Charlie’s poem

The neon missile of life and death created a huge explosion.                                    That could wipe the city.                                                                                                          Set the county to mystery.                                                                                                         Put some families to danger.

The lemon bullet of all honesty.                                                                                             Creates truth out of lies.                                                                                                                 The spell of honesty will spread across the city.                                                                Having no lies.

The electric-blue thunder of truth.                                                                                         Has struck all lies.                                                                                                                          Has taught them a lession of all honesty.                                                                             Which is the best policy.

The teal galaxy of doom.                                                                                                              Kills all the laughter.                                                                                                                   Spreads evil spirits.                                                                                                                          Also sends people to the Desert of death.

The dream snatcher part1


There are footprints in the snow,sunken marks picked out by the moonlight. They weave a path through the forest, round the ring of ancient oak trees and on towards the wooden hut. But there they stop, and smoke curling out of the chimney is the only sign that anyone is inside. Seven cloaked figures sit round a table, their hoods pulled up despite the fire crackling in the grate. At first, they whispers fade, heads drop and lips curl back. A chant begins. There are no words, just grunted sounds scratching at the back of throats. One of the figures pushes back her hood and long grey hair falls about her shoulders. ‘Not this!’ she cries. ‘You said it wouldn’t be this …’ She shakes her head and makes as if to stand. ‘I-I won’t do it. It’s not right!’ But the others surround her, closing in like hungry shadows. They force the old woman towards the fire and, though her legs scrabble beneath her and her arms grope for the table, the flames loom closer. ‘Not my hands!’ She sobs. ‘Please, no!’