusting efforts at the end of it.  I silently congratulate myself on being the master of The Good Life and then…

Mum comes in and tells me to go back home to let Dad know that she is finishing off the museum paperwork.  The Sherlock goes in my bag and the Bull’s Eyes in the inside jacket pocket.  I am ready for home to put my feet up and watch Doctor Who on the telly.

It’s dark outside; the cutting wind attacks my cheeks when I get on my pride and joy, my red Chopper bike.  As I lift my foot onto the pedals, my bag is ripped over my shoulder nearly knocking my head off.  A dark, greasy head that looks like a flattened bat looms in front of me.  Warty, heavily ringed hands empty my bag onto the floor and then throw it down in disgust.  The Toad and his cronies have found me again.

“Empty your pockets kid,” he growls and then spits through the slit in his teeth onto my bag.  I hand over my 50p.  He snatches it, kicks my Chopper and struts off with his sidekicks Ferret and Snot at his platform booted heels.

I pick up my tatty Sherlock and wipe my bag clean.  I wish as hard as I can that one day, I will be able to stand up to The Toad – is there anybody or anything, anywhere in the universe listening to me?

Leave a comment

Filed under Will Blyton's Diary

Welcome to the world of Loony Literature!

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A DESERTED VILLAGE…

ALONG CAME SOME VERY NICE PEOPLE

WHO BUILT A LABORATORY TO WORK IN AND THEN THEY CREATED SOME MONSTERS TO HELP THEM.

WHAT SHALL WE DO NOW?” ASKED ONE OF THE MONSTERS.

“LET’S ACT OUT

FRANKENSTEIN’S REVENGE – A PLAY FULL OF SHIFTY MANOEUVRES AND TIME TRAVEL

“I WILL BE THE MONSTER IN THE PLAY” SAID ONE OF THE MONSTERS.

Frankenstein’s Revenge – a play full of shifty manoeuvres and time travel.

SO THEY ACTED OUT THE PLAY

  THEN THEY TALKED ABOUT FRANKENSTEIN, THE NOVEL

THIS WAS WHAT HAD INSPIRED THE PLAY.

THEN WILL BLYTON – THE ALTERNATIVE DETECTIVE TURNED UP.  HE STARTED TO TELL THEM ABOUT

THE STINKING SHADOW.

Amazon.com: Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow (Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective) eBook: Michelle Barber: Kindle Store

THE TWO WISE HEADS OF THE LABORATORY LISTENED CAREFULLY.  THEY DECIDED THAT LOONY LITERATURE SHOULD:

  • TALK ABOUT LITERARY CRITICISM THE LOONY LITERATURE WAY.
  • ENCOURAGE CHILDREN, TEENAGERS AND ADULTS TO BOTH READ AND WRITE CREATIVELY USING THE LOONY LITERATURE METHODS
  • GENERALLY INSPIRE PEOPLE TO BE CREATIVE IN A FUN, OUTRAGEOUS LOONY LITERATURE MANNER.

WITH EVERYTHING NICELY SORTED, THE LOONY LITERATURE FOLK, MONSTERS AND WISE HEADS, SAT DOWN TO SOME NICE TEA.

Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow was written specifically to make reading more fun for boys aged 8 to 12.    Try the first chapter for free and let your son laugh at Will Blyton being insulted by the boy trapped in the stone.   If your son wants to know more about Will Blyton, you can go to Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective

If you want to help your child and teenager have more fun with reading and creative writing but you don’t  have time to think about it, look around the site.  We are always adding new articles,  so it’s a good idea to subscribe to the site  for free, simply click the FOLLOW button.

Teenagers – one of us is an ex teenager who often has her teenage son as her muse.  The other part of Loony Literature is, well – a teenager.  So in a nutshell, you inspire us, so please keep visiting.

FOR THE FUTURE:

For the grown ups – We will be looking at Victorian detectives, questioning whether some well known and not so well known heroes are lovers or pure villains and exploring the supernatural.

“MULGRAVE CASTLE” – a chilling tale introducing the Victorian, physic detective, Harriet Twine.

For the children – We will be looking at wonderful ways to get your children interested in classic literature e.g. Shakespeare and Dickens.

Shakespeare’s Bottom – A fun way to make your child an expert at “Midsummer Night’s Dream”

39 Comments

Filed under About Loony Literature