Steve looked in the mirror, and grimaced. He hated his hair in the morning; it took a comb, water and a ridiculous quantity of gel to mould it into something acceptable to the rest of Year 6. His mother used to help him, but now she worked. Every morning was the same: Steve got up when his mother called ‘Bye, love!’ and the front door banged. She had dressed, washed, cooked, kissed him awake and turned on the radio for him. And then he was alone. His breakfast was on the table; his lunch was on the microwave. His father had gone to work eight months before, and still hadn’t come home, but Mum wasn’t worried “He’ll be back. He promised”. A movement in the mirror. A noise behind him. Steve swung round. The back of his neck felt cold, his ears were burning. He had seen something, just for a second. He picked up his deodorant, flew out of the door shouting ‘Ha!’ and pointed the spray at....no-one. He stood listening intently, breathing as silently as possible. Nothing. He looked at his feet and laughed quietly. “Stupid!”. He had always been terrified of intruders, but his father used to be there to protect him. Now he felt vulnerable. He looked at Dad’s toothbrush which was still sitting in its place. Suddenly, a voice. “It was only me, don’t worry”. Steve jumped so high, he thought his heart had come out of his mouth. She was sitting on the edge of the bath, looking at him. Her purple eyes burned with a yellow light. “Close your mouth and follow me. We have things to do,” said......said who? Steve stared at the creature in front of him in his bathroom! She had broad shoulders, impossibly long, fluid legs, and scales, like a fish, on her arms and cheekbones. But what made her the strangest, most beautiful creature Steve had ever seen was her colour: turquoise, like tropical waters and mint ice-cream. And she was carrying a battle-axe. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked impatiently. ‘How can I argue with a huge, beautiful green woman with an axe?’ thought Steve and nodded weakly. The ‘woman’ swung round and jumped through the bathroom wall, as if it was a waterfall. As Steve stepped cautiously through the liquid tiles, he heard her voice ‘By the way, I’m your sister.’
F. Mauchline (published in Motivate, by Edelvives)
Think about these questions anddecide how the story continues: a.What was the woman’s name? b.What was she like? c.Where was she from? d.Where did they go? e.Why had she gone to get Steve? f.What was the story behind her being Steve’s sister? g.Where did they go and why? What was it like there? h.Who did they meet? i.What happened? j.Did Steve do anything heroic? Stupid? Magical? k.How did Steve get home again? l.What role did Steve’s mother have in the story? m.What happened at the end? n.What is the last sentence of the story?
_
Henry Blythe's last laugh
Henry Blythe looked at the screen with its luminous yellow line like a mountain landscape as it monitored his heartbeat, and watched the flashing green light that told the world he was still alive. He contemplated the photograph sitting on his bedside table. Lorna had left twelve years ago now; she had ‘gone to a better place’, according to the vicar, but it occurred to Henry now that that might not be strictly true. She might, in fact, be somewhere quite similar. Lorna’s life had been comfortable in their home in the country, a large converted farm that Henry himself had designed and then had built by his team. There were some advantages to being an architect of international renown. But Lorna had been bored with her comfortable, safe life. They had travelled widely, met princes and presidents, yet had hardly spoken to each other for the last twenty-five years of their marriage, as they felt they had run out of words. Curiously, though, he missed her now and would have given anything to feel her head on his shoulder as they chatted late into the night. And he told her the news. Perhaps soon.
He could feel the slight discomfort of the plastic tube in his nose, unfamiliar pyjamas and the room temperature, set one or two degrees colder than he would have liked. He wanted to go home. His 98th birthday had been the day before and had provided his family with an excuse to fill his room with flowers that the nurses had then taken away ‘in case the pollen affected his breathing’ – at 98, did he really care about pollen and breathing? – and to eat cake he couldn’t share. They had brought him presents he couldn’t open and didn’t need anyway, they had lit candles he couldn’t blow out. Fortunately, they had limited themselves to a bright red 9 and a bright red 8; to attempt to put ninety-eight candles on the cake would have constituted a fire risk. Yes, all in all, he had had a good day yesterday, even if it had had its absurd moments.
And this morning, this feeling of contentment had increased. Henry had been buying a weekly lottery ticket for as long as he could remember. Even now in hospital, he had been almost religious in his weekly purchase, sending his 85 year-old hospital neighbour, one of the few who could not only walk but was allowed to, to pick up his ticket. And at 98 years and 1 day, he had won. He had had everything he could ever need in life, houses, cars, paintings, his own beach; he had been everywhere from Iceland to Tasmania; his bridges and airports were familiar on five continents. He had donated to charities and museums, adopted whole villages in Guatemala, and provided the government with enough tax to build several schools. He had spent it all.
And now he had won the lottery! A young journalist had come to see him this morning and had asked him ‘How are you going to spend the millions?’ and the question had seemed surreal in its innocence. ‘Who are you going to leave it to?’ was the question on many people’s lips: the nurses and carers were treating him like a cute newborn baby, the hospital priest had been to visit, and the relatives were already stuffed into their cars and on their way ‘to celebrate’.
Henry reached out to the bedside table with his shaking hand and picked up the lighter his son-in-law had left there. He smiled and flicked the flame into action. His smile grew into a grin as the flame touched the ticket and ate it greedily. Henry didn’t see the flame go out. He had gone.
F. Mauchline (published in Motivate, by Edelvives)
Write about what another character was doing / saying at the same time as the story.
Steve looked in the mirror, and grimaced. He hated his hair in the morning; it took a comb, water and a ridiculous quantity of gel to mould it into something acceptable to the rest of Year 6. His mother used to help him, but now she worked. Every morning was the same: Steve got up when his mother called ‘Bye, love!’ and the front door banged. She had dressed, washed, cooked, kissed him awake and turned on the radio for him. And then he was alone. His breakfast was on the table; his lunch was on the microwave. His father had gone to work eight months before, and still hadn’t come home, but Mum wasn’t worried “He’ll be back. He promised”.
A movement in the mirror. A noise behind him. Steve swung round. The back of his neck felt cold, his ears were burning. He had seen something, just for a second. He picked up his deodorant, flew out of the door shouting ‘Ha!’ and pointed the spray at....no-one. He stood listening intently, breathing as silently as possible. Nothing. He looked at his feet and laughed quietly. “Stupid!”. He had always been terrified of intruders, but his father used to be there to protect him. Now he felt vulnerable. He looked at Dad’s toothbrush which was still sitting in its place.
Suddenly, a voice. “It was only me, don’t worry”. Steve jumped so high, he thought his heart had come out of his mouth. She was sitting on the edge of the bath, looking at him. Her purple eyes burned with a yellow light. “Close your mouth and follow me. We have things to do,” said......said who? Steve stared at the creature in front of him in his bathroom! She had broad shoulders, impossibly long, fluid legs, and scales, like a fish, on her arms and cheekbones. But what made her the strangest, most beautiful creature Steve had ever seen was her colour: turquoise, like tropical waters and mint ice-cream. And she was carrying a battle-axe.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked impatiently. ‘How can I argue with a huge, beautiful green woman with an axe?’ thought Steve and nodded weakly. The ‘woman’ swung round and jumped through the bathroom wall, as if it was a waterfall. As Steve stepped cautiously through the liquid tiles, he heard her voice ‘By the way, I’m your sister.’
F. Mauchline (published in Motivate, by Edelvives)
Think about these questions and decide how the story continues:
a. What was the woman’s name?
b. What was she like?
c. Where was she from?
d. Where did they go?
e. Why had she gone to get Steve?
f. What was the story behind her being Steve’s
sister?
g. Where did they go and why? What was it like
there?
h. Who did they meet?
i. What happened?
j. Did Steve do anything heroic? Stupid? Magical?
k. How did Steve get home again?
l. What role did Steve’s mother have in the story?
m. What happened at the end?
n. What is the last sentence of the story?
_
Henry Blythe's last laugh
Henry Blythe looked at the screen with its luminous yellow line like a mountain landscape as it monitored his heartbeat, and watched the flashing green light that told the world he was still alive. He contemplated the photograph sitting on his bedside table. Lorna had left twelve years ago now; she had ‘gone to a better place’, according to the vicar, but it occurred to Henry now that that might not be strictly true. She might, in fact, be somewhere quite similar. Lorna’s life had been comfortable in their home in the country, a large converted farm that Henry himself had designed and then had built by his team. There were some advantages to being an architect of international renown. But Lorna had been bored with her comfortable, safe life. They had travelled widely, met princes and presidents, yet had hardly spoken to each other for the last twenty-five years of their marriage, as they felt they had run out of words. Curiously, though, he missed her now and would have given anything to feel her head on his shoulder as they chatted late into the night. And he told her the news. Perhaps soon.
He could feel the slight discomfort of the plastic tube in his nose, unfamiliar pyjamas and the room temperature, set one or two degrees colder than he would have liked. He wanted to go home. His 98th birthday had been the day before and had provided his family with an excuse to fill his room with flowers that the nurses had then taken away ‘in case the pollen affected his breathing’ – at 98, did he really care about pollen and breathing? – and to eat cake he couldn’t share. They had brought him presents he couldn’t open and didn’t need anyway, they had lit candles he couldn’t blow out. Fortunately, they had limited themselves to a bright red 9 and a bright red 8; to attempt to put ninety-eight candles on the cake would have constituted a fire risk. Yes, all in all, he had had a good day yesterday, even if it had had its absurd moments.
And this morning, this feeling of contentment had increased. Henry had been buying a weekly lottery ticket for as long as he could remember. Even now in hospital, he had been almost religious in his weekly purchase, sending his 85 year-old hospital neighbour, one of the few who could not only walk but was allowed to, to pick up his ticket. And at 98 years and 1 day, he had won. He had had everything he could ever need in life, houses, cars, paintings, his own beach; he had been everywhere from Iceland to Tasmania; his bridges and airports were familiar on five continents. He had donated to charities and museums, adopted whole villages in Guatemala, and provided the government with enough tax to build several schools. He had spent it all.
And now he had won the lottery! A young journalist had come to see him this morning and had asked him ‘How are you going to spend the millions?’ and the question had seemed surreal in its innocence. ‘Who are you going to leave it to?’ was the question on many people’s lips: the nurses and carers were treating him like a cute newborn baby, the hospital priest had been to visit, and the relatives were already stuffed into their cars and on their way ‘to celebrate’.
Henry reached out to the bedside table with his shaking hand and picked up the lighter his son-in-law had left there. He smiled and flicked the flame into action. His smile grew into a grin as the flame touched the ticket and ate it greedily. Henry didn’t see the flame go out. He had gone.
F. Mauchline (published in Motivate, by Edelvives)