The dogamander part 1

It’s most likely you’ve been to Countryside Pastries in the summer. The smell of fresh doughnuts and cupcakes probably persuaded you to come up onto the sand dunes and enter the small beach hut that perches on a flat piece of slate. Countryside Pastries is the kind of place where you look forward to visiting while you unpack your belongings in the static caravan on the coast you’re staying in. It’s like that place like an arcade, like the place you look forward to visiting when you decide to go on holiday to the wonderful beaches at the North Coast of Cornwall.

In the winter however, you’ve probably felt the burning wind feeling cold and icy on your cheeks. People rarely visit Countryside Pastries in winter although customers do come just to get a taste of all the fuss that is apparently not necessary. This is not true because…well…it is necessary as soon as visitors take a single bite into one of the delicious pastries that are made. It is automatic to buy more to take home and warm up in the oven for the family. Anyways, that’s what usually happens in the winter…

Chapter 1
My name is Naomi Brookes and I am the chef at the Countryside Pastries shop. I sculpt the positions of the cupcakes, doughnuts, pasties, churros and much more and bake them until they are perfectly baked and delicious. (Of course I know this because I always taste test one to make sure it’s perfect and you’re probably going to be very annoyed at me but if they don’t taste good they get thrown into the bin.) There are only two people that work at Countryside Pastries, me and Becky. At our shop we both have small rooms so we can stay here at all times. My room is generally quite cosy with a small brick fireplace, a comfy and cushioned armchair and a small single bed coated in blankets and plumped cushions.

Out of the blue, a girl no older than me (15) bangs on the window, cracking the glass.
“What the frickin’ hell are you doing?” I hiss at her but she continues banging on the window. The door clicks as I open it slowly for her and she dashes in.
“What is the matter with you?” I yell at her and gesture at the cracked window. She shrugs and crouches beside the the counter.
“I saw it…” she mutters, trembling. I don’t want to ask what she saw. I already know. The dogamander. A fierce beast with wings of an angel and a diet of fish smelling frogs.
“R-really?” I stammer, my mouth practically on the floor.
“Quick it’s coming!” she yells, her voice shrilly.

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