Magic Molly; The Curse of Cranberry Cottage. Chapter One

Maggic Molly pumpkinMagic Molly; The Curse of Cranberry Cottage.

Chapter One

‘Molly Miggins if you aren’t downstairs in five minutes flat, your breakfast is going into Harold.’

Molly rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure if Harold, the new in-sink monster she had conjured up a couple of weeks before, liked Wheaty Flakes or not. He seemed to like salad and vegetables best, anyway, she still thought Harold was a silly name for a former Compost Heap Monster. She had originally called him, Fang, because of his sharp little teeth, but Mrs McCraggity, the housekeeper had changed it to Harold.

‘Fang doesn’t like Wheaty Flakes,’ she shouted.

‘HAROLD, will eat anything if he’s hungry enough.’ Mrs McCraggity’s head appeared around Molly’s bedroom door. ‘Anyway, Harold’s eating habits are irrelevant. Have you forgotten that you’re going to stay with Great Aunt Willow this weekend? Granny Whitewand is up and about already, she’s really excited about the trip.’

Molly leapt of out bed and showered and dressed in record time. She slid down the banister to gain an extra few seconds, slipped off the end and bounced on her bottom twice before coming to a halt just in front of the hat stand.

Molly was still rubbing her bottom when she walked into the kitchen. Her packet of Wheaty Flakes was on the table next to a jug of milk and her breakfast bowl. Continue reading

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Excerpt from Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail: The Royal Baby.

TRACY'S CELEBRITY HOT MAIL COVER  The Royal Baby

Hi Emma,

Did you see the news about the royal baby?

I’m really pleased because it means we might get a reality program set in the palace. It will be great to see Kate changing nappies and burping the baby. I think she’ll be a brilliant mum. She could get celebs like Katy Price and Chloe Simms from TOWIE to share their child rearing tips with her. I’m thinking of sending her a pair of fake, Ralph Lauren baby shoes, they’ve got them down at the local market. I reckon she’d really like those. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to see him at his Christening wearing a pressie I sent him? I bet Kate gets lots of presents sent to her when she gets home, but those shoes are really classy and she likes quality stuff. Continue reading

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Preview Out of Control

Would you like to see if Out of Control is right for you? Easy. Just click the preview link at the bottom of the image and read a short preview of the novella with more than a little bit of noir.

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Everyone is English

My poem about immigration

Everyone is English

I don’t get this immigration crap
it really hurts my brain.
There’s talk of putting on a cap
even if we vote remain

But I don’t see the problem
where are these migrant folk?
Everyone I know is English
It really is a joke

My kids have an English teacher,
my doctor’s English too
and if we get a blockage
an English plumber clears our loo

I have an English landlord
at my local pub.
He serves me English lager
along with English grub

I work with English people
every single day
I even have an English priest
when I feel the need to pray

So why should I vote Brexit?
it goes against the grain,
when everyone is English
here in sunny Spain.

 

 

 

 

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Brand New Tracy’s Hot Mail Snippets. Feminist chat.

feministFeminist Chat

Hi Emma,
How’s the jogger’s nipple? I hate that, I got it once when I wore that hessian blouse without a bra to Bryony Chalmers’ end of engagement party. I was really popular with the lads that night but Christ, my nipples felt like they’d been chewed on by a starving buck toothed Piranha. I used up three-six-packs of Greek style yoghurts trying to cool them down.
That bastard, Simon, my ex, put my name down for the wet t-shirt competition at Tossers night club. The lousy sod said I’d be a shoo in with my cast iron nips.
Gran’s been giving us a lecture on how tough life was back in the 1960s tonight. It all started when Dad came home from work saying he was going to see the doctor about getting a few days off. Mum got all worried, she doesn’t like the idea of dad being on the sick. The last time he had a few days off he didn’t go back for twenty years. Continue reading

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Tracy’s Hot Mail. Now Republished.

TRACY'S HOT MAIL COVERThe kindle and paperback versions of Tracy’s Hot Mail, a satirical look at a member of the X-Factor generation and her friends and family, has been reissued on Amazon. 99p for Kindle and £3.99 for the paperback version. A signed copy can be bought at no extra cost. A small postage charge will be levied for the signed book.

 

Kindle Edition UK

Paperback Edition  UK

The sequel. Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail will be available in reissued formats very soon.

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A review. A night at the Arena.

After seeing one or two concert reviews appear on Facebook I thought I’d revisit a concert I attended with my wife a few short years ago. This was written at the time. It isn’t new.

Looking through my documents folder this morning I discovered my review of an Eric Clapton concert I attended in Nottingham a few years ago. It bought back some happy memories and some very disturbing ones.
The Concert

Last night we went to see the legendary guitar hero, Eric Clapton, in Nottingham.
The show was staged at the Nottingham Arena, which also doubles up as an ice stadium. For those of you having visions of the great man skating around the stage in lycra pants and a frilly shirt whilst belting out Layla, let me put your minds at rest. He didn’t. Continue reading

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Desperate Measures. My 2009 Christmas Story

BurglarThis was my first, and last attempt at an adult Christmas story. It dates from 2008, It was one of the first things I ever wrote. It was published twice; in Ireland’s Own magazine and in The Best of Café Lit 2012 anthology.

Desperate Measures.

Michael Keagan stared despondently at the bleak winter sky. The light snow that had started to fall half an hour ago had become heavier and begun to settle.
‘Fabulous,’ he whispered, ‘the first Christmas snow we get in decades and I’m stood around in it, freezing to death.’
Cursing under his breath, he pulled his hood forward, checked his watch for the 20th time and wondered, once again, why he had chosen to wear trainers instead of the warm winter boots that were sitting under the stairs at home.

Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to do a spot of breaking and entering, he decided.

Keagan looked around, the garden was quiet. His hiding place could not be overlooked by the neighbours; he had chosen well. The laurels were excellent cover and he could see into the drawing room clearly. The occupants, a man in his 40s and a slightly younger woman, were sat together in front of an open fire, drinking and sharing some joke or happy memory.

Keagan willed them to go to bed, it was 11.45. It couldn’t be much longer now surely? There was a child in the house, kids always got up early on Christmas day. Parents usually got up with them.
Five minutes later his patience was rewarded. The couple left their fireside seats and headed for the door leading to the stairs. The man remained for a while, turned off the Christmas tree lights and placed a metal guard in front of the coal fire. He checked his watch as he left the room; closing the door behind him.
Keagan watched as the stair light was turned off. It was replaced by a bedroom light and the duller light of the en suite close by. Not long now. He reached for a cigarette then decided it was too risky. He would have to wait.

Ten minutes later the lights were extinguished. He hoped the pair weren’t feeling amorous.

Keagan waited in the shrubbery for another thirty minutes before he decided it was safe enough to proceed. He took a final glance at the upstairs window and hurried across the lawn, crouching as he ran. The snow was coming down heavier than ever and would quickly cover any footprints he left behind.
Still crouching, he crossed the patio and headed for a set of French doors. A pair of small garden statues guarded them, one either side of the frame. Keagan lifted the right hand statue carefully and groped underneath until he found a key. He grinned and nodded to himself. He knew it would be there; people were so lax about security matters.

With a trembling hand, he turned the key in the lock. The door opened with a low groan, the warm air that greeted his entry, welcome after the freezing two-hour reconnaissance. Keagan dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small pencil torch. Sliding a tiny button forward he shone the thin beam around the room. The door he wanted was on the left and with a few quick strides he crossed the timber floor and let himself into the drawing room.

The fire had begun to die down but gave out enough light to enable him to turn off the torch. Keagan wandered over to the Christmas tree, a dozen parcels lay underneath. Picking a couple at random he shook them, guessed the contents then returned them to the pile.

‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he thought.

He walked to the stair door and slowly eased the handle down. He grimaced as it creaked open, didn’t anyone lubricate hinges anymore? Keagan waited for a full minute in case the sound had been heard, but no-one stirred in the rooms above. He decided to leave the door ajar, for his heart as much as anything else. The noise had un-nerved him.
On tip toe and grateful now for his decision to wear the trainers, Keagan crept up the stairs a step at a time, listening intently for any sound of movement.
At the top he halted and waited for a few seconds; all was quiet. He turned to the right, eased open the white painted door in front of him and entered the bedroom. A small night light glowed on the bedside table, he smiled to himself; she never had liked the dark.

Keagan looked toward the small figure curled up under the covers and caught his breath. The girl was asleep, breathing softly, deep in dreams; her golden hair spread over the pillow. He moved slowly to the side of the bed, reached into his pocket and brought out a small package containing a bracelet and a short letter. Holding his breath, he gently lifted her hand and laid the package on the coverlet, then set her hand on top. Instinctively, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He wanted to stay longer, but he daren’t. He wanted to wake her, to tell her he loved her, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, but that could end in disaster. Laura’s mother had steadfastly refused him access, despite the court order he had won. She had even refused to pass on gifts and messages. Were she to discover him in this burglar role, her revenge would know no limits

Keagan leaned over her again, whispered, ’Soon, my darling,’ then, wiping away a tear, he turned and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
Back outside, Keagan replaced the key under the statue and took a last look at the house he knew so well, the house he used to share with Laura before life had become so difficult. His lawyers had insisted that access would be granted in the New Year It all should have been sorted out much sooner. Had it been left to Laura’s mother and him, it would have been.

Once on the street he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The snow fell steadily. It was in for the night, there would indeed be a white Christmas; Laura would love that.
Back in the car Keagan lit another cigarette, fired up the engine, turned on the radio and adjusted the dial for the heater. He had a two-hour drive ahead of him, but the journey would be shortened by the feeling of a job well done.

As he was about to pull away he heard a beep from his pocket. Keagan checked the phone; a text message was waiting in his inbox.

‘Thanks Dad, I love the bracelet. Happy Christmas! Laura.

Through misty eyes, Keagan checked his mirrors, pulled away from the kerb and turned up the radio. As he drove along the deserted High Street he heard the familiar voice of Bing Crosby, wishing everyone a Merry Little Christmas.

‘Some day soon…’  Keagan smiled and headed toward the motorway.

 

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Out of Control Now Only 99p

For a limited time you can buy the kindle version of my noir novella Out of Control for just 99p. $1.49 in the USA.

out of control coverIt began with a trivial moment of carelessness, but the shockwaves that reverberate from this seemingly insignificant incident, spread far and wide.

Ed and his heavily pregnant wife Mary are on an errand for Ed’s ailing father before the pair depart for warmer climes. But the winter of 1962 comes early and one innocuous event and a hastily taken decision will have devastating consequences for the family of young Rose Gorton. Mary’s already fragile mental state is put under further stress while Ed tries to make sense of events that are spiralling massively, Out of Control.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B014G8A83U?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

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WIN A FREE, SIGNED BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS!

Misty with books

 

Misty, Trevor Forest’s number one fan with part of her stash.

 

Anyone who buys a T A Belshaw or Trevor Forest book in November, or anyone who leaves a review for one of my books in November (preferably both, will go into a draw to win a signed paperback book of your choice. (kids or adult,) postage free, in time for Christmas. Just contact me any way you like when you’ve done the deed.

You’ll find me on Facebook, Twitter,  at trevorATtrevorbelshaw.com,  trevorATtrevorforest.com  or simply reply via the contact button on this website. Thank you and GOOD LUCK.

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