Happiness Soup Recipe

by Kay Lesley Reeves

Take four assorted children.

Wrap warmly in several layers of waterproof clothing. At this point they will all decide they need the loo. 

Peel them, dehydrate individually and rewrap.

Add Wellington boots  and gloves secured by a string which must be threaded down each sleeve.

Top with a woolly hat, bobble optional.

Remove to the muddiest puddles within walking distance and retire to a safe observation point .

Leave to jump, roll, splash until visibly exhausted.

Take home, not forgetting the littlest one.

Peel and place in a hot bubble bath.

Result:- pure happiness.

The Climb

by Gemma Andrews

Stumpy legs, massive head,

I’m not made for climbing.

But there’s something that I want

And now’s the perfect timing.

Mummy put the treasure

Really high upon the shelf.

So I’m going to build a tower

To get it for myself.

A bag of flour, that’ll help.

Throw on Dad’s toupee,

A cookbook, some pots and pans

The kitty litter tray.

Climb on up, wibble-wobble

Slip and nearly fall…

Carry on, I’m nearly there,

Lucky I’m only small!

Finally, I reach the top

Alive, I don’t know how.

As my hand goes in the cookie jar, 

“Bobby, get down. NOW!”

Woodlouse

by Kayleigh Jones

Tonight I’m a woodlouse.

Woodlice don’t sleep at this should-be-asleep-by-now time of night. They skit-scuttle in and out of the crack in the hall.

I hate being a woodlouse but I have to be one, because if I’m not here then what if something bad happens when I’m asleep?

I close my eyes because woodlice don’t have eyes but I still hear her please-don’t-wake-hers and the skin thump smacks. 

I wish I could make Mamma a woodlouse, so she could skit-scuttle into the crack and curl into a little ball with me.

The Children's Language

by Marion Lougheed

The children's language speaks of innocence and cruelty, of wet feet slapping on stone and wriggling worms captured in jars. It whispers warm blankets and legs pulled off frogs, 

blackfly bites and marshmallows roasted on rocky beaches. A rhythm like the dance of capelin 

coming into shore every year. As she watches her younger cousins in the silvery cascade

that tumbles and stumbles over the rocks, her grasp of their language slips away.

Born to ride route 66

by Lizzie Lamb

My life at one second past zero, resulted from the demographics of mathematical probability. I became a historical moment, was wrapped in the grizzle of human biology, to parents with no common sense.
Eight months after my procreation, west of Santa Fe, I received a foetal pothole-wallop off a tandem, as they pedalled across America on route 66.
I was delivered by a trucker, strapped to my mother’s milk barn, whilst my father cycled us further for national TV.
The headline read: British couple peddle route 66 on a tandem with a new little Willy.

Make the Magic Last

by Zelda C. Thorne

Moonlight spills over my reindeer duvet and my heart flutters. Wriggling to one side, I peek towards the end of my bed and gasp; the air tastes crisp and fizzy like frozen lemonade: my stocking is gone.

Something rustles and my bedroom door handle turns. Click. I snap my eyes shut and lie flat, rigid, like a toy soldier. I don’t breathe.

A soft weight presses on my legs. I don’t want to look because part of me knows what I’ll see. Instead, I keep my eyes closed and smile, imagining myself adrift in a river of glittering stars.

No trouble at all

by Sally Curtis

Your name appeared half-way down the register. Another average kid joining a class of many. You didn’t demand my time by finishing quickly; neither were you slow to understand, freeing me for those who were.  

Your bottle-green file was slim. No concerns. No history. No extra needs to consider. 

You slipped in, quietly unremarkable, easy to forget you were even there.

But, in those few weeks, you were trying to tell me:  grey shirt, dirty fingernails, falling asleep at your desk, loitering by the lunchboxes. 

I didn’t ask and you never said. 

Yesterday I called the register.  You didn’t answer.

Taking a Break

by Holly Grover Brandon 

“We’re going on a trip,” Mommy said, shoving my clothes into a garbage bag. “Mommy needs a break.

We drove all night and I asked her questions about horses and shooting stars and God. “Go to sleep, baby,” she sighed, and I did.

When we stopped for gas, the sky was melted orange sherbet. 

“Go get breakfast,” Mommy said, handing me some cash. “I just need a little break.” 

Returning with donuts and change, I found the garbage bag of my clothes lying where our car had just been. 

She’ll be back, I told myself. She just needs a break.

A Fairy Ring

by Angela Huskisson

The children of the fairies gather, as instructed, in trees as the moon rises. Tonight he will choose one, that’s all he requires- a favourite to help his special fairytale. The children stare at their feet hoping not to catch his eye, bare toes set fast on snowy branches. He is rotund and seemingly jolly, in forest green which helps with camouflage. He stalks the trees, shaking them to see which one will fall into his waiting arms. Awe, Luck, Passion? There are so many to choose from. The children quietly hold their breath as silently one falls... Childhood over.

Wheat Greet

by Ann Struck

Grasshopper-green spikes chafe my pale bare legs as I skip across the wild wheat field segregating mansion-dwellers from oblivion and my school.

Michael passes me “immortal beloved” notes during 6th grade math.

After school, we meander to his barracks-like apartment. I perch on the stoop, wincing at stinky bins and keening kids. 

The door half opens. Michael slinks outside, his toffee-toned cheeks purpling. “Mum says you can’t come in.”

“Walk me home?”

We march into the field and settle—plucking wheat stems and sticking them between our teeth. Michael pantomimes smoking. Copying, I blow imaginary plumes over his parted lips.

Daddy's Girl

by Wendy Markel 
Six-year-old Davie didn't want a sister, he wanted a new bike. Emily wanted her life back; but Jack wanted a daughter.
It wasn't Jack's fault he didn't want the one he got. Annie couldn't sing, dance or play piano; dried up on stage: she wasn't Shirley Temple. She didn't reflect glory onto the temple of his ego.
Emily withered under glacial stares, and chiding critiques, and passed away before the joy of life could catch her unawares.
Davie got away; became the better man.
Annie shrank until her nothingness became her most noticeable quality. The only one daddy remarked upon.

Stick in the Mud!

by Rosie Cullen
Archie loved splashing in puddles in his bright red wellies. Today, the puddles were bigger than ever.
‘Archie, hold up!’ granddad cried as Archie raced ahead.
Archie stomped through an enormous puddle, stirring up brown sludge, all deep and squelchy.
A hairy dog bounced in beside him.
‘Rover! Get back here!’ The doggy wagged his dirty tail.
Archie took a huge jump. What a great muddy splash!
‘Watch out for the Mud Monster!’ his granddad cried.
‘Silly Billy granddad!’
With a whoop Archie jumped again. Something grabbed at his wellies and yanked him down—
‘Grandad!’
But it was too late.

How to be a Great Aunt

by Judith Wilson
My niece pushes her fluffy toy towards me.
‘This is Matilda.’
Looking deep into the owl’s misshapen eyes, I do the only thing open to me, I drop kick it over the garden fence into the road.
Why?
My own gasp of fear for my sanity is drowned by my niece’s cry of shock for her best friend’s flight into nowhere.
But a glint in her eye. ‘Can you show me how to do that.’
‘What?’
‘Kick Matilda into the air.’
It looks like her concern for cuddly toys has been overridden by an interest in aerodynamics.

The group chose ‘Happiness Soup Recipe’ as their favourite. Congratulations, Kay Lesley Reeves!