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Chapter 1 – Summer’s end


Dear Bob,                                                                                                                             

Yes, that’s right, I’ve named you Bob.  It’s my thirteenth birthday today and my mother has surprised me with you.  I guess that she knew I wasn’t having much luck making friends with the other children in my class and thought it would be a good idea to write in a diary.  “It’s almost like having a best friend that you can talk to and share your feelings with,” she said.  I don’t know if she’s right, but if you are meant to be a friend of sorts then I can’t very well call you Diary now, can I?  It would be like calling my pet ladybug Insect instead of Daisybell.

Well, I guess if we are to be friends then I should introduce myself properly.  My name is Petunia Pottersfield and as I’ve mentioned I am thirteen years old.  I live in a little village called Furrow Grove and I suppose it’s as unremarkable as any other fairy ring.  The mushroom houses circling the town are cosy and warm and for the most part look exactly the same as one another.  I live in the house furthest away from my school and for that I am glad.  I don’t like school very much, or rather, it doesn’t like me.

For some reason, that I’ve never been bothered to find out, the townsfolk in Furrow Grove also have a uniform of sorts; we all wear red.  I don’t know why that is exactly, but that is the way it has always been and, I expect, always will be.  Nothing much changes around here.  “So how am I supposed to know which fairy you are?” I hear you ask.  I suppose my one distinguishing feature is the mass of curly brown hair on top of my head.  It kind of juts out in all directions and my parents are forever asking me if I remembered to brush it in the morning, despite the fact that I had only just put my hair brush down.  I am forever swallowing the dishevelled mop on windy days too; it just flies right into my mouth.  My mother tries her best to tie it out of my way.  But it’s just so unruly that even her skilled twists and turns with bobby pins are no match for it. 

If you look carefully underneath my nest of hair then you will see my sea-blue eyes peering out.  My father has the same blue eyes, something of a rarity in our village apparently.  Everyone else I know has brown, lilac or amber ones.  But the oddity of my eyes is just one more thing that makes me stand out, and I hate it.  I don’t want to stand out, I just want to be like the rest of the kids in my class.  I just want to be normal. 

Alas it seems that I am anything but.  In case you haven’t gathered I am not very popular.  I suppose it’s not due to the fact that my eyes are an unusual colour or because I have something grotesque growing out of me either, like a great, big wart on my head (Lucas Moonbeam in my class had that once, head warts can be nasty and very stubborn).  And while my wings are the same shape and size as the rest of my classmates, for some reason mine appear to be broken.  In whatever way I was made, the outside of me looks like an average fairy but inside, everything feels backwards.    

Have you ever felt, Bob, that no matter what you do or how hard you try to do things they always come out wrong?  Have you ever memorised spells until you knew them backwards, but then when you recite them and the opposite thing happens?  Like for instance, I tried to conjure a butterfly in class one day, and I know I said the words right, but a great, big, slimy earthworm appeared instead.  It seems that no matter what I do, or how hard I work at not being me, it always turns out disastrously. 

I remember my first flight – my mother and her frilly knickers remember it very well too.  I guess I must have been about four years old when I first tried out my wings (yes, I know, I was a late bloomer, no laughing please).  I was out in the garden playing with Daisybell and I suppose the wind might have been a little strong when I unfurled my wings to catch the breeze.  My mother was hanging out the laundry behind me when I took off into the air like an autumn leaf in a tornado.  I tumbled head first into her best pair of frilly knickers and ripped them nearly in half.  I will never forget the embarrassment of hanging upside-down on the washing line with my head poking out of one of the leg holes.  My mother just laughed and told me that it was lucky my head landed there instead of on the hard rocks below.  But I’m not quite sure that I was lucky.  I think I would have rather landed on the rock because for the next three years my older brother, Blackhawk, called me “knicker-brains”.

I can’t say for sure when my older brother started calling me names, but I cannot remember a time when he didn’t.  My mother said it’s because he was jealous when I was born.  Up until my birth he had been the only child and my mother and father lavished him with affection and praise.  I’m sure that that might have been the initial reason he called me names, but after a while it seemed like he had become almost embarrassed of me.  I suppose I don’t blame him really.  After all, he is the “golden boy” of the neighbourhood.  He is the tallest and strongest in his class, his magic skills rival that of any of the teachers and he is hands down the fastest flyer in the village. 

It’s no wonder that he doesn’t want people to know we are related.  I can say without a shadow of a doubt that my brother and I are polar opposites of each other in every sense of the phrase.  I am thinner, weaker and shorter than most of my classmates, my magical abilities are nothing short of a danger to the world, and I look like a drunken bumble bee when I fly. 

I can’t help it really.  My father says that I’m still growing into myself and it will just take time.  But it’s been thirteen years now and I’m still waiting.  Even this morning, on my birthday, I tried to use my magic to open my curtains, but only managed to set them on fire.  As I watched my parents running around, dowsing the flames with water, I knew that this year was probably going to be the same as all the rest.  I know it because every year on my birthday, Bob, I try to open the curtains using magic just to see if I have grown into my powers yet, and every year it ends with the same result.  My parents have gotten so used to it now that on the night before my birthday they leave a small bucket of water outside my door.  “Just in case,” they say.  But I know what their thinking, I am a walking catastrophe and I always will be.

This is probably why I don’t have many friends either Bob.  Not many people want to hang out with someone who might accidently blow them up when she sneezes.  But I did have a friend once, her name was Luna Farrow.  It was just before I started school and my mother thought it would be a good idea to make a friend before I went in.  So, like most parents would, she set up a playdate with one of the other children.  I suppose it might have been a good idea for any normal fairy, but I’m afraid it didn’t turn out so well for Luna. 

They had left us happily playing together in the garden, but when they came back to check on us, all I remember is hearing them both shrieking in horror.  At some point in our playdate Luna and I had had a row and I accidently turned her into a toad.  Blackhawk tells me that even to this day Luna still walks with a hop in her step.  I honestly didn’t mean it and I wasn’t quite sure how I had done it, but that was the last playdate I ever had and she was my last friend too. 

I don’t blame the other kids either.  I mean, who would want to be friends with someone like me?  I truly am a disaster waiting to happen.  Even my potions teacher, Mrs. Scarrowtree, is wary of teaching me.  She’s a rather severe looking fairy with a thin, pinched red face and small brown eyes that make you think you’re staring into a fire with two dark coals.  She doesn’t half make me nervous, you know.  She also makes all of the other children wear acorn helmets and padded suits when I’m in the class.  Even more humiliating is my flight teacher who does the opposite; he makes me wear the protective gear in case I should accidently fly into a thistle. 

But it isn’t fair Bob!  I don’t know why I can’t be like all the other children in my class.  I don’t know why my brain puts the wrong ingredients into the cauldron during potions or why my wings won’t fly me in a straight line.  All I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember is just to be normal and to not stick out like a weed amongst the roses.

I guess that I am lucky in a way though.  No matter how bad things get I, at least, have Daisybell to talk to, and now you to too.  I suppose my mother was right, it’s good to talk to someone, even if that someone isn’t real and never answers back.  So I’ll keep writing and hope that I will soon grow into my magic. 



Petunia Pottersfield.

Chapter 2 – Autumn onset


Dear Bob,                                                                                                               

Well, I’ve managed it again!  It’s been about two weeks since I wrote to you last and so much happened since then that it’s hard to know where to begin.  I suppose it’s best to start where I left off.

After a depressingly dull birthday party where the only guests were Daisybell and my family, I decided that I would study extra hard for my upcoming potions exam.  I suppose I was so sick of being an outcast that I wanted to make sure I could at least create a potion that wouldn’t accidently give anyone donkey teeth, or rabbit ears.  “That’s a very sensible and mature thing to do, study hard for your exam,” I hear you say.  But it wasn’t.  It was the biggest mistake I have ever made and one I never intend on repeating again.

The horror of what unfolded was beyond anything that our history books have ever recorded and it was all my fault.  If I wasn’t a pariah before this incident, then I certainly am now.  Oh, I can’t tell you how awful I feel Bob; humiliated, embarrassed and most of all ashamed.

I studied and recited all of the ingredients for the potion over and over in my head for a week until I was saying them in my sleep.  I was fully sure that there was no way I could mess this one up.  I even practice measuring out the proper quantities to make sure that I could do that too.  Of course, as a student I’m not allowed to make the actual potion outside of the classroom … for obvious reasons … so instead I used water and dried herbs as a substitute. 

On the morning of my exam, I walked past the cute mushroom houses of our fairy ring and I tried my hardest to give off an air of confidence.  I waved hello to my neighbours, who cautiously waved back, and slid happily along a slimy trail left by a slug in the middle of the night.  All the way to school, I slid, (collecting some fresh slim in a jar as I went) confident that everything was going to turn out great.  But as I stood outside of the large mushroom schoolhouse, the reminders of my past failures sprung to mind and let doubt creep back in.  I started to imagine how it would all go wrong, Bob.  I started to tell myself that what I was about to do was not a good idea.  I should have listened to myself.

Despite my nerves the morning went quiet well.  I spent my first period with Mr. Tumbleseed, who teaches the Global Knowledge class.  I love his class because I don’t have to do anything other than sit there and listen.  Even I couldn’t mess-up in that class.  Mr. Tumbleseed teaches us about things outside of the village walls and the dangers of getting caught by eagles, dogs or even worse, a Bigfoot. 

I had never seen a Bigfoot before but from what I heard, they are the most dangerous creatures ever created and one should always steer clear of their gigantic feet or risk getting squashed.  According to Mr. Tumbleseed, we fairies are so insignificantly small to the Bigfoot that the threat of death by squashing is a very real one. 

It’s a hard to imagine their colossal size when all you ever see is a wall of tall grass blades which surround the village.  Only adult fairies are allowed to leave the fairy ring.  But I overheard whispered stories from some of the elders in our ring, about fairies getting caught and even eaten by these beasts.  You’d think that these stories would make me scared, but it didn’t.  It only made me more curious about them. 

However horrific and deadly these outside creatures seemed to be, I had developed an unhealthy obsession with them.  I suppose only someone like me, who is drawn to disaster, would do.  I have often thought about peaking over the tall grass blades to have a look, but apparently it wouldn’t have done me any good.  Bigfoots are said to dwell in large stone castles far, far away from our little village of Furrow Grove.   

The only thing that I have ever seen from the outside world was the occasional field mouse that would trundle in through the village.  Of course, anything larger than an ant would set the towns alarms ringing and we would all be hustled indoors by the F.P.A. - the Fairy Protection Agency.  Within a matter of seconds the F.P.A. would clear the fairy ring of any evidence of our existence.    They would then hide in strategic locations around the village, ready to pounce on the oblivious traveller should they decide to chew through a mushroom and into someone’s living room. 

The F.P.A. are the heroes of the village and I do admire their work.  They are all strong, brave and the fastest flyers I have ever seen.  I think Blackhawk want’s to join them when he graduates fairy school and, knowing him, he will probably end up their captain within a few short months.  I know I could never be part of the F.P.A. no matter how hard I try, I am too much of a screw-up and I know it.  But I was determined I would change how people saw me through hard work alone, and that’s probably what led me to make the biggest mistake of my life.

You see Bob, the potion I was reciting wasn’t the one that was on the exam.  Stupid me, I decided that if I could create a more powerful potion, one that we hadn’t been shown yet, it would prove that I wasn’t such an unbelievable jinx.  While the other children were going to turn a dandelion into a rose I had another idea, an insane idea now that I look back. 

I wasn’t going to transmorph any silly old flower.  Oh no!  I had to go and decide to create a living creature from the fresh snail slime I had collected that morning.  It was meant to be a miniature bird that we could care for in our classroom. 

I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.

Whilst Mrs. Scarrowtree was busy examining the other heavily-padded students work, I whipped up my potion within a matter of seconds.  I don’t know what went wrong.  Perhaps it was the fact that I couldn’t see what I was doing through my shock of curly hair, or maybe my hands went faster than my brain and I put the ingredients in in the wrong order, but whatever I did, I messed up … again. 

My cauldron began to wobble as the black liquid inside started bubbling uncontrollably.  I tried to hide it by throwing a large cloth over it, but the liquid just kept growing and growing.  Soon it spilled over the edge and onto the table.  I tried to call Mrs. Scarrowtree before it all went hideously wrong, but I guess she didn’t hear me.  It wasn’t long before my creation raised its towering, gelatinous body from my table and slid onto the ground.

That’s when the horror truly began. 

It seemed, or so Mrs. Scarrowtree told me afterwards, that had I mixed some dried carnivorous plant extract in with my ingredients by mistake and my monster now had a taste for meat, as well as anything else that crossed its path.  It slid around the classroom with its dripping arms outstretched, trying to grab the other children.  It managed to catch Lilly Sudan, lifting her clean off her feet and into its mouth.  Thank God she was wearing her acorn helmet because that’s all that my monster managed to swallow before the F.P.A. showed up and pulled her out with a sickening sloop noise. 

Oh Bob, I wanted to crawl into the ground and pretend like it never happened.   Everyone was crying and staring at me once the monster left.  When their parents came to collect their fear-stricken children, they were so angry that I thought they might actually try to curse me.  They all looked so cross, everyone that is except for my parents. 

Although they didn’t say anything to me exactly, I could see it in my parent’s eyes.  They were embarrassed and ashamed.  They whisked me out of school almost as soon as they arrived, apologising to everyone as we passed.  I haven’t been back to school since. 

It took the F.P.A. two days to track down my slippery beast and it created all manners of destruction before they did.  It slimed the neighbourhood streets until it looked like the frost fairy had been.  It ate all of my neighbours, Mr. Buddlesworth, best vegetables and worst of all it slid through the underground mushroom tunnels and ate all of our winter supplies.  Oh Bob, I don’t know what I’m going to do.  I can’t go back to school, everyone will hate me there.  But I can’t hide at home forever either, or can I?  



Petunia Pottersfield.

Chapter 3 – Mid-autumn


Dear Bob,                                                                                                  

Oh Bob! I’m so excited I just can’t tell you in words.  I know this is a big change from my last time writing to you but I have just been on the most wonderful adventure of my life.  I can’t tell you how exhilarating and spectacular it was but I’ll do my best to try.

After my last debacle in the potions exam, and the havoc that followed, I spent about three weeks locked inside my bedroom.  I honestly was so ashamed and humiliated that I had fully intended on living out the rest of my life there.  I didn’t want to ever show my face in Furrow Grove again and I had utterly sworn off using any magic of any kind.  Of course, Blackhawk thought it was a great idea and called me names like “the jinx of Furrow Grove” and “blunder butt”.   He thought it was hilarious.

My parents however, had other ideas on what I should do.  They both decided that I needed to get out of the house and start showing my face around town again. 

“A fairy can get very used to the dark and turn all kinds of peculiar like old man Duckweed down the road,” they said. 

Old man Duckweed is a nasty old fairy.  He doesn’t dress in red like everyone else; he dresses in a tattered, smelly black robe that matches his black eyes.  His long, matted and greying beard and hair only serve to accentuate his hunched back as he hobbles through Furrow Grove with a twisted, black walking stick.  He seems to have an intense hatred for all things happy and, well, living really. 

Most fairies wouldn’t mind if some kids happened to walk too close to their flower patch, but old man Duckweed seems to go out of his way to shoo all the children away.  He throws rocks at fairies flying past and shouts at anyone who dares to even come close to his house.  Even his mushroom seems miserable to have him living in it.  Where the roof should be red with large white dots, his is as dark and shrivelled looking as he. 

People say that he was once the happiest fairy in all of Furrow Grove and his home was something his neighbours would have aspired to, but not anymore.  Where it all went wrong, I don’t know.  Nobody does really, but somewhere along the way he turned into a bitter a­­nd twisted fairy with a hatred for all things happy. 

I don’t want to turn into an old woman Duckweed, Bob, I definitely don’t.  All I want to do is to keep everyone safe from me and that’s all.  But regardless of my resolve, in the end my parent’s persistence, and warnings of lunacy, convinced me otherwise and I’m very glad they did.  Oh Bob, I can’t tell you how glad I am!

Yesterday morning I agreed to venture out with my father.  He works in the underground root tunnels (yes the ones my monster destroyed) and he wanted me to see what he did for the fairy community.  It’s a very important job, one that I am sure I would mess up if I were in charge of it. 

Beneath our fairy ring is a tunnel of mushroom roots and it creates a mound just under the soil in the shape of a circle.  When winter comes and the mushroom houses die, we fairies move below the ground and into these warmer tunnels.  I remember quite a few winters spent underground, but I never really thought about why we did it until yesterday?

Anyway, my father is in charge of stocking the tunnels with enough food for all of the families for the winter.  We don’t go above ground into the cold because our wings have a tendency to freeze.  Well, everyone that is except for the frost fairy, whose job it is to bring the cold.  He also has the added responsibility of reinforcing the tunnel walls too.  After a half a year of neglect, the fleshy, rounded walls can get damaged with other roots growing in and insects burrowing through the ground.  Without my father, and the other tunnel workers, we would be lost to the harsh, cold winds of winter. 

I can’t tell you how much guiltier knowing this made me feel about my monster and the damaged he had done.  I can understand now why people were so cross with me, I could have doomed us all.  Thankfully there was still enough time left in the autumn to restock, but it will mean a lot of overtime for my poor father and his co-workers.

As interesting as his job sounds, and as horrible as it might be to say, that isn’t why I am so excited.  You see Bob, I also went with my mother to her job and I finally got my wish to venture outside of the fairy ring.  My mother, you see, is a magic collector.  She and a few others are responsible for collecting enough magic dust for the entire fairy ring and as you know, we use magic for everything. 

‘Where does she get the magic?’ I hear you ask.  I didn’t know either until yesterday.

Magic comes from dreams, yes, that’s right from dreams Bob.  You see, everything dreams, fairies, birds, dogs, horses and even Bigfoots.  But apparently the best way to get magic dust is from Bigfoots.  My mother says it’s because they don’t use the magic they have inside of them at all, and so, they have a surplus supply of it that we can syphon when they dream.  My mother’s job is to collect this dust.  Of course there are different types of magic dust too, good dreams produce good magic and bad dreams make bad magic. 

I never knew that there were different types of magic dust before.  I just assumed that magic was magic and whether or not it was good or bad depended on the user.  Kind of like how that nasty old sprite Duckweed likes to send a spark of electricity towards some of the larger fairies and tell them to get some exercise.  He’s nothing short of bad if you ask me.   But according to my mother a fairy is never to use dust from bad dreams because it can change them.  She didn’t go into any details with me, but from her expression I gathered that it would be a really, really, really, really bad idea.

Last night, at the stroke of midnight, my mother and the other magic collectors lifted a large container from the centre of Furrow Grove village.  It was made out of four broad leaves, woven together and looped around some carrying poles.  It didn’t look heavy but I’m sure that once it was filled to the brim with magic dust, it was.

My mother of course, wasn’t oblivious to my lack of flying skills and she tethered me to her with a long rope.  It was a little embarrassing, but I was too excited to care.  It helped that the cover of darkness hid the rope and thankfully the other magic collectors didn’t seem to notice, or at least the pretended not to. 

I have never felt as alive as I did at that moment when we took off over the tall grass.  I felt free and a little naughty like I was doing something which I shouldn’t be doing, but I didn’t really care.  I had all of this space to fly and stretch my wings and I only bumped into things occasionally.  I think that I was flying even faster than my mother could and she found it difficult to keep up.  On more than one occasion, she had to shout at me to slow down.  But I couldn’t help forgetting.  The breeze through my curly hair, the crisp coldness over my arms and legs, the silvery light of the moon cast over a huge expanse of land.  Oh Bob, it was such a wonderful feeling. 

We flew over streams and beneath the colossal arms of a giant oak tree, which I bumped into.  We skimmed over the tops of enormous animals covered in a soft white fluff that tried to eat me, which my mother told me later was a sheep.  We ducked and dived between corn stalks and at one point I nearly got trodden on by something called a cow.  Oh, but I didn’t mind, it was wonderful Bob!  I could finally see all of the stars stretch towards the edges of the Earth and they were beautiful. 

Not only did I see the stars but I also saw something else too.  Something which I’m not sure will give me nightmares, but rather fantastical dreams.  I saw a Bigfoot.  Well, actually I saw a lot of Bigfoots.  Mother says that these Bigfoots have the most bountiful and powerful magic dust out of all the creatures. 

We flew up to one of their enormous houses under the cover of darkness and, oh my goodness Bob, it was huge.  You could have stacked a hundred fairies on top of one another and they still wouldn’t have reached the roof.  The walls were made out of some kind of rock and enormous windows stretched higher than the length of our whole village.  And that was where I stayed whilst my mother worked; perched, untethered, outside with my nose pressed up against the window pane. 

In every room that the dust collectors flew into, there was always a humongous Bigfoot snoring so loudly that I could feel the vibrations through the glass.  At one point, one of the other magic collectors nearly got sucked into the behemoths mouth when it snored.  I’m not sure if I could do my mother’s job because you have to be very, very quiet, you see, so as not to wake the Bigfoot.  And I have a bothersome habit of knocking things over.  My mother told me that if a Bigfoot were to catch you then they would trap you, dissect you or make you do magic for them for the rest of your life. 

I didn’t like the sound of that, not one bit.  But when I looked at the Bigfoots, I didn’t think that they were all that different from us.  Although they didn’t have wings and they were about a bazillion times bigger than us, they still had two arms, two legs a head and everything else that we have.  Though their ears are rounded, not pointed, and it looked kind of weird. 

But it got me wondering that perhaps, if it wasn’t for the secrecy, one day the fairies and the Bigfoots could be friends.  But, I doubt it.  It was a silly idea Bob, another one of my hair brained ideas that will only get me into trouble, I’m sure.  I suppose that we fairies have kept ourselves secrete for thousands of years for a very good reason.

But Bob, what happened next was spectacular, wondrous and mystifying all at once.  My mother and the other magic collectors hovered over the Bigfoots head and recited a magical spell.  I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying from outside the widow but shortly after that, a halo of golden magical dust swirled and twirled and rose up from the Bigfoot’s mouth, forming a ball of glittering stars.  It was so shiny and sparkly that I was surprised that the Bigfoot didn’t wake from its slumber at the sheer brilliance of the light. Then they carefully maneuvered the ball into the container outside the window where it sat glowing like the lava in a mouth of an open volcano. 

I know what you’re thinking Bob.  “You see magic all the time why was this so spectacular?”  Honestly I couldn’t tell you, but it was, and it was something which I will never forget.  Perhaps it was because there was so much of it?  Normally we get a cupful of magic dust that is sprinkled over us every day, but seeing this mound was like comparing a lightning bug to the sun, there was no comparison.  Oh Bob!  I can only hope that one day my flying and magical skills will be good enough to join the magic collectors … although I doubt it very much. 

There was something else on our outing, however, which I found both fascinating and a little scary too.  One of the other magic collectors collected dust from a child, who appeared to be sleeping soundly, and when the dust rose it was as black as night.  It swished and swirled around the room violently, like it had a life of its own and wanted to hurt someone.  I think it was the dust from a nightmare. 

With the help of my mother, the magic collector trapped the black dust and recited another incantation to make it disappear.  I obviously didn’t hear that one either, but it seemed to work and within a matter of seconds the black cloud poofed into nothingness.

Later that night I asked my mother why the other fairy had taken bad magic dust from the Bigfoot and she told me that “it’s impossible to know what is inside the minds of these Bigfoots.  It is usually only after we extract the dust that we find out”.  I’m not sure I could handle the nightmare dust like my mother had, but I at least wanted to try, someday … maybe.  But in order to do that I have to go back to school.  So, I guess there’s nothing left to do but face the music.



Petunia Pottersfield.



Chapter 4 – Autumn’s end

Dear Bob,                                                                                                                

I am a little confused to say the least and not for the reasons you might think, Bob.  Things have been happening around town that just don’t seem to quite add up.  First of all, I did eventually return to school and, yes, it was a little awkward to begin with.  But once I had told everyone that I had decided to stay away from potion making for a while, they all seemed to relax a little.   I can’t blame them really. 

I suppose the first thing that surprised me this week was that I actually made a friend.  Yes that’s right, a real friend!  Not a ladybug or a diary, no offence, but a real live fairy friend with arms and legs and everything.  Her name is Alyssa Blossom and she is the nicest fairy I’ve ever met.  She has long fiery red hair and wild lilac eyes.  She’s a little on the naughty side though, but I don’t mind, I’m just happy that someone wants to be my friend.  Maybe that’s why we get on so well; we’re both forever getting into trouble, usually me by accident and her on purpose. 

I think that’s why they always kept her in a different class to me too.  Alyssa is my age and has been going to my school, but I had never met her before.  I suppose Mrs. Scarrowtree figured that adding trouble with trouble would only give you mayhem, and thought it would be better if we never met.  I don’t think Mrs. Scarrowtree was expecting that I would become famous, or rather infamous, over my sludge monster and everyone would know my name. 

That’s why we met, you know Bob.  Alyssa came up to me in the yard and congratulated me on my magnificent monster.   I thought she was joking at first, or poking fun at me, but when I saw her very wide, cheeky grin, I knew she was genuinely please to meet a fellow troublemaker. 

Alyssa’s father is one of the High Council Governors.  That means that he’s one of the fairies in charge of the workings of Furrow Grove.  I suppose Mr. Blossom would be like the boss co-ordinating all of the different fairy jobs making sure everything runs smoothly.  Right now I’m sure he is busy ordering my father to hurry up with the re-stocking and my mother to fill the fairy dust store to the brim as we wait for the autumn fairy to hand over her job to the frost fairy.

I don’t know why it’s the elemental fairies job to change the seasons of the year, but it is.  The autumn fairy will tell the trees and plants it’s time to sleep so that they won’t get damaged by the frost when the frost fairy comes around.  I suppose the frost fairies job is to ensure that everything stays asleep so that it can build up its energy for the coming of the spring fairy, who wakes them again.  I don’t suppose I need to tell you Bob, what the summer fairy does, now do I?

I guess with all of her father’s authority that perhaps Alyssa is used to getting her own way and that’s why she is just a little naughty.  I reckon that’s how she managed to get herself transferred into my class too, and I couldn’t be happier about that.  I don’t mind her wildness so much because she is also very generous.  She gave me a handmade summer hat that she had made out of daisy petals and a beautiful purple pouch to carry you in Bob, so now you can come with me everywhere.  I’ve never had anyone just give me something before when it wasn’t my birthday and I will cherish them forever.



About me

I was born in Galway, Ireland and now find myself living in Massachusetts. I have had "Haunting" published with and am bringing out the first book in a trilogy called "The Anathemas" with Distinguished Press. I have several other things bubbling away but hasten to say it until all is signed sealed and delivered.

Q. What is the inspiration for the story?
I grew up in a culture steeped in stories of the fantastical and magical. I'd often heard tales of how powerful and spiteful the fae can be. My inspiration came from the notion that perhaps all fairies were not quite so adept at magic nor as evil as the old yarns might lead you to believe.
Q. What draws you to this genre?
Fantasy is a genre where your only limits is your imagination. If you can reason it into being then it can be so. That's what initially drew me to the genre.
Q. This book is part of a series, tell us about your series.
This book is part of a series. It begins with an introduction to Petunia and her world. I plan to expand that world and cultivate the books and character from a short chapter book, into a full length children's novel, growing with my target audience.

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