The Legend Of Tom Tiptoe.

Chapter 1: I’m Not Good At Goodbyes.

Tom was in his bedroom reading a book about jokes when his little sister, Cottontail, burst in shouting, “ The Gorm are here! Tom, we need to hide!” The children dashed to their parents and asked them what was going on and how the Gorm had found the warren they were staying in. Mrs Tiptoe told the children to go and hide underground and that she would explain in a few minutes. Once they were safe, they started to hear the clinking of swords, the shanking of steel…

A scream shattered the air. No more clinking of swords. Just the shanking of steel. Mr Tiptoe was gone. He had been demolished by the metallic enemies of the island next door. Now, I know that sounds harsh but it’s true. I may only be the story bard, but I know everything that happens in this story. No, before you say it, I’m not a time traveller that heads forward in time to see what the story has to say. I wrote this story so I was the first one to read it.

Chapter 2: Run while you can.

The Gorm was coming. Tom, Cottontail and Ms Tiptoe heard the tumult noise of steel shouting the word ‘Danger’, ambling down the tunnel that led to the basement the fatherless family were hiding in. Ms Tiptoe whispered to her kittens, “Run children, run and never look back. Tom, guard Cottontail with your life. I trust you.”…

Tom and Cottontail had no choice but to run and find a safe spot to sleep without turning to one of those noisy neighbours that live on Gorm island. “ Tom, is mama gonna be ok?” questioned Cottontail, hugging her blanket made of buttercups. Tom answered, “Of course Cottontail, don’t worry. Hopefully we’ll see her soon.” He muttered under his breath, “Hopefully…”.

“Maybe it might be safe here?” Cottontail stated. She pointed at a cave with a small opening. “It’s perfect Cottontail! Well done!” Tom replied. They ran inside and shoved a big rock in front of the hole in the wall. As they turned round, they both gasped. “Woah…”

I Want to Paint…

I want to paint the never-ending sky, filled with fluffy clouds,

I want to paint a river, leading to the sea,

I want to paint an old, worn stone wall, down by the Quomps in Christchurch,

I want to paint an aeroplane, soaring through the sky.

I want to paint the sound of a bumble bee landing on a peony,

I want to paint the sound of a child’s footsteps, as they run to the ice-cream truck,

I want to paint the sound of whispering inside a classroom,

I want to paint the sound of cars, beeping their horns as they get stuck in traffic.

I want to paint the smell of  hotdogs from a hotdog stand,

I want to paint the smell of a freshly cut springy, emerald, green grass,

I want to paint the smell of pollen from a sunflower,

I want to paint the smell of a brand new Mustang sports car,

I want to paint the smell of a stone-baked Margherita pizza.

I want to paint the end of this poem.