Oct 02

The Big Blog Story continues

The Bath Children’s Literature Festival launched a Big Blog Story – an exquisite corpse story – on 8 September, to which a bunch of fabulous authors add a chapter every couple of days. Follow progress from start to now:

8 September Bath Festival of Children’s Literature http://bathkidslitfest.wordpress.com/   

10 September Robin Etherington http://theetheringtonbrothers.blogspot.com/     

12 September Annabel Pitcher http://www.annabelpitcher.com/blog-news/             

14 September Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell  http://www.stewartandriddell.co.uk/immortals_tour.php  

16 September Hannah Shaw http://hannahshawillustrator.co.uk/?news.html  

18 September Writing From the Tub http://carlybennett.blogspot.com/     

20 September Lauren Kate http://laurenkatebooks.net/category/blog        

22 September Marcus Sedgewick http://marcussedgwick.blogspot.com/  

24 September Alan Gibbons http://alangibbons.net/   

26 September John Boyne   http://www.johnboyne.com/category/blog/   

28 September Catherine Bruton http://catherinebruton.com/blog/  

30 September Achokablog http://www.achuka.co.uk/achockablog/

Here’s my chapter:

‘W-what happened?’ muttered Mr Catch, frantically swiveling the periscope this way and that. ‘Where has that blasted moon gone? . . . Scribble? SCRIBBLE?’

There was no response from his companion – Scribble was silent once more, moving slowly towards a tiny porthole at the front of the submarine. Seconds ago the window onto the ocean depths had been flooded with moonlight, but now it was as dark and murky as the worst kind of dark and murky nightmare.

‘SCRIBBLE!’ hollered Catch, tearing his eyes from the periscope. ‘What can you see out there? Are we too late?’

The little blue boy turned to Catch, his furry forehead creased in consternation. He shrugged pitifully, his shoulders rising and sagging with a soft whisper of more falling fur.

‘You choose now to go all quiet again?’ Mr Catch made a growling noise in his throat, and reached for the periscope handle again, but as he did so there was a terrible


and the submarine suddenly stopped its forward motion.

Eurghsplfff,’ went Mr Catch as his forehead whacked the periscope handle with a dull thwocking sound. He went down hard, his arms wheeling, catching hold of the few items that he and Scribble had thought to pack on the shelves starboard of the periscope. Everything went flying. A hard lump of bright orange coral bounced off the fisherman’s face, a tangly coil of rope tied up his ankles and a closely written sheet of paper floated down in front of Scribble’s nose.

The little blue boy staggered, somehow staying miraculously upright, and snatched up the precious paper just as the dim green lights of the submarine interior flickered and died.

Mr Catch did not get up. He lay on the floor of his brilliant submarine in total darkness, every bone in his body aching and sore, feeling defeated. ‘The moon,’ he said to Scribble, ‘the moon has TURNED HERSELF OFF. It is all over.’

In the dark, without being able to read or write anything properly, it was impossible to know what Scribble was thinking. It was, however, just about possible to see him. The small furry silhouette of Scribble was standing still, holding something up to his face.

‘Scribble?’ whispered Mr Catch, screwing up his eyes, then opening them wide. ‘What are you doing? Where is that light coming from? Is the moon . . .?’

No . . .

Definitely not . . .

The moon was still Out of Order.

But there was most certainly light coming from somewhere . . .

Catch struggled to his feet, pulling the rope away from his ankles, the coral still clutched in his hand, staring at Scribble, who was pointing at him, waving that piece of paper, shuffling his fast and furry feet in an excitable dance of something . . . well, something excitable.

‘What is it?’ asked Catch. ‘And what is–’

He stopped abruptly, staring down at the coral in his hand. Now that it was dark it was obvious that it shone with a luminous orange glow, casting the faint light that threw Scribble into a crazy shamble of shadows.

‘Hey!’ he said, holding it out towards Scribble. ‘Look!’

HEY! thought Scribble wildly, holding out the paper. LOOK!

The mysterious squiggles and dark markings of the page had faded into nothing more than pretty decorative twiddlings, but lit up by the coral light in strange luminous writing was the answer for which Scribble and Mr Catch had been searching!

‘Oh boy,’ breathed the crusty old fisherman. ‘Oh boy oh boy oh boy . . .’

Click here to read the next chapter:


And click here to check out Egmont’s fabulous site for Tallulah Bird, the heroine in whom I I usually immerse myself, although I’ve loved my time with the crusty Catch and rapidly hairlessing Scribble . . .






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