 
Rare Pets and Other Oddities by Dave Leys

Rare Pets and Other Oddities

David Leys

Copyright David Leys 2014

Smashwords Edition

Contents

1. Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs 3

2. Camping with the Boys 8

3. A New Species of Animal 12

4. Hideous Helva 18

5. Making a Splash 24

6. The Astronomical Refractor 28

7. Backyard Cricket Fanatic 32

8. Be-Happy Campaign 36

9. Owen.Still.Lives@gmail.com 42

10. Selling the News 49

11. The Bald Golfer 54

11. Rare Pets 59
Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs

'Halt!' cried Kieran, standing in the doorway brandishing a dagger. 'None may enter here without the King's permission!'

The woman facing him folded her arms wearily. She began to step forward, seeming to look past the blade thrust up at her face. Kieran snarled and stamped his foot. He seemed like he was about to erupt. Yet still the woman ignored him and continued into the room.

Was she crazy? Did she wish to suffer a slow, agonising gut wound, right there on the doorstep?

Kieran's mother put her hands on her hips and surveyed her nine-year-old son who was doing his best to look fierce. The dagger he was waving about with such vigour was made from plastic and painted silver.

Once she had walked past him she laid clean clothes onto his dresser and turned to look at him. Kieran was wearing a tunic he had made from an old potato sack, chain mail he had constructed from rings of aluminium foil and a helmet that looked suspiciously like the saucepan that had gone missing from the kitchen.

'Kieran,' she began, but the boy shook his head violently.

'Sir Kieran,' he insisted, 'of Blackwood Downs.'

'Right,' she continued. 'Well, I just got a message from the King, otherwise known as your father, and he suggested you had better go to bed, or he'll hang, draw and quarter you.'

'Bah,' said Kieran, lowering his dagger. 'I fear not death.' But he took off his helmet and began to move towards the bed. His mother moved back to the door, waited until he had changed into pyjamas, and turned out the light, pausing only to blow him a kiss. He, in return, grunted and rolled over.

He closed his eyes and had visions of riding a horse, sword in hand, down a dirt road in pursuit of a horde of ruffians dressed in black cloaks and hoods. As sleep overcame him the fantasy changed and he sat on a throne resplendent in a robe of purple as the ruffians grovelled on the floor in front of him, begging for mercy. He put his hand up and sent them to prison. The court ladies smiled, admiring his clemency.

When Kieran woke up everything was clear to him. He was Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs.

He announced it to his family over breakfast. 'I am going to turn my bedroom,' he said grandly, 'into a castle. From now on I am going to live in Blackwood Castle.'

His mother and father exchanged weary glances. Kieran had been on his 'Middle Ages kick' for ages now, and still he showed no sign of getting tired of it all. He'd prance round the house with a bow over his shoulder and a sword in hand scaring the life out of them, he'd insist that they listen to his 'minstrel' shows, which consisted of banging on a toy drum and singing about lasses, dragons and saving lasses from dragons. Three times they'd had to pull him off the back of Shell the Labrador who, they reminded him firmly, was a dog, not a horse and was not interested in jousting.

His father paused, his mouth full of toast, and mumbled, 'Sounds great.' He finished chewing and pushed his empty plate towards his son. 'Why don't you help your mother with the washing up?'

Kieran smiled. 'Tosh!' he cried. 'Washing up is the work of scullery maids, not noblemen!' With that declaration he leapt up from the table and bounded off to his room, Blackwood Castle.

His mother bit her lip and began to turn to tell him to come back, but his father put his hand up.

'Hang on,' he said. 'I've got an idea.'

Kieran was busy assembling his castle wall out of styrofoam blocks, which he planned to paint stone grey, when he heard a knock on the door.

'Enter, knaves,' he said grandly.

His parents walked in, shoulder to shoulder, and stood before him. 'We're here to help,' they said.

Kieran smiled. Brilliant! With their assistance he'd have the place looking medieval in no time. His mother cut prancing lion shapes out of red felt and sewed them to the curtains. They made stained glass patterns out of cellophane and stuck them to the windows. His father helped him with the castle walls and even got out his jigsaw so they could cut battlements into the tops. They laid a thick white rug down on the floor, made a flag from an old sheet and flew it from his lamp. They painted his door to make it look like it was made from thick slabs of oak. Best of all, his father found an old brass knocker out in the garage, which they screwed into the castle door.

When they were done Kieran looked around. He was so happy he almost felt like crying. He was living in a real castle, Blackwood Castle. He turned to face his parents.

'Ye have done well this day. Your reward shall be great,' he said, 'come harvest time.'

His father smiled. 'So you really want to live the life of the Middle Ages?' he asked.

Kieran nodded. 'In truth I do.'

His father rubbed his hands, looking happy – too happy. 'Well, Kieran,' he began, 'your mother and I have been thinking.'

His mother continued. 'We think you should experience the medieval life fully. You know, live like a person in the Middle Ages actually did.'

His father put his hand on his shoulder. 'I mean, if you're going to do something, you may as well do it properly, right?'

Kieran could only nod again. He swallowed dryly. What did they mean?

'Excellent,' said his father. He walked over to the lamp and began to unscrew the bulb. The light went out.

'What are you doing?' asked Kieran.

His father turned and frowned. 'There was no electricity in the Middle Ages, right?' Pocketing the light bulb he moved over to the computer and began to unplug it.

Kieran turned round to see his mother spreading something over his bed. What was it? Straw? She must have got it from the garden. She looked up at him and smiled. Then, brushing their hands and carrying his lamp, computer, gameboy and TV, they left the room.

Kieran sat down on the floor. This was strange. Still, Blackwood Castle looked fantastic. He stretched his legs out, a little tired from all the work, and grabbed his new favourite book, King Arthur and the Holy Grail, from the bookshelf. Spreading it open to his bookmarked place, he began to read. The light in the room was dim but if he squinted he could just make out the words.

'One fine morn Arthur took up Excalibur and set out to ride,' he began. Then he heard another knock on the door. 'Enter,' he said, annoyed he had been interrupted.

In walked his father carrying a box. 'Forgot something,' he mumbled. Then he reached down, grabbed the book out of Kieran's hands and put it and every other book in the room into the box. He turned to leave.

'Hang on,' said Kieran. 'I was reading that.'

His father frowned again. 'Ahh, no you weren't. Didn't you know hardly anyone could read in the Middle Ages?' With that his father swept out of the room.

'Fine,' said Kieran to himself. He stood up, stretched and began to practise his sword-fighting skills in peace, spinning round the room beheading enemies, stabbing vagabonds and slaying dragons. Finally his belly began to growl and he wandered out of his room in search of food.

His mother was laying the table and looked up at him brightly. 'Good, I was about to call you. Sit down.'

'Thank ye, lassie,' he said gruffly and took his place at the table. She pursed her lips, walked to the oven, and came back to lay a pizza in the middle of the table. Ham and pineapple, his favourite! His father arrived at the table and began to cut slices, putting them onto his mother's and his own plate. Kieran frowned and reached out to cut his own slice when his mother arrived back and deposited a bowl in front of him.

'That's for you,' she said.

He looked inside. It was a thick lumpy mass with a trickle of water round the side. He stuck a spoon in and it stood up by itself.

'Oats,' said his father in a booming voice. 'A favourite of the 1300s. We know it as porridge.'

Kieran grimaced. 'Can't I have some ...' he said, eyeing his father's plate.

His mother only laughed. 'Really, no one had heard of pizza back then. No, no, eat your oats.'

He managed to get about half of it down (they wouldn't let him put brown sugar on it) before he was fed up. That was when things got worse. His parents started in eating ice cream – they never had ice cream! – and then they headed out to the lounge room and switched on the TV. The Saturday night movie was on. He started to creep out there, lured by their laughter, but his father turned on the couch and only shook his head. Okay, no Saturday night movies in the Middle Ages, he got it.

Grabbing a candle he slunk back sadly to his room. Blackwood Castle seemed dark, dank and lonely all of sudden. He lit the candle and sat on the floor, banging idly on his drum. He was so bored. He would kill to be able to play World of Warcraft right now. Instead he started to sing to himself, 'Up crept the knight and down flew the dragon,' but the sound of the words seemed to echo from the ceiling in a creepy way so he stopped. He looked around. In the flicker of the candlelight the castle walls leaned in on him and the flag drooped evilly.

Sighing to himself he crept into bed, brushing pieces of straw from the pillow. In his dreams that night it was he who was being pursued, and the faster he rode his horse the closer the ruffians seemed to get.

He was woken by the sound of knocking on his door. He muttered something and looked out the window. It was barely light, the sun only just over the fence. His father walked in.

'Dad,' he moaned, trying to bury his head under the pillow.

His father smiled broadly. 'Got to make the most of the light. Up you get. We've got work to do.'

Kieran moaned again. 'I've done my homework already,' he said.

His dad laughed. 'None of that book-learning stuff. I mean real work – you're going to help me with some digging in the backyard.'

Kieran sighed. He waddled out to the shower, but his mother was standing in the door. She said nothing, only pointing at the bath.

'I hate baths!' he said, but it made no difference.

A short time later, having dipped in and out of the bath as quickly as he could ('very medieval!' his mother said approvingly) he met his father outside.

'Well?' he said, trying not to sound sulky.

'The sewer lines,' his father said. 'We need to dig them up.'

Kieran watched as his father began, and within a little while he could already smell something foul down there. 'Dad,' he said, 'it stinks!'

His father grinned, wiping dirt from his brow. 'You'd be used to that, of course. Everything smelled in ...'

'... the Middle Ages,' finished Kieran. 'Yes, I get it.' He grabbed a spade and began to help his father, gathering the soil into piles and loading it onto a wheelbarrow. It was backbreaking work and seemed to go on forever. At lunchtime his father threw him a crust of bread and an apple. He turned the apple over in his hands.

"Dad, this has got holes in it,' he said feebly.

'Yes, yes, worm holes. Well, no pesticides in the Middle Ages,' his father said. 'Don't worry, the worms are all gone now. Most of them, anyway. If you do find any stick them in the garden, will you?'

That was it. That was absolutely the last straw. Kieran threw the apple down and shouted, 'I hate the Middle Ages!'

His mother appeared at the back door. 'Is everything all right?'

Kieran ran over to her. 'I don't want to live in the Middle Ages any more. I hate Blackwood Castle, it freaks me out.'

His mother hugged him and smoothed his hair down. 'Of course,' she said softly, 'you don't have to. We understand.' Smiling at his father over his head, she led him into the house and helped him rearrange his room. When the castle walls were dismantled, the flag brought down and the computer was back on his desk he sighed in contentment. The Middle Ages seemed like a long time ago. He spent all afternoon playing his new favourite computer game, Starcraft.

Late that night his mother came to Kieran's door. It was time for bed. She knocked quietly; she loved her little modern boy.

The door swung open. Standing facing her was a space trooper, an upside down fish bowl on his head, a wire coat hanger on his shoulders and a black gun in his hand.

'Halt!' he cried. 'No aliens may enter the human perimeter without Moon Base permission!'

Camping with the boys

'Dane,' said Liam, 'are you awake?'

Dane rolled over. 'Yeah.'

'Really awake,' asked Liam, 'or just pretending to be awake?'

Dane snorted. 'Really awake,' he said.

'What's the best car in the world?' said Liam. He pushed his head off the pillow to look at him.

'The Turbo BMW,' said Dane. 'Easy.' He made the sound of a car engine. 'Vrrrrrroooom!'

'Okay,' said Mr Mattius, 'that's it.' He got up.

It was three o'clock in the morning. Dane and Liam were still not asleep. Their father, Mr Mattius, normally a very pleasant and patient man, was starting to get annoyed. He wasn't annoyed because they couldn't sleep, he was annoyed because they wouldn't sleep.

The three of them were camping at Laton Waters caravan park. Dane and Liam were in an orange two-man tent with a lightning bolt printed on the side. Their father was in a black dome tent next to them. He had gotten up and looked in on them twice now, and the last time he had warned them if they didn't go to sleep right now he would get angry. Really angry.

Mr Mattius walked over and opened the flap to their tent. He poked his big scruffy head in and said firmly, 'So, boys, it's time for all this nonsense to stop. No more noise, Dad has to sleep.'

The two of them looked at their father. He did look funny, with his hair all messy and his eyes shrunken and dark.

'Liam is too noisy,' said Dane. 'Every time I try to go to sleep, he farts and it wakes me up.'

'Dane,' said Liam, 'is pretending to snore. It's keeping me up.'

Mr Mattius rubbed his face slowly. On this camping trip he wanted to teach the boys about hiking and fishing, and self-reliance. He wanted them to learn self-discipline. Instead, they lounged around all day and mucked around all night long. He tried once more. 'Don't you want to be nice and fresh in the morning when we go walking up to the mountain?'

'I hate walking,' said Dane. 'It makes my feet ache.'

'Your feet ache,' said Liam, 'because your bum's too heavy.'

'Shutup!' said Dane, rolling over and hitting Liam. In turn Liam rolled over and pulled Dane's arm till he squealed.

Mr Mattius pulled the boys apart. He gave it one last go. 'Boys,' he said slowly, 'when I go back to my tent, there will be silence, and there will be silence because both of you will be fast asleep.'

'Yes dad,' they said in unison. Their eyes were wide and their hands under the blankets.

Mr Mattius slouched back to his tent with his hands clenched, his back sore from bending through the boys' tent flap. Silence. He zipped up his own tent door and lay down. Silence. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

Then the giggling started. It was soft at first, but then uncontrolled it rolled on and on. Mr Mattius gave up. They would not go to sleep tonight. He wrapped a jumper around his head to block out some of the noise, and stayed awake like that until, as the darkness was almost lifting, he dozed slightly with the sound of ha-ha-ha still drifting in the wind.

The next morning Mr Mattius barely dragged himself out of the tent. His eyes were red, his sides were sore, and when he breathed in he felt like his chest was collapsing. The boys were already up, wrestling each other in the dirt outside their tent. It was all a blur to him.

'Good morning, Dad!' shouted Liam, rolling over and looking up at him.

'Hey, Dad!' screamed Dane. They seemed very energetic.

Mr Mattius muttered and made himself a coffee. When he had taken three sips and could see straight again, he yawned. They were camping out for two more nights. He shuddered.

But it was all okay, at least it was going to be. He had come up with a plan as he lay there listening to the boys scream and whoop and fidget and screech. In fact, it was an absolutely wonderful plan, the plan of a genius.

'Mountain climb's off,' he said to the boys. 'I've got to run into town to get something. You boys can stay at the campsite today, make yourself lunch. I'll be back soon.' He paused. 'If anything happens,' he said, 'you have your mobile phones, and you can call the ranger.'

Liam and Dane beamed and punched their fists into the air, screaming 'Yayyyy!' Mr Mattius got into his car and drove away.

When he returned the boys were sitting right by the tent, making owl sounds from their cupped hands.

'A-whooo,' cooed Dane. 'Dad, listen!'

'That's dumb,' said Liam. 'Listen to me. Hooo, hooo.'

'Shutup,' said Dane and pushed Liam over. They both started yelling and hitting at one another.

Mr Mattius just smiled. His plan could wait until dinner. He pulled out a newspaper and read with his feet up.

When it got dark, and they had finished eating around the campfire, and it was almost time to go into their tents for the night, Mr Mattius gestured to his sons to sit in front of him.

'Boys,' he said, 'I've got something very alarming to tell you. While I was in town today, the locals told me about something, and it's important you listen, because we could all be in danger.'

His sons' eyes grew wide.

'Yes, boys, it could get very dangerous. Apparently,' he said, narrowing his eyes, 'there is a man-eating bear that has been terrorising this area. It is six feet tall, it has deep red eyes, and it can stand on its hind legs.'

'So?' said Liam. 'We could fight it.' But he didn't sound so sure, and he moved closer to his brother.

'Well, boys,' continued Mr Mattius, 'apparently it has got twenty-four sharpened teeth. It has been sharpening those teeth on the bones of campers it has caught and eaten.'

'Who cares?' said Dane. 'I bet we could outrun it.' He looked cocky, but his lip quivered a little.

'Not this bear,' said Mr Mattius. 'Apparently it moves like a lion, and it has claws on its paws that can rip the flesh from your knees. And when it sits on you,' he said, his voice sinking to a whisper, 'it's so big and heavy that your stomach explodes from the weight.'

The boys looked at each other, and then at their father. Liam held his hands against his chest, while Dane curled his legs up.

'Now boys,' said Mr Mattius. 'When you go to sleep tonight, I want you to be absolutely quiet. If the bear comes around and it hears one sound out of your tent, well ...'

There was silence.

'What?' asked Liam with trepidation.

'Snap snap!' said Mr Mattius, clapping his hands to add dramatic effect. He was quite enjoying himself.

Liam and Dane crawled into their tent. They didn't say a word. Mr Mattius smiled. He went into his own tent, lay down, and felt his whole body relax.

Five minutes later he heard something and his whole body tensed. Was that them? No, it must be frogs, or crickets. Then again a sound came out. The boys were giggling. Then a scream. Then another scream, and a laugh.

Mr Mattius got up. His teeth were clenched and his eyebrows bunched up. Okay, okay, so they wanted to push it? He went to his car and retrieved what he had gone into town for. He had hired it from a costume shop. Sniffling, he put it on. It was made of brown fur and felt, and as he slipped on the head his breathing became shallow. He looked in the side mirror of the car. He looked big, mean and scary.

Slowly he walked to the boys' tent. He lifted up his arms and made a low growling sound. He gnashed his teeth. He jumped up and down.

Inside the orange tent the boys heard something. Liam looked up. In the silhouette he saw the shadow of something large and animalistic.

'Dane,' he whispered, 'look!'

Dane got to his knees and looked out the window. The bear was lumbering along, scraping at the ground with its huge sharp paws, grinning in the moonlight with its razor-like teeth. 'Oh no,' he said. The bear growled and licked its lips. 'I think it must have eaten Dad!'

Liam started to cry. 'What do we do?' he squeaked.

Dane reached into his bag, pulled out his phone, and dialled the number of the ranger. 'Hello?' he said. 'There's a huge bear outside our tent, and I think it's swallowed our father.'

Ten minutes later the ranger crept up to the campsite. He could see the creature pawing at the boys' tent, growling and shaking its legs.

'Don't worry, boys,' he shouted. 'I've got it.'

Mr Mattius looked around as the ranger brought the gun to his shoulder. Mr Mattius tried to say something but the head muffled his words. The ranger fired his gun and hit Mr Mattius in the stomach. The bear collapsed to the ground.

Liam and Dane crept out of their tent and looked at the fallen creature sprawled out in the dirt.

'Did you ...?' asked Dane. His words trailed off.

'Don't worry, boys, ' said the ranger. 'He's not dead. I hit him with a tranquiliser dart. He'll be out like a light for two days.'

They looked at the bear. Its furry stomach went up and down peacefully. Inside the suit, finally, Mr Mattius was asleep.

A New Species of Animal

The snow began to fall heavily as the three men trudged up the icy hill. It was cold, the kind of cold that got deep into your bones and made your breath come out in a gust of steam. The kind of cold that made your fridge, by comparison, look like it wasn't trying very hard.

Professor Jenkins and Professor Phillips, both very intelligent men, had come to Antarctica to try to find a new species of animal. Cody Brown, not quite as intelligent as them, had come along to make sure the practical things got done. It was he who put up the tent each night, who made sure they camped out of the wind, who ensured they didn't walk in circles. They were scientists, he was just a technician.

'Professor Jenkins!' cried Cody. He had just spotted something moving off in the distance. Was it a bird?

'What is it, Cody?' sighed Professor Jenkins, who was sick of the cold, sick of walking, and at that moment was daydreaming about being at home in a nice warm bath.

'Up ahead,' said Cody. 'Isn't that a ..?'

He didn't have time to finish before the two scientists, almost slipping over in their haste, began to run. They grabbed at each other's sleeves and skidded to a sudden stop as they got near to the moving thing. Whatever it was had been half covered in snow and was struggling to get free.

'Jenkins, it's a penguin. But what variety is it?' whispered Professor Phillips. 'We must examine it.'

'I agree,' said Professor Jenkins.

They leaned over and looked at the shape in front of them. Flipping its webbed feet up and down, it stared back at them. It had the most extraordinary yellow feathers that crested above its eyes like gigantic eyelashes. They circled around it, holding up magnifying glasses, measuring tapes and machines that went beep. They leaned this way and that to get a better look. They poked long black testing rods into its feathers and then jumped back as it snapped its beak at them. Then they retreated a few feet and talked in low murmurs to each other, turning to refer every now and then to a book on Antarctic species.

Cody, meanwhile, crept up to the poor little bird and patted its head before beginning to dig at the ice that had formed around it. Slowly it wriggled and began to move freely.

'Jenkins,' said Professor Phillips.

'Yes,' said Professor Jenkins.

'I'm afraid that we in fact do not have a new species of animal here.'

'No?' said Professor Jenkins dejectedly. 'What does it seem to be?'

Professor Phillips snapped the book shut. 'It appears to be a Rockhopper Penguin. Eudyptes chrysocome.'

'Ah,' sighed Professor Jenkins.

Cody dug out one last piece of ice and the penguin slithered up onto its legs, cocked its head to look at him, blinked twice, and then ran away as fast as its little legs would move in the direction of the rocks, where it bounded from one to another.

'Never mind,' said Cody, turning to the two scientists, 'I'm sure you'll find a new animal soon enough.' The two scientists didn't answer him, but instead muttered to themselves as they began trudging ahead, shaking their heads in disappointment.

That night, however, as the three of them huddled in the tent eating baked beans out of the can, the professors seemed to be in a much better mood.

'When we discover a new species of animal,' declared Professor Jenkins confidently, 'we'll be famous.' He closed his eyes, already imagining the accolades they would receive.

'Yes,' agreed Professor Phillips, nodding his head enthusiastically, 'we'll be on the cover of New Scientist magazine.'

'And Nature magazine,' added Professor Jenkins, 'don't forget that.'

'Ah, yes,' sighed Professor Phillips, 'and then won't we be important!'

The two scientists grinned at each other while Cody cleaned up the cans and arranged the bedding for the night.

On arising early the two professors were full of energy, ready to explore and discover, and they stared impatiently at Cody as he packed up the tent. Finally everything was ready and they set off along the coast. It was a clear morning and their spirits were high.

Around midday the weather began to worsen again with a bracing wind coming off the sea, and each man rubbed his hands together for warmth. Professor Jenkins and Professor Phillips were talking about who would get to name the new species upon discovery, the words tumbling out of their mouths, when again Cody spotted something. At first it looked like a large grey-white rock at the edge of the sea, but then Cody noticed it quivering slightly.

'Professor Jenkins, Professor Phillips!' he cried. 'Look over there!'

They looked where he was pointing and as if they were one creature themselves made of four arms and four legs they scrambled towards it. What from a distance seemed to be a rock upon closer inspection had whiskers, black eyes and large flippers.

'Fascinating,' declared Professor Jenkins as he knelt in the snow and began to measure the creature's girth. 'It's a seal, of course, but what variety could it be?' It looked up at him and let out a low, husky bark, not unlike a dog. Its face, too, was like that of a dog, short and squat, while its fur was grey and white, with chocolate brown markings on its shoulders. Professor Phillips approached it from above, taking photographs and uploading them to his portable computer. They prodded it, clipped off one of its whiskers, lifted up and then let go of its flippers, testing them for bounce, and finally they even leant right in to smell its breath. Then once more they opened up their book of Antarctic species and began to leaf through it. Cody noticed that one of its flippers seemed to be caught on something, and as the professors consulted one another in earnest tones he felt the flipper, discovered there was some netting entangled over it, and carefully cut it away.

'Phillips,' said Professor Jenkins.

'Yes,' said Professor Phillips, a faint note of hope in his voice, 'tell me. Is it a new species?'

'I'm afraid not,' said Professor Jenkins, and he crouched in despair. 'What we have here is a Crabeater seal. Lobodon carcinophaga.'

'Ah,' said Professor Phillips. He glared at Cody. 'It doesn't actually eat crabs, you know. Just a myth. Prefers krill, or perhaps a small fish or squid.' He stamped his feet in anger while Professor Jenkins clenched his fists.

The seal, however, couldn't have been happier now that it had been freed from the netting, and with another husky bark it rolled off into the water and swam away, pausing only to flip its tail goodbye to Cody.

The rest of the day seemed to last forever – more trudging, more wind, and now snow as well – and the two professors wouldn't look at each other or at Cody.

That night Cody tried to cheer them up by heating a tin of chocolate pudding over a gas stove. He even found some sugar at the bottom of one of the backpacks and sprinkled it over the top.

'Never mind,' he said. 'Maybe you just have to be patient.'

But patience was not something the professors had a lot of respect for. Professor Phillips, his mouth full of pudding, mumbled something to Professor Jenkins, who grimaced, and silence descended over the tent. Then all of a sudden Professor Phillips' eyes changed as if a fire had been lit in them, and he leaned close to Professor Jenkins, clutched his arm, and began to whisper frantically to him. At first Professor Jenkins looked bored, but then his eyes changed too, and both of them continued to whisper to each other. Cody felt a little put out that he wasn't included in the conversation, but assumed it was scientific and he wouldn't understand it anyway, so he left the tent to make sure it was battened down properly, hooking each of the corners securely into the ice. From inside the tent the whispering continued, growing faster and faster, and then there was even laughter and clapping.

'Excellent,' thought Cody. 'It looks like they've cheered up.' As he entered the tent the two of them were grinning to themselves with chocolate pudding smeared across their lips.

'Cody,' said Professor Phillips, 'we have an idea.' He was so excited he began to stand up, but discovered the tent was too small to allow it, so had to sit down again.

'Yes,' said Professor Jenkins, 'and we need your help.'

Cody sat down, happy to be able to assist them, but when they told him the plan, and what he would have to do, it just didn't seem right to him. In fact it seemed morally wrong. When he started to protest, they grew red in the face and insisted that he was there to assist them; that they were the scientists, and he was just a technician, and he had better just be quiet and follow instructions. Cody sighed, agreed, and tried to go to sleep as the two professors rambled on about how they were going to be famous.

The next morning they put the plan into action. The first thing they had to do was find another animal. This didn't turn out to be too difficult – Cody set some tasty fish by the edge of the sea and waited. Within an hour, an enormous white bird with black-tipped wings floated down onto the ice shelf, and the two professors grabbed it and held it tight.

'The Wandering Albatross,' said Professor Phillips, beaming, 'Diomeda exulans!'

'Okay, Cody,' said Professor Jenkins. 'You know what you have to do.'

Cody shook his head but they stared at him angrily, so with a slow sigh he began to streak silver and gold paint onto its wings. The albatross didn't seem to mind, merely shaking its tail noiselessly. Then Cody took a series of small black spikes, which he had made from softened pieces of plastic, and glued them in a line along the top of the bird's hooked bill. Again, the albatross seemed content to let him work on it, squawking and rolling its eyes. Cody stepped back. What was once the Wandering Albatross now looked like a very different bird. As it moved its body its wings sparkled with brilliant colour, and as it bowed its head to eat, its bill dipped menacingly.

'Excellent!' cried Professor Jenkins. 'If we can't find a new species in Antarctica, then we can make one.'

Professor Phillips jumped up and down in excitement. 'No one will know the difference. New Scientist magazine, here we come!'

They knelt either side of the bizarre new creature and demanded Cody take photo after photo of the odd trio. The professors bared their teeth in wide smiles, while the transformed bird stamped softly with its feet.

That afternoon they set sail for home. Cody was put in charge of feeding and looking after the bird while the professors worked each other into a frenzy talking about how famous they were about to become. On the long voyage Cody became good friends with the creature and nicknamed it Sammy. By the time they reached land the professors had already arranged a television interview for the next day. Apparently a new species was big news back home.

So Cody, Professor Jenkins, Professor Phillips and Sammy found themselves in a television studio in front of five cameras being beamed into homes throughout the country. Well, that is, the professors were in front of the cameras, while Cody and Sammy stood off to the side.

'Tell me,' asked Mary Moss, the host of ABC News, 'how did you find this creature?'

Professor Jenkins smiled. 'Hard work, Mary – sheer determination on our part. Professor Phillips and I, that is.'

Professor Phillips laughed and leant forward. 'We think the Precious Spike-Billed Albatross is going to be the most important scientific discovery this century.'

Professor Jenkins grinned. 'Not this century, this millennium. Its scientific name is Diomeda Fictus.'

Professor Phillips was about to talk some more when Mary interrupted. 'Could we see it, please? What do you say, audience?' The audience went wild, stamping, shouting and clapping. It wasn't every day a new species was found.

The professors beckoned and Cody led Sammy out onto the studio set. There were gasps from the audience as the bird shook its body and flapped its enormous wings. It raised its spiked bill to the applause as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Cody sighed. He didn't feel right about this.

Then he noticed how hot it was in the studio. There were enormous lights shining all around them. He wiped some sweat from his forehead and watched as the professors started to talk about themselves and how important they were. Then he looked at Sammy and noticed the black spikes on its bill were starting to bend right round, and one was hanging off. The lights! They were so hot they were melting the glue. He moved to try to straighten them but it was too late, a cameraman had noticed the movement and swung his camera right onto them. Sammy squawked at the camera, squawked again, and all of the spikes fell off onto the floor. The audience gasped again, only there was an angry tone to it this time, and Mary Moss stood up and pointed a finger at the two professors.

'It's a fake!' she cried. 'That's not a new species at all. It's a regular albatross!'

Professor Jenkins and Professor Phillips seemed to sink into their chairs, but then suddenly they leapt up and pointed at Cody.

'It was him!' cried Professor Phillips. 'He must have set this up while we weren't looking.'

Professor Jenkins stretched himself out and up, looking down his nose at Cody. 'What an imposter,' he said, 'fooling us like that. He must have done the whole thing to become famous.'

Cody was too shocked to say anything. He knelt down next to Sammy and shook his head. Sammy advanced upon the professors snapping his bill and stamping his feet in an angry fashion. There was chaos on the set. Someone yelled 'Cut!' and the cameras and lights were turned off.

Cody, highly embarrassed, caught a taxi home with Sammy, feeling awful. How could the professors have turned on him like that? Sammy cheered him up, however, by nuzzling him with his long hook bill until Cody laughed.

The next morning Cody was awoken by a phone call from Peter Jackson, a famous film director.

'Cody,' said Peter Jackson, 'I was watching television yesterday and I saw what you did to that bird. Amazing special effects! I want you to come and work on my next film and do more of that. What do you say?'

Cody was speechless, while Sammy let out a series of caws, which Peter Jackson took as a 'yes'. He said Cody could take Sammy along with him on film shoots, and Sammy would even get his own trailer. What luxury!

And Professor Jenkins and Professor Phillips? Things didn't turn out so well for them. Yes, they were famous, and yes they made it onto the cover of New Scientist magazine, but for all the wrong reasons. The headline was: 'Idiotic Professors Sacked after Falling for a Fake!' After that they had to resign from working as scientists, and they were so poor they had to work as snow shovellers at a ski lodge, which, apparently, is a cold, cold job.
Hideous Helva

In a cave at the edge of Rotten Forest, a place so evil even snakes and spiders were scared to venture there, a horrible hag lay asleep. Her snoring whistled eerily through the trees, making black crows flutter off in alarm.

When the sun had gone down, the moon was out and inky grey clouds covered the land, Hideous Helva woke up. She looked around her cave at the bats' wings hanging from the ceiling, the cauldron in the corner and the piles of bones. She reached across the bedside table for her purple leather hat.

Helva groaned as she got out of bed. Her back was aching, but that was no surprise, because she was three hundred and forty years old. She had trouble seeing, but that was also no surprise, because one of her eyes was made of glass, and the other she had taken from a dead snake. She coughed as she stood up, but again that was nothing unusual, because she always coughed when she stood up. It was her bony old ribcage, it rattled like a bag of tin cans.

What was a surprise, however, was that she somehow felt different. Not herself.

She shuffled over to the cauldron and peered inside. Hmmm, breakfast, she thought. Lizard's tongue, silver sharks' teeth, boiled grass. The usual. Only, for the first time that she could remember it didn't seem very appealing.

'Strange,' she said. 'Maybe it needs some extra flavour.' She pulled down a bottle marked Deep Sea Dungeon Salt, sprinkled some in the cauldron, and stirred it three times counter-clockwise with the wizened leg of a vulture. Then she dipped her nose in and smelt it. Yuck! She reeled back from the edge of the large kettle and nearly retched. It made her stomach turn. Shuddering, she tipped the contents of the cauldron down the drain.

'Deadly me,' she said, and continuing to mutter to herself she walked over to her table and sat down. Perhaps she had witch flu. Her friend, Agara, had come down with a bad case of it last week and had not eaten anything but rats' tails for three days.

She reached over and uncovered her crystal ball. Rubbing her hands to warm them up, she placed them both at the top of the globe and began to intone:

'Rage, rage, sick ones, dead ones, crystal ball come hear my voice. All the things that should not be, make them oh so clear to me.'

She looked into the crystal ball, waiting for the red mist to swirl and form into a face. Nothing.

'Oh my badness,' she said. 'Perhaps it's broken.' She checked its surface for any sign of a crack, but it was glassy and smooth.

She heard a miaow, and turned to see her familiar, the black cat called Nexus, pad its way into the cave.

'Here, furry one,' she said, holding out her gnarled hand. Nexus leapt up into her lap and curled itself around. She smiled her toothless smile, but then something started to tickle the inside of her nose. What was it?

'Ahhh chooo!' she cried. Nexus looked up at her with her yellow eyes. She sneezed again, and again.

'Shoo!' she said, throwing the cat onto the floor. Nexus wagged her tail in an angry motion and padded away. She stopped at the mouth of the cave, gave the witch one more baleful look, and then disappeared.

What next? Helva thought. Sighing, she waddled over to the cupboard and picked up her broomstick. Without even thinking she started to sweep up around the place, moving the layers of grime and cobwebs into a pile.

Hang on, what was she doing? Broomsticks were for flying on, not for cleaning with. She dropped the broomstick and sat down in a hurry. All of a sudden she was finding it difficult to breathe.

Something was very wrong. She was Helva, the ancient witch of the Brass Mountain, the most eerie of the Hideous Hags, the sinister sorceress! Yet she was behaving like a normal old woman. The most pathetic thing of all – a mortal!

She began to pace back and forth. She opened up her Book of Magick and looked at the first spell, one of her old favourites, Curse Thy Neighbour.

'If your neighbour should annoy you,' she read, 'this spell puts white warts on his nose. Only follow this ritual ...' and then she stopped. What was that next word? Scrolling down the page she tried to read the text, but the language was strange, as if written in a monkey's hand.

'Oh dearie me!' she said. 'What?' She thought in a panic. That was not what a witch said! Witches cursed, they used evil expressions.

She dropped to the floor and began to cry, her salty tears running down her whiskered cheeks. A mortal, she had turned into a weak little human! What would she do without her magic? And what would the other witches say when they found out?

Suddenly she remembered – tonight was the Woeful Wizardry celebration – and she was hosting it! Sinister Sylvia and Mocking Mary would be flying in under cover of the clouds. She began to tremble. She was supposed to conduct the Black Magick ritual. If those two found out they would turn her into a shaggy goat or a small bag of pebbles.

'Foulness, Hideous Helva,' came a voice from the entrance to the cave, and before she could gather herself, in walked Sinister Sylvia, holding her black cane in front of her.

'Hi,' she said, at a loss for words.

Sinister Sylvia leaned on the cane and scratched at her left eye. She was ugly to look at – a thin old woman in a red and grey felt cloak, with sores all over her face and one withered arm. 'So, Helva,' she croaked, 'I've been looking forward to this - the animals we kill, the tasty blood sodas, the macabre atmosphere.' Sylvia looked around the cave. 'So where are the snacks?'

'Umm,' said Helva. She had nothing to offer her, none of the usual treats that were ordinarily prepared – Jellied Bad Eels, Baked Mistakes, Foul Sheep Brains. 'You've caught me a little short today. Give me a moment.' She edged towards the back of the cave.

Sinister Sylvia sniffed meanly. 'I had better get to eat something before Mocking Mary arrives. She always hogs it all, the greedy guts.'

As if she had been summoned by Sylvia's words, Mocking Mary arrived that moment, flying right into the cave, her broomstick aquiver. She hovered there a moment, sneering. 'I see the place is still a dump,' she purred, 'just like you, Hopeless Helva.' Throwing her head back in a laugh she inched off her stick and onto the ground. 'Ahh - Sorry Sylvia!' she uttered, staring just above Sylvia's head.

'It's Sinister Sylvia,' hissed the other witch, walking unevenly towards her, 'You know my name.'

Mary pursed her lips and backed off a step. She lifted up the gold brocade edge of her dress and spun around. 'I cast a pretty-me spell this morning,' she said, peeking over her shoulder at them.

Helva stared at her. She certainly was beautiful – a lithe figure, with a long neck like a swan and dark eyelashes framing her silvery blue eyes.

Sylvia snorted and found a rock to sit on. 'Let's get on with it,' she said. 'I'm due to curse a whole village later on.' She grinned a jagged smile. 'The mortals there kept me up with their singing and working. I'm going to turn them all into snails.'

Mocking Mary put her hands on her hips. 'Snails,' she said, 'are soft, slimy things. They leave goo wherever they are. You should feel right at home with them.'

'Right, that's it,' said Sinister Sylvia, grabbing at her cane, 'I'm going to roast your insides.'

For a moment their eyes flashed dangerously, the young beautiful witch pouting while the wizened old witch showed her teeth, and Helva thought they might come to blows. Mary lowered her face and leaned against a wall. 'Sylvia's right,' said Mary. 'Let's get on with it. I'm going to cast one of my favourite curses on the way home, Nil Esteemius. It'll make all the young men living near me feel terrible about themselves. Ha!'

'So, girls,' said Helva brightly. 'Thank goodness you've calmed down. I always find it's best to take a deep breath when I get angry, and sometimes I even count to ten. Then the whole world seems like a better place, and we can all be friends again.'

The two witches looked at Helva strangely.

'I guess,' mumbled Sinister Sylvia. She looked away.

'Umm,' said Mocking Mary. She looked confused.

Helva herself was confused. What was she saying? The world a better place?

'Who's up for a drink?' she asked. Both witches put up their hands. Then she remembered she had tipped the cauldron out.

'I'll have a small rat's blood soda,' said Sylvia. 'And Mary will have what she always has, liquefied lizard guts.' Mary nodded and licked her lips.

Helva paused. Without magic she couldn't summon the creatures to make them. 'How about something different?' she said hopefully. There was silence. 'A nice cup of tea?' More silence followed.

Mocking Mary looked down her nose at her. 'Helva, you are such a failed wench. Come on, then, let's start.' She began to draw a circle in the sand with the point of her boot around Sylvia and herself.

Sinister Sylvia cackled. 'My favourite part!' she said. 'The Black Magick Ritual. Curse the mortals. Their birds will fly backwards. Their crops will fail. Their water will taste like vinegar. Curse the mortals.' She began to place dead flies around the circle.

'Curse the mortals,' intoned Mary dreamily. 'Their children will run away from them. Their roofs will spring leaks. Their courage will fail them. Curse the mortals!' She pulled at her silver necklace and stood in the centre of the circle.

Helva hesitated. If she stepped into the circle they'd discover straightaway she had no magic.

'Girls, girls, show some pride in your work,' she said quickly. 'Let's do this ritual properly. That circle doesn't look quite round enough to me.' She walked over and scrubbed it out with her shoe. 'And these flies – I'm sure we can do better than that.' She picked them up and dropped them in a box behind her. 'I must have some dragonflies in my cupboard somewhere. Both of you rest a minute.'

The two witches stopped what they were doing.

'Pride in our work?' said Sylvia. 'Ha.' But she sat down.

'The circle not round enough?' said Mary, 'I think it's just that lousy eye of yours.' But she leaned against a wall.

Helva sighed in relief. 'So,' she said. 'Sylvia, how are things? Are you happy?' She put her hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

Sylvia looked at her. 'What?' she said unsteadily. 'Happy? What are you talking about?' She stroked the rabbit skull hung around her waist and narrowed her eyes.

Before she could stop herself Helva was talking again. 'And Mary, is there anyone special in your life?'

Mary stood straight as a pin. 'Special?' she said. 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' She began to prance back and forth, clutching at her skirt.

Helva went pale and closed her mouth tight. She began to edge towards the entrance to the cave.

It was too late. Sinister Sylvia was now blocking her way. 'Helva,' she said. 'Something's not right. No snacks, no ritual, and where is your cat?'

Mocking Mary sidled up to her and spoke in her ear. 'You seem different. You're usually so nasty.'

'Summon Nexus,' croaked Sylvia.

'Join with us in the Black Magick ritual,' hissed Mary.

'Now girls,' pleaded Helva, putting up her hands. But they were having none of it.

Sylvia pulled out her wand, a dry old wolf leg bone. 'I think we should fry her,' she said. Mary nodded.

Helva swallowed dryly, and decided to try the only thing left to her.

'Sylvia,' she said, 'I know your skin's not in the best condition, and that you're old and sore, and that people call you a hag and run away when they see you. I know why you curse them with your evil spells. But underneath it all did you know you have a wonderful personality?'

'What?' said Sylvia, lowering her wand.

'Yes, yes,' said Helva. 'You're enthusiastic and quite determined, and you could make lots of friends. In a way, you're not sinister at all.'

Sylvia almost went cross-eyed at this, and sat straight down on the ground. She fumbled with her hat and her eyes misted over.

'And Mary,' Helva continued, looking over at the shapely witch in her golden skirt, 'I know you think that all the mortals are jealous of your beauty and power, and you punish them for it with your hexes, but underneath it all, aren't you a little lonely?'

'How dare you!' said Mary. 'I ... I ...'

'Yes,' said Helva breathlessly, 'I could really see you with someone tall and handsome, someone you wouldn't have to insult, someone who loved you.'

Mary sunk to the ground with her skirt all a flutter around her. She unbuckled and buckled her shoes with her head lowered, at a complete loss.

In fact both witches were stunned. No one had ever said such things to them before. For a minute no one moved, and then Sylvia got off her haunches and looked at Helva.

'You're right,' Sylvia said. 'You know me better than anyone. You're going to become my first best friend.'

Mary rose. 'Helva's my best friend,' she said. 'She has given me hope.'

Sinister Sylvia leaned on her cane and raised her lip. 'I said she was my best friend. Back off before I hurt you.'

Mocking Mary laughed. 'You hurt me, crone? Why, you're nothing but a dried out coconut husk.'

'Girls, girls, why can't we just be nice to each other?' Helva implored, but it was too late. Both witches raised their wands at each other.

'Simianus initatum!' cried Sylvia, her wizened arm shaking. She snarled.

'Amphibiratum morphus!' screeched Mary.

There were two puffs of smoke, and when it cleared, Helva found herself standing before a small green frog and an ape.

'Oh dear,' she said. 'My two best friends, and now look at you.' The ape scratched at its behind while the frog bounced on its hind legs.

'What shall we do now?' she asked them. The ape groaned and the frog croaked.

She scooped them both up, the ape around her shoulders and the frog cupped in her hand, and she walked out of the cave and placed them gently in the grass. The moon was fading, and a new day was beginning to dawn. She walked back to her cave, and called out to them, "I guess in the end we've just grown apart."

Then she went inside. She had some sweeping to do.
Making a Splash

When Adam's parents put a pool in the backyard – and not just any pool, but an in-ground, ten-metre, saltwater pool in the shape of a kidney bean – and Adam decided to have a big pool party to celebrate, the first person not to be invited was the stupid girl who lived next door, Nessa.

On the morning of the party he made a point of putting a sign in the front yard facing her window saying: POOL PARTY FOR THE COOLEST PEOPLE – LOSERS NOT INVITED! His mother noticed it and made him pull it down, but he was sure Nessa had seen it.

All the kids from the suburb came, and it was just fantastic. Louie did mad flips off the end into the deep part, Suzie and Simon were seen kissing by the fence, there were underwater races, diving competitions and Marco Polo games. Kids were coming up to Adam and shaking his hand, telling him he had 'such an excellent pool' and that they thought he was a really good swimmer. There was shouting, screaming, water fights, it went on all day. Every so often Adam would peek over the fence and once or twice he noticed Nessa standing at her window looking wistfully at the party. He'd wave to her and do a backwards somersault into the pool.

When the party ended and everyone started to move off home, Adam could be heard telling them all in a very loud voice that drifted over the fence they were all welcome back any time.

It quickly became a weekend ritual. Adam would put out the word around the suburb that there was going to be a mad pool party at his place, and kids would come by on bikes, scooters, roller blades, bringing pool ponies and bags of chips and sunglasses as big as their heads.

One day after school Adam was sunning himself on the deck next to the pool, just dipping his hand in to feel the chill of the water, when he heard what sounded like drilling from next door. Curious, he walked to the fence and put his head over. There were two men with jackhammers pounding away at rocks in the backyard. The earth had been dug up and heaped into piles. Nessa was standing wearing an Ipod watching them from the back door.

Now, normally Adam had a policy of never talking to Nessa, and he usually did his best not to even look at her, but he had a bad feeling somehow. He walked around the side passage into her backyard and stood next to her, staring at the workmen.

'What's going on?' he asked casually, as if he was talking about the weather.

Nessa glanced at him and just kept bopping her head up and down, listening to her music. He was forced to tap her on the shoulder. She turned and looked at him in surprise, and slowly she took her headphones off and smiled.

'Hey,' she said.

'What are they doing?' he asked, pointing at the scene of activity in front of them.

'Them?' she said. 'Oh, they're putting in a pool.'

'A pool?' Adam sneered. 'What, like mine?'

Nessa laughed. 'Oh no, bigger than yours. Deeper, longer, with pebblecrete on the bottom, and diving boards.'

Adam gulped. It felt like all the air had left his body. He mumbled something and started to walk back to his house.

Nessa laughed some more. 'Did I mention we're putting in a slippery dip as well, on wheels, so you can place it anywhere around the edge of the pool? There'll also be umbrellas on our deck. Made in Mexico.'

When it was finished Adam noticed a sign in the front yard of Nessa's house. It said: POPULAR POOL PARTY THIS SATURDAY! TRY THE BEST, FORGET THE REST! Underneath the word REST it had an arrow pointing at Adam's house and a picture of a face with its tongue out.

That weekend Adam waited in his pool for all the kids to arrive. He had sunscreen, jellybeans and soft drink arranged on the tables, and he had a mad new swimming game planned in which you swam through underwater silver rings. He heard the sounds of laughter and the scrape of bikes and scooters skidding and he leapt out excited.

He raced to his pool gate but no one was there. Then he heard Nessa scream 'Hi everyone!' and then a splash as someone hit the water, and his heart sank. He did his best not to look, but eventually he popped his head over the fence and saw twenty or so of them having a wonderful time. They were jumping into the deep end in pairs, holding hands; they were painting funny faces on their stomachs in zinc cream; they were rolling and swimming and diving and screaming, and in the midst of it all, with the biggest smile on her face, was Nessa. She spotted him and he ducked down but not before she had given him a wave.

The next couple of weeks were torture for him. Whenever he went for a swim in his pool Nessa would take her phone out into the backyard, talking really loudly about how much fun her pool party was, about how much better her pool was than some people's, and about how much she loved all of her friends.

Adam had to retaliate. He put out the word that he was holding a pool party, only it was going to be different. There was going to be a flying fox from the roof of the house into the deep end of the pool. There was going to be a crazy competition where you rode your scooters on the bottom of the pool. There were going to be coloured lights, mystery prizes (bags of chocolate coins) and he might even let some of his goldfish loose in the water, just to see what they would do.

The kids of the suburb couldn't believe it. They returned in hordes. They flew down the wire into the deep end. One kid nearly broke his wrist, it was mad! They scootered up and down in the pool, leaving the crowd laughing and watching in hysterics. He had red, yellow and green cellophane over the lights, it was like a disco! The goldfish only swam up and down a little before they were sucked into the filter, but even that made everyone cheer. Kids shook his hand and slapped him on the back, telling him they were coming back for sure, that this was definitely the best pool party ever. All through it he could see Nessa spying from her window. Once or twice she even seemed to be writing something down on a notepad.

He soon found out what she had planned. Nessa put out the word that for her next party she was hiring a pop band to play in the backyard while everyone swam – a real pop band! She would have butterfly cakes, swimming costumes with wings, capes, and superhero emblems. There was going to be a kissing competition – underwater! She had persuaded her father to put their rowboat into the pool. When kids told Adam about it their hands trembled with anticipation and their mouths fell open.

When she held her party Adam begged his parents to take him away somewhere, but they had work around the house to do, so Adam was stuck in his backyard listening to the screams of pleasure from next door. Once or twice it actually sounded like someone had fainted from too much fun. He would hear kids come into her backyard and stand there crying for a full minute or two because they thought they had died and gone to heaven. At the end of the day he couldn't stand to hear all the kissing and hugging, the kids struggling for words to describe how awesome it all was.

Adam was beginning to feel demoralised, but somehow he knew he could come up with something even better to get the kids back. Still not sure what to do, he consulted Billy, a blonde ten-year-old who had been to every pool party so far, and asked him what he liked doing the most.

'Well,' said Billy, scratching his ears and giving it some serious thought, 'lately I've been swimming a lot.'

'Uh-huhh,' said Adam.

'But that's getting a bit old,' said Billy. 'Anyway, have you heard about what Hugh is organising? Apparently his dad just put a go-kart track in his backyard – you know how big it is? He has these mad go-karts with real engines. He has helmets and everything.'

Adam looked at his feet. He didn't know what to say.

Billy went on. 'I heard he's hiring a jumping castle so that you have something else to do when you're waiting for a go. There's going to be a fairy floss machine. I even heard there's going to be a clown.'

Adam walked away. He didn't want to hear any more.

Life became very, very quiet at Adam's house. The only thing you could hear was the sound of the pool filter gurgling, and occasionally Adam diving in and out by himself.

Over at Nessa's house there was also a deathly silence. She wandered in and out of rooms, and two or three times she was sure she heard the phone ring, but when she went to check it there were no messages from her friends.

Things continued this way. Adam would try to play Marco Polo but discovered very quickly it was impossible to play by himself. Nessa would slide down the slippery dip into the pool, but without anyone to catch her at the end it just didn't seem the same.

One Sunday Adam was so bored that before he knew what he was doing he was knocking at Nessa's door. After a minute or so she arrived, wearing her Ipod. Somehow she didn't seem surprised to see him. She took off her headphones and invited him in. They made milkshakes, put on a movie and sat on the couch not even looking at each other. It was really strange.

Things got even stranger. Adam's arm brushed against Nessa's, and without even thinking they began to hold hands. Then Nessa said something, Adam couldn't hear her, and when he turned to ask her to repeat herself somehow their faces met and they were kissing. When the movie finished they were still kissing.

At school they heard from other kids about how amazing Hugh's go-kart party was - about the mad games and races and all the sweets – and they just shrugged their shoulders and smiled at each other. Somehow it didn't seem to matter so much any more.
The Astronomical Refractor

Lisa's hands were trembling. Watched eagerly by her family, she took a deep breath and opened her final birthday present. As the paper came off the corners, bit by bit, she knew it was okay, they had gotten her what she wanted. There it stood before her in its cardboard box, ready to be assembled.

Lisa looked at the picture on the outside of the box. There was a girl with a wide smile pointing a telescope at the sky, and up above her was a multitude of stars. The label below the picture grandly announced the telescope had a "Permanently mounted StarPointer." Lisa didn't know what that meant, but she liked the sound of it. Perhaps the best thing about it was the telescope was its name - the Astronomical Refractor.

Peter, her brother, helped her put it together, at least, he started to, until they got to a hard bit, the two of them started bickering and her father had to step in and take over. Lisa stood looking over her father's shoulder, gripping his neck tightly as he read the instructions. He fiddled with the silver and black parts in their separate little plastic bags and muttered to himself. She was almost shaking with anticipation and her stomach was beginning to feel sore from waiting, but finally her father made a delicate twist on the last part, grunted, and there it stood before her fully assembled - the Astronomical Refractor.

It was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Its base was a tripod made up of silver, tubular legs that extended elegantly up and down. Its fulcrum was operated by a convenient black handle and swung smoothly and easily. The shaft of the telescope itself, however, was what caught your eye. Long, sleek and gun metal-grey in colour, it looked positively space-age.

Peter looked at it for a moment and then pulled out his game-boy and began playing. 'Let me know if you spot any aliens,' he sniggered. He made a strange beeping sound, imitating what he thought was the sound of an Martian spaceship landing, and wandered off clutching his game.

Lisa picked it up – it wasn't as heavy as you'd expect – and carried it to her bedroom. She had cleared some room next to the window earlier that day, just in case her family happened to get her the telescope. She put it down, pointed it straight out the window and turned off the lights in her room. She knew the one thing you did not want when you were using a telescope at night was light pollution. The darker it was, the more clearly you could see stars and the moon.

How strange, she thought, that there was such a thing as light pollution. Of course most people didn't notice it. They were bothered by other types of pollution – when the smog over the city grew grey and thick, or when the local river was discoloured by industrial waste – but the fact that there were loads of lights on everywhere, that it never grew absolutely pitch black at night, just didn't register with them.

Astronomers noticed it, of course. That's what she was, or was about to become - an astronomer. She sighed contentedly. This was the best birthday present she had ever received.

Sitting comfortably on a cushion, she put her eye to the Astronomical Refractor. The first thing she saw was a star, right at the top edge of her scope. It seemed to be pulsing with a glow of fiery energy in the blackness of the sky. She blinked and slowly swung the scope this way and that in an easy motion until the stars became streaks of light across her view. This was fun, but she needed to know what to look for.

She pulled away from the telescope and surfed the internet for information. There was a website listing the constellations visible from the Southern Hemisphere. Some of them had strange names she didn't quite know how to pronounce – Delphinus, Andromeda. Maybe she should look first for one she already knew - the Southern Cross. Surely she could find that. Apparently the cross would be lying on its side, as if it had grown tired and lain down to sleep on the soft bed of the night sky.

To find the Southern Cross you first had to find the Pointers. So she put her eye back to the scope and began to look for them – Beta Centauri and Alpha Centauri – two bright stars that were easy, according to the website, to spot.

But as she swung the telescope around she saw something extraordinary – the clear shape of a silver disc, and it was moving up and down in a strange fashion. Was it what she thought it was? A flying saucer? Unbelievable! Her heart began to beat fast. The silver disc turned and flew through the inky blackness.

She heard a sound – a strange beeping – what was it? She tore herself away from the telescope and poked her head out the window, staring all around. Standing in the yard outside her bedroom was her brother, Peter. He was holding a long piece of bamboo with a black string tied to one end, and at the end of that string was fixed a small silver dish. He was waving it back and forth across the face of the window and making a high-pitched beeping. In fact he was so engrossed in his task he didn't notice his sister was staring straight at him.

'Peter!' she screamed. At the sound of her voice he dropped the bamboo and scuttled off into the darkness of the backyard, yelping in delight.

What a nuisance! Why was he trying to spoil her fun? She ran her hands through her hair in frustration and went out to her parents to complain. She found her mother on the phone, and her father was cleaning out the car in the garage, so she decided to confront Peter herself.

Walking into his room Lisa found him sitting at his computer playing a game. He was still puffing, having run straight back from the yard. There was a roar as he piloted a spacecraft through a maze of stars, tracking a red and silver rocket. Every so often he would grunt and fire his weapons.

'Why are you such a twit?' she asked.

Peter didn't turn to her, only mumbling over his shoulder, 'Bored already?'

'No! What?' she said in exasperation.

'With the telescope.' He paused the game and swivelled in his chair to face her, grinning. 'I'm not surprised. It'd be nice if there was exciting stuff out there, you know, aliens, space battles ...' He motioned to the computer screen. 'But let's face it, all there really is, is a bunch of stupid, moronic stars.'

'You're the moron,' she shot back, but he had turned around to his game now and was intent on killing the aliens that attempted to elude him.

Wandering to her room, her arms swinging listlessly by her sides. She bit her lip in annoyance and sat down again. Holding the telescope she peered out into the night. The stars, even with magnification, seemed a long way off. They all looked the same – little pin pricks of white light. Maybe her brother had a point. Why bother looking at stars? All they did was sit there, the same every night.

Sighing, the telescope dropped from her grip. She needed a drink of water. On the way to the kitchen she decided she would stop for a minute and see if there was anything on TV. She flopped into the couch and switched it on.

From channel to channel she skipped, over sport and cartoons, and then suddenly she saw a ghostly image – black and white – of an astronaut. She leaned in closer and turned up the volume. The sound was crackly, as if his voice was coming from down a long, broken tunnel, but she could just make the words out.

'That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.' He was standing on the surface of the moon next to the ladder of a spacecraft wobbling slightly from side to side as if he was floating underwater. The scene shifted to a bunch of men watching with glee on their faces, and then back to the moon as two astronauts planted a flag.

She had heard about this - the first moon landing, in 1969. The whole world had stopped to watch it on their TVs, and now here was she, just as fascinated as they must have been forty years ago. The documentary detailed all that humankind had learnt about the moon. Named Luna by the Romans, Artemis by the Greeks, modern science had mapped and sampled its cratered highlands, its lava plains and its mysterious dark spots.

What a strange globe the moon was! With no atmosphere there was no rain, no wind, no weather at all. It must be a silent, spooky place. She began to daydream about standing on its white, chalky surface.

The voices from the TV caught her attention again.

'The whole solar system is within our grasp. We have sent probes to photograph the cloud belts of Jupiter, the Galilean moons and the rings of Saturn. We have even sent an unmanned spacecraft to the red planet – the Mars Rover! Watch the amazing footage it has beamed back to us on Earth of the surface of Mars.'

Lisa held her breath as she watched vast plains of reddy soil broken by rocks, gentle craters and a strange greyish horizon - photo after photo of an alien planet. When the documentary finished she could feel herself rising off the couch, as if she was in zero gravity, and floating back to her room.

She picked up the Astronomical Refractor gently, reverentially, and focused it on the heavens. It was incredible. The solar system began to open itself up to her. She could look all night ... but she had to share it with someone.

'Peter!' she called out loudly. 'Come quickly, there's something happening in space!'

Peter arrived at her door, slouching with his hands in his pockets. 'I was busy playing my game,' he said. 'What did you say?'

'Quick, there's something happening in space!' she repeated.

He was about to turn and leave but something about the tone of her voice and the gleam of her eyes snared him.

'Huh,' he said, and sidled up to her. She handed him the telescope and he put his eye to it. Not seeing any gun battles, any explosions, any alien fighters, he put it down, shaking his head wearily, and started to rise.

'What are you talking about? There's nothing happening,' he said, 'just a bunch of stars.'

'Wait,' she said softly, putting her hand on his arm and guiding him back to the Astronomical Refractor. 'Look again.'

He put it once more to his eye, and as she began to whisper in his ear about shooting stars, solar wind, interplanetary dust, comets and asteroids, about constellations and the wonders of the Moon, inch by inch he became caught, just like his sister, by the gravitational pull of the universe.
Backyard Cricket Fanatic

Simon pulled his baggy green cap over his eyes, hitched his trousers up, and heard the scream of a thousand fans. He smiled, thanked them, and then pushed his cap back up to see his fans – a bunch of cockatoos – take wing and rise from the wattle tree next to the back fence.

Simon and his sister Melissa were what you might call backyard cricket fanatics. They would play in their long, leafy yard for hours and hours and hours. They would take turns batting and bowling, jumping up in the air and shouting 'Howzat!' They would add commentary in the style of the radio and stand with their hands on their hips watching the ball sail over their heads.

The only time they didn't enjoy backyard cricket quite so much, the only time it became really annoying, the only time, in fact, they wished instead they were inside with their computer games, was when their father decided he would play with them.

Their father was enormous, and wielded the willow at their bowling like he was swatting at flies. When he came out to bat they were doomed to watch him smash the ball into the far corners of the backyard.

It was the height of summer – a forty-degree day – and they were just setting up to play. Simon hammered the stumps into the ground, which was hard, dusty and dried out, while Melissa rolled her arm over to practise her slow ball. They heard the slam of the back door and out walked their father, Big Kev. They both sighed.

'Hey kids,' drawled Big Kev. He pulled his singlet up and scratched at his stomach, which was large and hairy. 'Your mother's gone into town. Little bit of shopping. Thought I might come out and spend some time with you. Whatcha doing?'

Simon held up the bat. What did he think they were doing, digging for treasure?

Big Kev smiled. 'Excellent,' he said. He walked over and grabbed the bat from Simon. It was well understood that their father pretty much only ever batted. Occasionally he might bowl to you if you were lucky, but he certainly never, ever fielded. It was always left to the two children to chase the ball, rolling under bushes and hobbling over the stony bits at the back to retrieve it.

Big Kev settled into his batting stance and beckoned at his son to bowl. Simon gamely ran up and pitched the ball up only to watch his father lean back and casually hit it along the ground to the back fence.

'Four,' said Big Kev grandly. 'Nice way to start your innings, don't you think?'

Melissa nodded quietly and ran down to get the ball. It was so hot there were heat shimmers coming off the ground, and it was only after squinting that she was able to make the ball out where it lay beneath a pile of sawn-off branches.

Simon tried a longer run-off, and while sprinting he imagined the unimaginable – the ball flying past his father's bat and knocking over middle stump. Instead Big Kev stepped forward and seemed to lean on the ball, which flew past Simon's outstretched hand, and yet again Melissa had to chase it and throw it back. Simon wiped the sweat from his forehead, which had begun to trickle into his eyes, making it difficult to see, and walked back to his mark. He could hear his father laughing to himself, settling in for a long innings.

'I'll show him,' thought Simon. 'I'll bowl him a bouncer.' For those who do not know, a bouncer is a horrible ball, a short ball that ideally bounces and flies through around the height of the batsman's eyes, scaring him and cheering the bowler up no end. Simon stretched his back and thumped the ball into the ground. The ball came through around waist height and Big Kev dispatched it to the side fence with such force it ricocheted off a paling and nearly hit Melissa in the shinbone.

At the end of his over Simon threw the ball to Melissa with a wince. He felt like he was trying to defeat an army equipped only with a pillow.

Melissa smiled. She had been practising her spin bowling for a week now, and she was quietly confident she could get a ball to turn past her father's bat and into the stumps. She sauntered up to the crease and let one fly. Her father jumped down the wicket and hit the ball so high it was almost lost to sight. Simon attempted to catch it but he was too short and the ball too tall.

'C'mon mate,' Big Kev said. 'Put some effort into it!'

Simon pretended not to hear him. He stopped for a moment and had a drink of water. It was getting really hot, so hot the trees were drooping, so hot he could hear the inside of his mind whispering. What was it saying? It's really hot!

Melissa kept her spin bowling up for the rest of the over, her father kept smashing the ball all over the backyard, and Simon kept retrieving the ball though he felt like crying.

By midday Big Kev was still batting, the temperature was scorching, and Simon and Melissa were so hot and tired they felt like they were going to melt into puddles of skin and sweat.

Then things got hotter. A lot hotter.

Simon was the first to notice. He was running down to the back fence when he spotted something orange a couple of houses back. Thinking at first it was his Frisbee, which had been lost days ago, he started to climb to get a better look, when he noticed it was moving. It wasn't a Frisbee, it was a flame! There was a small fire burning.

'Dad,' he cried out. 'I can see a fire in Mr Wilcox's yard!'

Big Kev leaned on his bat and wheezed. 'He must be burning off. Don't worry about it. Come and bowl to me, I'm on a roll.'

A little later Melissa ran to get the ball, and now it was her turn to call out to her father.

'Dad,' she yelled. 'I think there's a fire at Mrs Wilmont's as well.'

Big Kev put his bat down and sauntered over to see. For a moment the game stopped and they all walked to the back fence and looked out. There were small spot fires igniting in the neighbours' yards, in the back paddock, and if they focused they could see fire on the mountain range, darting up the cliffs and feeding on the scrub. There was smoke everywhere, thick grey plumes that made them cough and feel dizzy.

'Strewth,' said Big Kev. 'It's a bushfire.' He used his singlet to wipe the sweat from his face, which was red and puffy. Simon and Melissa stood there waiting for instructions. Should they run to the house or run straight to the car? Simon started to pull the stumps out of the ground.

'What are you doing?' asked Big Kev, walking forward. 'Game's not over yet. I'm only sixty-eight runs. I want to make a hundred.' He picked up the ball, which had grown warm in its leather casing, and threw it to Melissa.

'But,' started Simon, only he knew it was no use. His father had that look in his eyes – the look of determination, slightly tinged with craziness – that he always got when he was nearing a century.

The game resumed. By now there was the sound of sirens as fire trucks approached the area, and as Simon leant down to pick up the ball he peeked through a hole in the fence, where he saw the neighbours rushing out onto the street carrying photo albums.

Grey fumes rose from the ground – the smoke was so thick it was hard to see. Simon coughed and threw the ball to where he thought Melissa was. He heard Melissa yelp as it landed on her feet. Now the haze was so bad Simon was relying on sound alone. He heard the thwack as the bat hit the ball and his father called out where he had smashed it: 'Four runs, back left corner', 'Six runs, it fell out of the tree!' The game continued as his father hit shot after shot.

'Ninety not out!' Big Kev yelled, stopping only to wheeze and cough. 'Ten runs to go. Come on, kids, give it your best now.'

Simon stepped up to bowl and saw through the smoke a figure with a bearded, ashen face leaning over the fence. It was Commander Collins, head of the local volunteer fire brigade. 'Get out of there, you idiots!' Collins yelled. 'You're surrounded by fire. You'll fry any minute!'

Simon turned to his father. Big Kev smeared the ash from his eyes and shook his head. The only word he said was, 'Bowl.'

Simon held the hot ball between his fingers and somehow flung it down the pitch. His father slogged the ball and it flew to the fence for four. Melissa dodged the cinders that flew through the air, and picked it up from where it lay. As she ran back to Simon she was almost hit by something black falling from the sky. It was a dead magpie, burned to a crisp.

Commander Collins waved his hands in the air. 'You're crazy!' he screamed. He turned around and gave a signal up above his head. 'We're sending in Berta!' Berta was the local water helicopter, a huge chopper which carried in a tank fixed to its bottom a reservoir of water to douse bushfires.

Big Kev waved back, smiling, his teeth the only sign of white on his soot-blackened face, and got into position, his bat wavering menacingly in the air. Simon picked up the ball by the stitches and felt a gust of wind as the helicopter hovered in the air above them. The downblast caused the ash and the cinders to fly in mad patterns, kaleidoscopic streaks of grey, black and red.

'There's something wrong,' yelled Collins. 'The water tank isn't opening.'

'Six runs to go,' yelled Big Kev. 'Only six more runs to my century!'

Simon ran in to bowl, coughing and veering, tearing in like he never had before, and finally, finally he got his bouncer right. It landed halfway up the pitch and bounced sharply up at his father's eyes.

Big Kev hardly saw it coming, but somehow instinct took over, and he hit it with the full face of the bat and it flew high into the air. High through the force of the downblast from the helicopter's wings it flew, and then there was a large bang as it hit the tank, and then a ripping sound, and then a gush and a hiss as the tank tore open and water flooded out. Down the water came, down onto the backyard, onto Simon and Melissa, onto Big Kev and the stumps and the whole house. The fire, extinguished now, turned to steam.

'Six!' yelled Big Kev.

The helicopter wobbled slightly in the air from the impact and then, its water dumped and mission done, it rose again and flew off to the mountains. Commander Collins leaned over the fence staring at the three of them, blackened and drenched, and groaned. 'You're nuts.' Then he too disappeared.

Simon sat down on the ground, exhausted, his sister slumped next to him. His shirt had half burnt off and his fingers were singed. His feet were aching and he felt his whole body trembling. Melissa looked even worse, with soot marks all over her arms and legs.

Big Kev, however, looked as pleased as punch. He began to run up and down the pitch waving his bat in the air. 'A century,' he was singing. 'One hundred not out.'

Then he finally came to rest and, leaning on his bat, smiled at his kids. 'How about we pop into the house, clean up and have a bit of lunch?' he suggested. 'And then this afternoon, we'll see if I can't push on to two hundred not out.'
Be-Happy Campaign

Alexa and Sarah were at the corner shop buying ice-blocks. Sarah was trying to choose between a Splice and a Paddlepop, and may have held the freezer door open a split second too long, because the shopkeeper got out of her chair and snarled, 'Just choose something and hurry!'

Sarah gulped and closed the freezer door. She grabbed Alexa's arm and the two of them shuffled quickly out of the shop. The woman behind the counter stared at them with menacing eyes all the way to the door.

When they were outside Sarah turned to Alexa and sighed. 'I don't get it. Why are adults so angry all the time?'

Alexa rolled her eyes. 'Totally. Remember Mr Gilantes?'

They had been walking along minding their own business when Mr Gilantes had rushed out of his house in his shorts and singlet and shouted at them that they were walking on his driveway, and he had just swept it, and they were messing it up. They had squealed and run all the way down the street.

In fact the more they thought about it the angrier adults as a species seemed to them. There was Abdul the bus driver who growled at the kids to sit down right now or he would stop the bus and make them walk to school. Then there was their teacher, Miss Cadderley, who went red in the face and screamed at the class to 'close your mouths quick smart!'

Sarah folded her arms, a sure sign she was serious. 'We need to do something about it.'

'Totally,' said Alexa. 'We need to cheer people up.'

'A campaign,' said Sarah, 'to spread happiness.'

There was a pause and a cloud rolled over the sun, casting shadows around them. Then there was a gust of wind, the cloud rolled on and the sun came out again.

The two of them looked at one another, grabbed each other's hands, and jumped up and down in the sunlight.

'A Be-Happy Campaign!' they squealed in unison.

There was not a moment to lose. When you have a plan as magnificent as that, a plan that will change humankind, there's no point sitting around twiddling your thumbs, you have to take action straight away.

They ran back to Sarah's house, rushed up to her mother and explained that they had a mission in life and it was to cheer everyone up, they had a name for it and everything. But Sarah's mum was halfway through the vacuuming and couldn't hear them above the noise; she only waved them away with a red face.

'See?' whispered Sarah as they crept to her room. 'Everyone, even my mum, needs our help.'

Almost overcome with the enormity and importance of what they were about to do, they sat on Sarah's bed.

'Where do we start?' asked Alexa.

'A sign!' said Sarah brightly. 'We'll make a beautiful sign telling people to be happy.'

'Yes,' agreed Alexa, swinging her feet back and forth, 'and we'll go from house to house and show them.'

It was so simple it was perfect. Half an hour later they had a large piece of white cardboard sticky-taped to a broom handle they had found in the garage and de-broomed ('Dad won't mind' said Sarah) and printed on it in different coloured textas for each letter (Sarah had a lot of textas) was the following message:

COME ON YOU PEOPLE CHEER UP!!

THE SUN IS SHINING AND LIFE IS GREAT

Brought to you by the Be-Happy Campaign

Alexa held it and paraded up and down in the bedroom. 'What do you think?' she asked.

'Brilliant,' said Sarah. 'I feel happier already.'

'Now all we have to do,' said Alexa, 'is take it to the streets.'

'Wait,' said Sarah. 'We're still missing something.' She rummaged around in her closet and came out holding an old wooden recorder. 'Music always cheers people up.'

Alexa smiled. Sarah gave a toot and smiled back. They both felt virtuous and successful already.

They decided to start off next door at Mr and Mrs Prufrock's house. Wandering up the path Alexa felt a little nervous and started to tug at her skirt but Sarah played a trill right into her ear and made her laugh.

They were still giggling when the front door opened. There stood Mrs Prufrock in her dressing gown.

'What's that noise?' she snapped. She looked down at the two girls. Alexa held up the sign and waved it at her.

'Hello,' she said. 'We're here to make things better.'

'Better?' rasped Mrs Prufrock. 'What for? What are you talking about? And what on earth are you holding up in my face? I haven't got my glasses on.' She turned back down the hallway and called out to her husband. 'Frank, Sarah from next door and her little friend are here. I think they're collecting money for something.'

Mr Prufrock shuffled down the hallway out of the gloom of the kitchen. 'No thankyou, girls, we only give to the Red Cross.'

'No,' started Alexa, 'we wanted to talk to you about ...' But she didn't have time to finish. Mrs Prufrock was closing the door, muttering something about having to hang the clothes on the line.

They stood there and looked at each other. It hadn't quite gone the way they had planned.

'Never mind,' said Sarah. 'Let's go to the next house.'

They walked next door to an old red brick house and knocked on the door. Alexa put her best smile on and Sarah stood on one foot playing Ba Ba Black Sheep, the only tune she knew all the way through. There was the sound of boots on tiles and then the door opened. A middle-aged man with a beard looked out at them suspiciously.

'What can I do for you?' he asked.

Alexa started her speech again. 'We're here to make things better.' She waved the sign.

The man leaned out and read the sign. He scoffed. 'Cheer up?' he said slowly. 'Are you kidding? Haven't you heard about global warming? Yes, the sun is shining, that's the problem! It's all getting too hot. The world is probably going to end in about ten years. And all of the rivers are polluted. Exactly what is there to be happy about?'

Alexa gulped. She didn't really know how to argue about science. Sarah crept behind her back and let out a low-pitched squeak. The man glared at them.

'Exactly!' he said. 'Just as I thought.' With that he turned and went back inside his house.

The two of them slunk back to the footpath. 'This is going to be more difficult than we thought,' said Alexa. Sarah gripped her instrument tightly and nodded.

They decided to skip a few houses and go right up to the corner, where there stood a double storey, blue house with three cars parked out the front. As they inched up the driveway they heard a dog barking furiously in the backyard, and the closer they got the louder he got, until they were right at the door and he sounded like he was barking himself insane. They heard shouting from inside and finally the dog went quiet. A minute later a woman dressed in a silver skirt, red blouse and pearls swung open the door.

'Hi,' started Alexa. She almost forgot what to say and so it came out like 'mumble, mumble, help!' The sign wavered by her side.

The woman put her hands on her hips. 'I beg your pardon,' she said in an icy voice.

Alexa took a deep breath and started again. 'We're here to help. We'd like you to cheer up. We think you should be happy, that is, we think everyone should be happy.'

The woman took a step forward and put her hands on her hips. 'How dare you,' she said.

'What?' said Alexa, feeling her arms go numb.

'How dare you tell me how to feel.' The woman's mouth was small and she began tapping her left foot up and down. 'I'm perfectly happy, really, really very happy already, thankyou very much, and I don't need you to tell me otherwise.' From the inside of the house there was the sound of the dog starting up his barking again, and she turned and screamed back, 'Stop that barking now before I put you in the kennel!' The barking stopped to be replaced by a whimper, and she faced the girls again. 'Well?'

The girls froze. Neither of them could think of anything to say, so Sarah bravely stepped forward and began piping and tooting. The woman's eyes widened for a moment at the sight of Sarah hopping up and down as she tried to find the right notes. The woman snorted, exhaled a nasty laugh and slammed the door shut.

The girls walked down the path back to the street, Alexa dragging the sign behind her.

'That woman was so rude to us!' she said. 'I don't believe it.'

Sarah pouted for a moment. 'Maybe we're doing something wrong.'

'No, it's not us, it's them!' said Alexa.

'Let's swap,' suggested Sarah. 'You're a better recorder player than I am anyway.'

So they walked up to the next house with Sarah in front waving the sign and Alexa playing Greensleeves, which sounded quite pretty. They got closer to the door and they could hear the sound of kids laughing and running up and down inside.

'That's a good sign,' said Sarah over her shoulder, and she knocked with a big smile on her face while Alexa continued to play.

The door opened almost immediately and out rushed three small children with big eyes followed by a young woman holding her purse. She stopped suddenly when she saw the two girls.

'Ummm,' she said uncertainly.

'Cheer up,' said Sarah in her nicest voice. 'Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up.' Her approach was more direct than Alexa's.

The woman looked first at Alexa, then at Sarah, then at Alexa again. 'Oh no,' she said. Her kids, having rushed out, were now creeping back into the house.

'What is it?' asked Sarah with concern.

The woman pushed her hair back tiredly and put the purse back in her pocket. 'When I heard Greensleeves I thought it was the Mr Whippy van. I was coming out to buy ice creams for ...' and here she looked back inside the house, ' ... them. You see, I'm babysitting them and they're driving me nuts.' She stopped for a moment and read the sign. She looked puzzled. 'Cheer up?' she said.

'Yes,' said Sarah, motioning to Alexa to stop playing. 'It's part of the Be-Happy Campaign.'

The woman sighed. 'Oh girls, that's very sweet of you,' and here she paused as she heard the sound of the children scuffling inside, 'but I had really better go.' She smoothed her hair down wearily and went back into the house.

Alexa and Sarah stood there for a moment and then, shoulders slumped, walked back out to the street. Alexa was fuming.

'That's it!' she said in a voice full of feeling. 'Stupid adults. I give up. They can feel however they want from now on.' She grabbed the sign from Sarah, put it down on the ground and pulled a red texta out of her pocket.

'What are you doing?' asked Sarah.

'You'll see,' said Alexa, concentrating on her writing. She crossed out the old message and wrote over it so that now the sign read:

FEEL AS MISERABLE AS YOU WANT

GO AHEAD, BE ANGRY ALL YOU LIKE,

WE WON'T TRY TO STOP YOU!!

Brought to you by the Be-Happy Campaign

Then before Sarah could stop her she started marching down the footpath holding the sign up high so that everyone could see it. It was then that strange things started to happen. A car passed by, slowed down, and a man poked his head out, read the sign, laughed and honked the horn while he gave them a big thumbs-up.

'What the?' said Alexa, but nothing was going to stop her and she marched ahead so fast Sarah had to skip along to catch up with her. She decided to play the recorder as she skipped, and with all the up and down the music coming out the end sounded like it was made by a pod of dolphins squeaking in the surf.

They continued on a way and a couple pushing a pram approached. The woman pointed out the sign to the man and they both laughed. 'How clever,' the man said, pushing up his sunglasses to get a better look. 'I get it, feel how you want, yeah!' His face broke into a huge grin. Then he gave the woman a hug and they both cheered the two girls.

Alexa shook her head in amazement. She couldn't quite understand. All the way home the same thing kept happening – adults would see the sign, stop and break into chuckles, giggles and smiles. The Be-Happy Campaign was working!

It took them ages to get home in the end, what with people stopping them, laughing, shaking their hands and taking photos of them holding the sign. Finally they slumped down in Sarah's front yard and amazed smiles stretched across their faces.

'I will never, ever, ever understand adults,' said Sarah as she shook her head with laughter.

Alexa laughed back and stuck the sign into the grass. 'Totally,' she said.
owen.still.lives@gmail.com.

It was a Thursday night when Alicia began to realise there was something seriously wrong with her older sister, Imogen. They were in the lounge room eating and watching TV when an ad for a new movie starring Ashton Kutcher came on. Imogen stopped mid-crunch and went into something like the position a cat takes when you open a can of cat food. That is, her whole body became stiff, her back arched and her eyes opened so wide it looked like she didn't have any eyelids. Every time Ashton Kutcher's hunky face smiled out of the screen she sighed and fluttered her hands up and down.

Alicia looked sideways at her and grabbed the packet of salt and vinegar chips out of her hands. Normally this was grounds for Imogen getting angry and pinching her or at least grabbing the bag back, but instead she didn't even seem to notice.

'Im?' said Alicia. 'Are you okay?'

Imogen didn't answer. She was in fact humming something to herself. It was the theme to the movie. Alicia lowered her eyes and then she saw that in the thick shag carpet next to her left leg Imogen was tracing out a love heart, over and over again.

Yes, Imogen was, without explanation or warning, mad for love, insane for romance, boy-crazy.

Over the next couple of weeks things only got worse. Imogen began sticking up pictures of boy bands on her pink bedroom walls. She would circle one of the band members, usually the one with sunglasses on, and declare that he was hot. She would write it in gold texta and put the word hot in capitals, just in case you didn't get the point. When they played with Alicia's dolls it was no longer Barbie and Cindy go explore the moon. No, now Imogen would insist that Cindy was in fact Jimmy, an unemployed DJ, and she would make Barbie and Jimmy moon around each other, hold hands and make out in the car. When finally she tried to conduct a wedding ceremony between them Alicia cracked it and pulled Cindy-Jimmy's head off and threw it out the window in disgust. 'This is boring!' she declared.

And it was, the whole love thing, it was tiresome, so tedious it made Alicia's skin prickle, so dull it made her eyes water, so insipid it made washing up look fascinating by comparison.

The thing was, Imogen never used to be boring. This was the sister who had taught her how to do backflips into the pool! Who had organised a 'Dance for Cancer' event at school and raised one hundred dollars! This was the sister who had claimed that when she grew up she was going to be either a Formula One driver, a lion tamer or a ski instructor, whichever paid more.

It was just not on. Alicia decided to confront her sister about it. She padded purposefully down the hallway and knocked on Imogen's door.

'What?' came the abrupt answer.

Alicia walked in and saw Imogen lying on her bed looking up at her wall and curling her hair in strands through her fingers. The boys in the posters were simpering pretty hard and Imogen was simpering back at them even more.

'Ughh,' said Alicia. 'What are you doing?'

Imogen closed her eyes and murmured, 'I'm just ... nothing.'

Alicia crossed her arms and began the interrogation. 'Are you in love or something?'

Imogen smiled like she had just drank a saucer full of cream. 'Yes, I guess so.'

'Who with?'

Imogen, without even opening her eyes, pointed up at one of the teen idols. He was wearing a red polka dot shirt and a really stupid little black hat.

'Him?' Alicia resisted the urge to laugh, and instead ground her toe into the floor.

'Mmm hmm.' Imogen fluttered her hands up and down as if she were a swan caught in a net.

'But you haven't met him!' protested Alicia. 'I mean, have you actually met him?'

Imogen rolled over and opened one eye suspiciously to glare at her sister. 'Have you?'

This seemed like a really idiotic question to Alicia so she decided to ignore it and press on. 'What does it feel like?'

Imogen smiled to herself as if she had just heard a joke told only to her and then her face changed and she said, a little sadly, 'It's so hard to explain.'

Alicia's arms became, if it were possible, even more crossed. 'Try.'

Imogen's head sunk into her pillow and she began in a breathy voice to intone her symptoms. 'My stomach feels fluttery ... a tingle up and down my arms. I feel a little sweaty.' She raised her head and looked at her sister. 'Come and feel my forehead.'

Alicia walked over and put her hand on Imogen's brow. It did indeed feel damp. 'Sounds like you've got the flu,' she muttered.

Imogen only laughed at her. 'Never mind, sweetie, you're too young to understand anyway.'

Alicia's face grew red as she clenched her fists and fled the room. That was it. Imogen never told her she was too young, and never, ever called her sweetie. The interrogation was over. The intervention was about to begin.

She retired to her room to plan how she was going to show Imogen that she was being trite and idiotic all at once. By the time she was done Imogen would never make gross moon-eyed faces or draw soppy love hearts or stare at pouting boys in pathetic headwear ever again. Well, at least that was the idea.

But how was she to do it? She knew she couldn't persuade her that love was a waste of time; it was too late for that. She went to bed unsure of what to do but certain that she had to do something.

The next day she visited her friend Natasha to seek advice.

'I'm on a mission,' was all she said when Natasha opened the door.

When Alicia told her about Imogen Natasha just rolled her eyes. She had seen the same thing happen to her cousins as well, and it was really aggravating.

They sat in Natasha's room stewing on the unfairness of it all. The room started to feel stuffy, and when Alicia went to open the window, she discovered that if you looked out and across the street, you were staring straight into Imogen's window. This gave her an idea.

She turned back to Natasha. 'Suppose we played a trick on her?' she suggested.

Natasha stopped slumping and sat up straight. She loved tricks. 'How do you mean?' she asked.

Alicia began to pace back and forth, swinging her arms up and down to get her brain working. 'We could put something in your room that Imogen could see through the window.' She could feel her brain warming up. 'A boy!'

Natasha's face fell. 'But we don't have a boy. I don't have any brothers, remember?'

'Not a real boy!' cried Alicia. 'A fake one, one we make ourselves. We'll make Imogen fall in love with him, and then ...'

Natasha was starting to catch on. 'And then we'll reveal him as a fake ...'

'... and she'll never fall in love again,' finished Alicia in a breathless voice. It was so perfect she felt a little scared.

But how to make one? They began to wander the house looking for things and came across a bag of old family clothes in the hallway cupboard. Then they found an old mop, half-eaten by the dog, sitting in the laundry. Next they raided Natasha's toy box, one she hadn't opened for years, and found some Halloween masks. There was a witch, a skull and a rabbit. It had to be the skull.

A couple of hours later, as if by magic, there was a boy sitting between the two of them in Natasha's room. He was of a simple but effective design – they had chosen a green jumper and blue jeans, white gloves and black boots, topped off by a floppy straw hat. They stuffed him with newspaper, fixed the skull mask round the head of the mop, used an old toilet roll for a neck and stuck it into the top of the jumper. Then they put the hat on top and sat him on a chair looking out the window. Just to make him a little more lifelike they left one of his hands resting on Natasha's computer keyboard.

Then they stepped back to view their creation. Alicia and Natasha breathed out slowly, completely satisfied.

'His name,' said Alicia firmly, 'is Owen.'

Now all that remained was to make Imogen fall in love with him. They bustled towards the door, turning back to look once more at Owen. His bald white teeth stood out from his shrunken bones and grinned weirdly at them as they left.

Two minutes later, having run across the road giggling, they were knocking on Imogen's door. Imogen was once more lying on her bed, staring at the wall. 'What do you two want?' she said tiredly.

Alicia tugged at Natasha's arm.

'Nothing,' replied Natasha. 'Only, a boarder has moved into my house. He's taken my room.'

Imogen shrugged. What did she care?

Alicia continued. 'His name is Owen. He's your age, actually. He's a bit lonely.'

They had pricked Imogen's curiosity now. She levered herself up and looked at them, pursing her lips. 'And?' she said.

'He's really nice,' said Natasha. 'And lonely. We told him about you.'

'What?' There was colour rising in Imogen's cheeks now. She frowned for a moment, and then said, 'Well, if he's so lonely, tell him to come and visit.'

Alicia thought for a moment. 'The thing is, he's not able to leave the house. He's a bit sick, you see.' She reached over and pulled at her sister's arm. 'Look, you can see him through the window.'

Imogen looked confused now, but she followed her sister and walked to the window. Right across the street sat Owen. His teeth gleamed as he tapped on the keyboard.

Imogen narrowed her eyes to focus and gasped. 'What's wrong with his face?'

Natasha stepped forward. 'It's the sickness he has. It made his skin shrink.'

'He saw you this morning,' Alicia added. 'He thinks you're beautiful.'

Imogen put her hand to her heart. 'He said that?'

The two girls nodded solemnly.

Imogen took another look through the window. 'Poor boy,' she whispered softly.

Alicia turned to Natasha, her eyes gleaming. The fish had just taken the bait. They began to back out of the room and then Alicia, as if she had just thought of it, said, 'He was wondering if he could email you. He's always on the computer.'

Imogen considered it. 'Couldn't he call me?' she asked.

'His throat,' said Alicia, 'from the sickness, it's really sore. In fact he might not have long to live. He said to us he just wanted to get to know a beautiful girl before he ...' She made a faint gurgling sound. They all knew what it meant.

Imogen only nodded, her face radiant.

Alicia and Natasha walked back across the road, trying to be calm. It was going very, very nicely so far. They crawled into Natasha's room, careful not to be seen from the window, and plugged a laptop into the internet. Then they created an email account under the name owen.still.lives@gmail.com and started the correspondence.

Dear Imogen, yr sister told me all about you. You sound cool. I saw you this morning. Yr really HOT. Please reply to me, please please.

Owen x

It was less than five minutes before a reply came in.

Dear Owen, thanx.  Tell me all about yourself. I am 13, I have long blonde hair, I like dancing and netball. What about you? Tell me everything about yourself, okay?. Xx

Imogen

The rest of the afternoon the internet ran hot with messages between Owen and Imogen. By the end of the day they were declaring undying love for each other. Owen, sitting up next to the computer in his lumpy way, looked strangely satisfied with the effort. The last of the afternoon sun shone brightly off his cheekbones as they logged off and closed the curtains.

Alicia waved goodbye to Natasha and walked back home. She felt exhausted –this love business sure took a lot of work. She went straight to her room and collapsed on her bed. Soon there was a knock and Imogen appeared at the door holding a plate of fruit and chocolates.

'Could you take these to Owen tomorrow?' asked Imogen. It was as if a glow was coming off her whole body. She was a nurse, an angel, a shining being.

For a moment a tremor of guilt went through Alicia's frame and she almost confessed to the whole thing, but something about her sister's happiness stopped her. She only nodded and took the plate.

The next day, munching on the fruit and chocolates, Alicia and Natasha continued the charade. The emails flew back and forth like cooing doves from house to house. It was around midday they noticed that something was wrong with Owen. The stuffing had come out of his right arm and it was hanging loosely by his side swinging a little in the breeze from the open window. Imogen must have noticed as well, because in her next email she asked Owen what was wrong with his arm.

Alicia sucked her tongue and emailed:

Its nothing much babe. Thats the sickness. I lost the feeling in my arm. Be brave for me.

Owen 

But poor Owen was suffering from the elements. The elastic band holding the mask in place, heated by the sun and already several years old, snapped. His skull slithered down onto his chest and was only stopped from falling right off by the strands of the mop curled around it.

An email from Imogen appeared, hysterical in tone, Natasha squealed and Alicia rushed to the laptop. There was no time left. In a panic she emailed:

I think this is it babe. My spine is giving out. Its all over. Remember me, my love, but move on. It was great while it lasted.

Owen xoxoxo

The next email from Imogen was just a long line of  and then ... nothing. At that moment Owen's chest caved in, the bunched up newspaper slithering out in a whoosh, and Natasha drew the curtain. They logged off and looked at Owen. He was a pathetic sight now, limbs and head crooked and strewn on the floor.

Alicia sighed, her heart beating. She felt overwhelmed with sadness. Poor Owen, poor Imogen, their love affair was over and it had only just begun. She placed her hand on Natasha, who was staring sadly at the floor, and walked back home.

It wasn't until she was inside that she suddenly remembered what it was all about. Hang on, she thought, this was all part of the plan, wasn't it? She sat on her bed, gathering her thoughts. She had to reveal the trick to her sister.

She knocked at Imogen's door and gingerly stepped in. Imogen was once again lying on the bed. Was that a tear mark on her face? Alicia gulped. It was time to confess and do what she had to do – shatter the illusion of love.

'Im,' she began.

'He still lives,' Imogen said in a shaky voice, 'and he always will, in my heart.'

Alicia grimaced. This did not feel as easy as she had imagined it would be, and certainly wasn't fun. She looked at her sister, crumpled up sadly on her bed, and she suddenly felt, what? She didn't feel frustrated with Imogen any more, she didn't feel superior. She only felt ... love. She realised she would do anything for her sister, anything at all.

She crept up to the bed and lay next to Imogen, snuggling into her back, not saying a word.
Selling the News

'Pheooooowipp!' Brad let the whistle drop. 'Get your Herald, get your Tele!'

Brad, at the age of eleven, finally had a real job. Not a pretend job like washing your dad's car for pocket money or getting the leaves out of the pool. A real job, where you actually turn up at the same time each week, where you get a pay slip and everything. Brad was a paper boy.

He had been doing the paper run around the suburb of Shetland Heights for three weeks now. It was great – he would get up at five-thirty on a Sunday morning, pad quietly down the hallway to have his breakfast, and then walk up to the local newsagent. It was still dark when he left the house, the stars twinkling in the sky, the houses on the streets all shut up and sleepy. At the newsagent he would mumble hello to the owner, Mr Kominos, sort the Sun Heralds and the Sunday Telegraphs into his cart and grab his favourite thing about the paper run – the whistle.

Only those who have done a paper run understand what joy it is to walk along the street blowing a whistle without anyone coming out to tell you to stop making that noise. Not only are you allowed to do it, you're required to do it. Blowing a whistle is a central part of the job. And you can't just blow it any old way, there's a special paper-boy method. It goes pheooooowipp! The wipp! at the end, by the way, is crucial.

Brad strode down Wilson Street pulling the cart behind him. The sun was starting to come up over the tree line, the wheels of the cart were rolling smoothly and he was starting to know his regular customers. There was Mr Lin, the old Chinese man who always gave him a fifty-cent tip, there was Mrs Mack who wore sunglasses and a maroon and green dressing gown at six in the morning and there was Bob ('just call me Bob, son') who always talked to him about football.

Brad was just about to turn into McIntyre Avenue when he heard a voice on the corner calling him. He turned around and saw a girl on the front porch of a stone white house waving and jumping up and down. He smiled and turned the cart round, pulled it up and asked her what she wanted.

'A Sun Herald. It's for my dad,' she said. Brad grabbed one and handed it over. As he did, the whistle in his mouth made an involuntary wipp! and swung loose on the cord round his neck. Brad had just cast eyes on the most beautiful girl in the world.

There had been girls before, girls with long black hair, girls with soft eyelashes, girls with tiaras and bravado and exciting laughs, but not like this girl. She was the one to beat them all. She had brown hair in a pony tail, freckles and an infectious smile curled beneath her nose. Brad almost stumbled going up the steps to the porch, righted himself and handed her the paper.

'Thanks,' she said. 'How much is it?'

Brad meant to speak softy to her but somehow it came out more like a squeak. 'Two dollars.'

She looked at him strangely and handed him the money.

'I've never seen you before,' he said, 'and I've lived round here all my life.'

'We just moved here,' she said airily. 'My dad's a fireman. He got a bravery award in South Australia, where we used to live. He put out a fire and saved two people from burning.'

'I'm Brad,' he said, louder this time, and held out his hand.

'Uh-huh,' she said, smiling again, and closed the door.

Brad walked slowly back to his cart and resumed his paper run. The two-dollar coin she had given him felt warm in his hand. The rest of the morning was a blur as Brad's thoughts swirled around in his head so much that Bob ('just call me Bob, son') wondered why, when he tried to talk about the footy, Brad just looked at him with a goofy smile.

That night Brad had a strange dream. He was walking along the street when he saw a house on fire. He rushed up to it, found a ladder and climbed to the second storey and in through an open window. The girl he had met that morning was in the middle of the room, surrounded by flames, singing to herself. Brad grabbed her by the arm, led her back to the window, and they slid down the ladder and into a pool which had suddenly appeared in the front yard.

Brad woke up and stretched. He was obsessed. How could he learn her name? How could he impress her enough so that she would remember who he was?

Then he had an idea, the kind of idea that only comes along rarely, the kind of idea you have to sit on and hold down before it rushes out the door again. He would be a hero for her. Girls liked heroes. The only trouble was that Brad wasn't actually very heroic. He liked the idea of being a hero, but he didn't particularly like the practice of putting himself into danger, and as far as he could tell that was a crucial quality of heroes. Heroes risked things, important things like their own lives. You might say they were careless with their own lives. Brad, by contrast, was very careful. He had always been told it was bad to be careless.

Okay, so he didn't have bravery or carelessness. But he did have something else – he had imagination, a computer, and a plan. He would make up a one-page newsletter called The Shetland Heights Gazette. He would write a news story in it about himself doing something heroic. To make it look authentic he would design an official looking masthead and even create some fake ads for babysitters and car washing services and put them down the side. Then he would slip The Shetland Heights Gazette into a newspaper and deliver that newspaper to her. And he would casually mention it to her so that she would be sure to read it.

Brad got out of bed, sat down at his computer and composed the following story:

Boy Saves Puppy from Flooded Creek

Yesterday morning Brad Busby, local boy aged eleven, showed extreme bravery when Russett Creek flooded and a small puppy named 'Socks' was washed away. Brad, thinking quickly and showing great courage and carelessness, jumped into the quick-moving water using a garbage bin as a raft, scooped up the frightened puppy and returned her to her owner. Local people describe Brad as a 'hero'.

Brad printed it out and read it. Perfect. He toyed with the idea of adding a photo of himself holding a wet puppy but decided it was corny and left it.

When he next worked Brad raced to the newsagent, gave Mr Kominos a big smile, took the papers round the corner, stuck the newsletter into a Sun Herald and set off on his paper run. His whistle that morning seemed to blow with a special vigour and the breeze seemed to whisper to him, hero! Then he got to Wilson Street and began to have doubts. What if her father didn't want the paper this week? What if he switched to The Sunday Telegraph?

But when he got to the corner it was just as he hoped. She was standing on the porch holding out her two dollars. Brad strode up to the porch, pulled out the special paper and handed it to her with a modest smile.

'Here you go,' he said.

'Thanks,' she said, and began to shut the door.

'By the way,' he said quickly, 'there's a local supplement this week that comes free with the newspaper. It's called The Shetland Heights Gazette. Just thought you might be interested.'

She looked at him quizzically, but the bait had been taken, and so the door stayed open and she leafed through the newspaper until she came to the newsletter.

'Car washing services?' she said. Her face turned down. 'Why would I be interested in that?' She began to close the door again but Brad held it open and pointed lower down the page. She began to read the article and then looked up at him, her eyes wide.

'What did you say your name was?' she asked.

'Brad,' he said. 'Don't you remember? Brad ... Busby.'

'So you ...?'

'Yes.'

'And the puppy?'

'All safe now. It was easy, actually,' he began, and was about to describe in thrilling detail the fake rescue all over again when she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

'My name's Emma,' she said, turning red in the cheeks. 'See you next Sunday, hero.'

Brad floated back to his cart, his skin tingling where she had kissed it, and sleepwalked through the rest of the paper run. When Bob ('just call me Bob, son') began to talk to him, Brad mispronounced 'football' and it somehow came out as 'beautiful'.

During the week, the doubts returned. What if she got bored with him or met someone else? He had not only to maintain his image of heroism in her eyes, he had to increase it. So he wrote another news story for the second edition of The Shetland Heights Gazette.

Local Boy Saves Baby from Runaway Car

Last night local hero, Brad Busby, once again showed how heroic he is. He saw a small baby in the middle of the road outside his house and a runaway car skidding towards it. Thinking nothing of his own life Brad ran out onto the road, picked up the crying baby and jumped off to the other side. Local people said this made Brad even more heroic than before, and he was already pretty heroic.

Brad read it and grinned with pleasure. That was sure to work.

On his next shift everything went as planned. He took the papers, stuck the newsletter in, walked down Wilson Street and found her on the front porch waiting for him. This time she was dressed in a yellow dress with white spots on it and her hair was fanned out over a golden comb.

'Hi, Brad,' she gushed.

'Your Herald, darl, complete with local supplement,' he said, handing her the paper.

She grabbed the paper, found the newsletter, read the article and put a hand to her heart.

'My hero,' she sighed, taking his hand in hers. 'That poor little baby.'

'All fine now,' he said in his deepest voice. 'Back in her mother's arms. Sound asleep. Under a blanket.'

She looked up at him, batted her eyelashes, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. She stroked his hand and whispered, 'Be careful, my hero.'

Brad gave her a wink and strode back to his cart. For the rest of the paper run birds cooed, the winds blew and he floated along.

The next week Brad came up with his finest story yet. He even added a photo of himself holding his thumbs up.

Local Boy Saves Whole Class from Meteor

Local hero, Brad Busby, has outdone himself. Yesterday at midday there was a meteor heading straight for the classroom where K-2 was having lessons with Miss Maple. Brad was passing by and noticed the meteor. He climbed on the roof of the classroom, risking his life, stood directly beneath the meteor and held a piece of cardboard over his head. The meteor hit the cardboard, nearly killing Brad, and bounced off and onto the sports oval, thereby saving K-2 and Miss Maple. Local people held up signs saying, 'Brad is really, really, really heroic.'

That Sunday he strode up to the newsagent, gave Mr Kominos a manly handshake, which surprised him, took the cart and the papers, stuck the third edition of The Shetland Heights Gazette in and set off on his paper run. That week it really was a run – he ran along the streets pulling the cart like he was sprinting in the Olympics. He threw the papers at Mr Lin and Mrs Mack, promising to take their money next week, and with a final burst he made it to Wilson Street. As he approached the corner he slowed up, smoothed his hair down, popped a breath mint in his mouth and walked to Emma's house. Only there was no one on the porch. Strange.

He walked to the front door and knocked. Perhaps she was inside making herself even more beautiful than normal, as if that were possible! He heard heavy footsteps and then the door opened to reveal a large man with a black beard and slightly scary eyes.

'Hi,' he said, his voice echoing round the porch. 'Ummm, paper?' He held out the Sun Herald. The man gave him two dollars, leaned back against the doorframe and proceeded to scan the front cover in front of him. Then the newsletter slid out and onto the ground. The man picked it up and looked at it, beginning to read. Brad didn't know what to do. This must be Emma's father.

He started to open his mouth to ask if Emma was home when the man finished reading and looked up at Brad with a strange expression on his face.

'So that's you in the newsletter, saving children, risking your life,' he said in a booming voice.

'Oh, well, just doing my bit,' said Brad, stepping back a pace.

'Hmmm,' said the man. He looked directly at Brad now. 'Son, I've been thinking a lot about this. You're a hero.'

Brad blushed. 'That's what people say.'

'Well, that's the problem,' said the man. 'I don't want my little girl hanging around a hero. You're risking your life every week. What if you get hurt, or worse? It would break Emma's heart. I can't let that happen to her. That's why I've decided – you can never see her again.'

'What?' said Brad. His lip quivered slightly and in a daze he walked back to his cart. The door closed.

Just as he picked up his cart and began to walk off, the door opened again and the man's face popped out. He had a sly look in his eyes and a smile beneath his black beard.

'Keep up the good work!' he yelled out. 'Being a hero can be a lonely thing!'

Brad smiled, uncertainly, and walked off along the street, alone.

The Bald Golfer

Oliver was what you might call a keen golfer. Now, many people hate golf. They think chasing a tiny ball over hills, under trees and in and out of sand traps is like slow torture, and surely it would be easier just to stay at home and stick pins in your ankles. Oliver saw things differently. To him it was the supreme sport, a challenge that demanded patience, skill and sometimes a little luck.

Any Sunday morning if you were looking for Oliver, maybe because he owed you some money, or he hadn't been returning your phone-calls, there was only one place you should search for him – Carrington Golf Course. If you turned up there and drove down the fairway you'd see him, dressed in his red polo shirt, his tan slacks and his black and green golf shoes. He looked natural on a golf course, like he'd been born to do one thing in life, and that was hit tiny white balls with long iron sticks.

Not only did he look natural on a golf course, he was also pretty good at golf. That was why he had made it through to the final round of the Carrington Golf Classic Competition. If Oliver won he planned to use the prize money to open a golf bag shop. Yes, Oliver's whole life was golf.

One Sunday morning Oliver was playing a round of golf, practising for the competition, with two other golfers – Buck and Lai. Although they always played together, and sat around with Oliver afterward drinking lemonade and discussing golfing techniques, you couldn't quite call them his friends. In fact, Oliver didn't really have any friends. The reason was that Oliver had a very sharp tongue. He just couldn't help but make fun of people. He didn't even need a good reason – he just opened his mouth and out popped an insult.

The three of them walked up to the first tee-off but had to wait because there were two old ladies in front of them about to take their shots. Oliver leaned against his golf bag and watched the first lady take a swing. She hit the ball badly, sending it slicing off to the left of where she wanted.

'Hopeless,' he laughed. 'She should give up and go back to her retirement home.'

The old lady turned, gave Oliver a hurt look, and helped her friend to the tee. The second lady, perhaps nervous at Oliver looking on, played an even worse shot, sending the ball high into the air but only about ten metres along the fairway.

Oliver doubled over in exaggerated laughter. 'Come on, Grandma, put some effort into it!'

The two ladies looked at each other, grimaced, and waved Oliver and his friends through.

Soon enough they were at the third hole, and Oliver watched Buck line up a putt that would put him in the lead. The ball came clean off the putter, dribbled towards the hole, and then hit a bump in the green and veered off to the side. Oliver whistled softly.

'What a shame, Buck,' he said. 'What a shame you're such a lousy putter.'

Buck thought of saying something in return but he knew Oliver too well so he swallowed his words and just stood there.

Lai pulled his putter out of his bag and leaned over to stretch his back and his arms. Oliver watched him at an angle and laughed.

'It's not gymnastics, Lai.' he said. 'It's golf.'

Lai ignored him and took his shot. It hit the same bump and spun away from the hole and right off the green.

'Ha!' cried Oliver. 'Lucky it's not gymnastics. You're so useless you'd probably bounce right off the trampoline and into a wall!'

Now it was Oliver's turn. He ummed and ahhed, lining up the shot from every direction, then he drew a deep breath and putted. It made a sweet click sound and went directly into the hole. He let his breath out, pumped his fist in the air and whispered 'I am perfect today, just like every day.' The two others exchanged glances and then the three of them continued on their way to the fourth hole.

When they got there they had to wait behind a man who was playing on his own. He was skinny, with a shirt that didn't quite make it all the way down his arms, leaving his long, thin wrists dangling out the ends of his sleeves. He had glasses and bow legs. But what took Oliver's notice was the fact that the man was bald. He didn't have a hair on his head.

The man swung hard and played a decent shot. Buck and Lai nodded in approval, but Oliver turned to the man and leered.

'Hey fella,' he said, pointing to the man's head. 'Are you sure you're not really a snooker player, cause your head looks a lot like a cue ball.'

The man winced slightly but ignored him and walked off to where his ball lay, a hundred metres away. Oliver tried another insult as he walked off.

'No, you must be a rabbit instead, because you sure aren't no hare! Get it? No hair!'

Things went like usual for that hole – Oliver would outplay Buck and Lai and then make them feel bad for not beating him. When they got to the fifth hole they came upon the same bald man again. As he lined up to play his shot Oliver couldn't help himself.

'Hey,' he chuckled, 'I wear my hair parted, Buck wears his unparted, you wear yours departed!'

The bald man ignored him, played his shot beautifully, and then turned and raised his club a little at Oliver.

'Enough,' he said, looking upset. 'I came here to get some peace and quiet. Leave me alone.'

'Sure,' said Oliver. 'Your hair's left you, so why shouldn't I?' He turned to Buck and Lai, who were embarrassed by all of this and looked away. The bald man sighed, picked up his golf buggy, and went on his way.

But in fact Oliver did not leave him alone. As chance would have it they kept seeing him for the rest of the morning, and Oliver did not let one chance escape him to make some crack about the man's head.

'Is your best friend Bacon? Because you're an egg!'

'Your head's so smooth you could ski on it!'

By the end of the day even Oliver had run out of proper insults and he was reduced to just calling the man 'Baldy'. Somehow all that concentration on insulting the poor man didn't affect Oliver's game at all. In fact he played beautifully, almost hitting a course record. He was in excellent form, and he was pretty confident he could win the Carrington Golf Classic Competition the following week.

After the game, Buck and Lai were so mortified that they walked off without a word, leaving Oliver alone in the clubhouse. As he sat drinking lemonade he looked around and noticed the bald man standing in a corner talking to four old men in hats. The bald man pointed at Oliver and all five of them looked at him with serious faces. Then they took off their hats and Oliver realised all five of them were bald. He laughed to himself and started to say something but they had exited before he got a chance.

The following Sunday was the final day of the competition. Oliver had gotten up early, practising his swing in the kitchen at home, polishing his golf clubs – the drivers, the irons, the wedges – as well as his golf balls. He was determined to win, and he wanted everything to go right for him. He zipped his golf bag shut and imagined himself in the future in his own golf bag shop, where he would talk about golf all day every day. What a dream!

He got to Carrington Golf Course, tied up his black and green shoes and strode out to the fairway. Today was going to be his! He looked around – the sun was shining brightly and there was a crowd gathered. Since he was the player everyone expected to win, the crowd would walk from hole to hole with him. It was like having a personal fan club – he loved it.

Dudley Simons was playing against him. It was the final round –whoever won today would win the whole competition. Dudley was also a great player, in fact most people thought if anyone was going to beat Oliver, it would be Dudley. As Dudley took his stance to play the first shot, Oliver leaned in and began to mouth off.

'Dudley rhymes with Cruddley, doesn't it?' he said to him. He laughed to himself.

Dudley didn't blink; he didn't even twitch an eyebrow. Oliver frowned. He felt as though he were invisible. Dudley came through with a fluent shot that smashed the ball into the distance. As he turned to let Oliver have his shot, Dudley smiled and cocked his head. He was wearing earplugs! Oliver snarled and steadied himself to take his own shot. Just as he came down to hit the ball something blinked in his vision and he mishit. The crowd oooed as the ball bounced off to the left. Dudley won the hole. One down, seventeen to go.

They were even for the next two holes, but on the fourth hole something strange happened again just as Oliver was putting. It was as if there was a sudden flash in his eyes, he blinked and the putter almost slipped from his hand. The ball chipped up in the air and off the green. The crowd muttered to themselves at this lapse in form, while he yelled to himself and threw his golf club into the air in frustration. He was starting to feel nervous. Dudley smiled and putted into the hole cleanly. He was four shots ahead now and Oliver was starting to sweat.

By the sixth hole the crowd were wearing t-shirts and singlets, it was so bright and hot.

At the tenth hole Dudley hit a magnificent tee shot, sending the ball one hundred and fifty metres in a graceful arc that sent it right onto the green. Oliver would need to play an even better shot. He strode up to the tee and looked around at the crowd nervously. That was when he noticed the bald man from the other day. He seemed to have brought along his four friends from the clubhouse. They were standing off to Oliver's left, right in his eyeline, and they were all wearing hats which bore the slogan Now We Get Even. Oliver had no idea what it all meant, but somehow they made him nervous. He leant over the ball, breathed in deeply, and began to swing. Just as he did there was another flash of light, almost blinding him, and he only just clipped the ball, sending it a mere three metres in a dribble onto the grass. The crowd laughed, and Oliver, furious, looked up at them quickly. As he did he noticed the bald man and his friends all seemed to be putting their hats back on their heads in one synchronised move.

By now Oliver was completely rattled. He thought if he couldn't insult Dudley he could at least insult the crowd.

'Why don't all you babies go home?' he yelled at them in a rage.

'You're the baby,' said someone in the crowd, and they all laughed.

At last they reached the final, eighteenth, hole. It was Oliver's turn to play the first shot. He would have to score a hole-in-one to have any chance of winning the match, and that was almost impossible. What had gone wrong that day? He felt confused and angry all at once. Grumbling to himself he walked up to the tee and placed the ball down carefully. Maybe he could still do it. No, it was impossible. Still, he may as well try.

'I hate you all,' he said to no one in particular.

He lined himself up to play the shot and then there was that same blinding flash in his eyes again. He could hardly see. He staggered back, shielded his eyes and looked out at the crowd. That was when he realised what it was. The bald man and his friends had all taken their hats off and were facing him in a line along one side of the course. They must have polished their bald heads the night before, because the sun was shining directly off them and it was reflecting into his eyes like a thousand headlights on high beam. Through the glare he thought he could see the skinny man with glasses smiling.

'Arghhh!' he cried in desperation, and swung at the ball with all his strength. As he did so the bald men moved forward in a line and the flash of light struck deep into his vision. He ended up swinging at the ball so badly it went straight up into the air and landed behind him. The crowd broke up into fits of laughter, and even Dudley was smiling. The game was over, Dudley had won the Carrington Golf Classic Competition.

He fell in a heap next to his golf bag, all his dreams shattered. Rolling over, he banged his head on the ground and a clump of his hair fell out. Dudley pulled his earplugs out, leaned over and helped him up gently.

'Never mind,' Dudley said. 'Golf, huh? Some days it's like torture just playing it.'
Rare Pets

Mr Lukra drove home from work in his gold plated car. He thought of how much money he had in his house. Lots of money. Oodles of cash. Positively piles of dollars. He pulled into his silver brick driveway, got out, and went into his enormous home.

His two children, Sapphire and Timothy, stood in the hallway, and folded their arms.

'We want a pet,' they said. 'Now.'

'A pet?' said Mr Lukra. 'Really?'

'Yes.' They both smiled and planted their feet firmly in front of him.

'I see,' said Mr Lukra. 'What sort of animal were you thinking of? A little dog, to do tricks, a fat orange cat?'

'No, they're boring!' they cried.

'Well,' said Mr Lukra. He paused.

'I saw a picture of a big lizard, Daddy,' said Timothy. 'A komodo dragon. It was two and a half metres long. Here.' He pointed to the computer.

'Timothy,' Mr Lukra said, 'I don't know. It says here the komodo dragon eats its own weight every day. It is heavier than you and your sister put together. Are you sure you want it?'

'Daddy,' said Timothy. 'I said I want it.' He then put his hands in his pockets and frowned.

Mr Lukra looked at him. 'Timothy, I don't know, it says here that the komodo dragon is an endangered species, that it's very bad to take it from its natural habitat.'

Timothy bit his lip and went bright red in the face. 'Daddy! I said I want it!'

Sapphire nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

'It will cost a lot of money,' said Mr Lukra, 'an awful lot of money.'

Timothy held his breath. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

'Okay, okay,' said Mr Lukra. 'I'll get you one.' He patted their heads.

'Thank you, Daddy,' said Sapphire. 'Our very own dragon!' She spun around in circles, while Timothy got his breath back.

The lizard arrived, delivered by two animal handlers who deposited it in the lounge room before leaving. It looked slightly fed up, slithering out of the net, opened an eye, and poked around a bit before wandering off into the bathroom. Timothy chased it with a stick, swatting at its tail, and it hissed at him so loudly it made Sapphire squeal. Mr Lukra was very pleased.

'Be sure to feed it,' he said, 'while I am at work.'

The komodo dragon flicked its tongue out, staring at him with its black eyes. He rushed to his car.

As Mr Lurka walked in the door, carrying a sack of feed for the lizard, his two children, Sapphire and Timothy, stood in the hallway.

'Daddy,' they said. 'We want a pet.'

He stared at them. 'But you already have a pet.'

'A new one,' they said. 'We want a new one.'

'But you just got the komodo dragon.' He put down the sack. 'It cost me a lot of money.'

Sapphire clenched her fists and growled, 'The dragon is boring! All it did was poke its stupid tongue out, and slither around.'

Timothy nodded. 'We let it go,' he said.

Mr Lukra gulped. He had had the lizard shipped thousands of miles from the Pacific islands. A rare animal.

He scratched his head. 'A new pet?'

'Yes,' said Sapphire. 'I saw a picture today of the loveliest bird, with big white feet. The blue-billed Irish duck.' She pointed to the computer.

'Honey,' Mr Lukra said, 'there are only five of these left in the wild.'

'A blue-billed duck!' she squealed. 'For me and Timothy.' Timothy stood beside her nodding vigorously.

'We'd have to build a special cage for it. And Daddy might get in trouble for taking one from the wild. Besides, I might not be able to get one at all ...'

Sapphire stood on her head. She started screaming, and as the blood rushed to her temple she only got louder. Timothy frowned.

Mr Lukra knew it was no use.

'Okay. Honey, of course Daddy will get one for you. But you won't get bored with it, will you?' He started at Sapphire. Slowly she rolled over and looked up at him, smiling.

'Only, I don't want you to just ... let it go.' He thought of the lizard, and wondered if it was living somewhere in the back garden.

'Of course not,' said Sapphire. She clapped her hands. 'An Irish duck!'

So Mr Lukra made some calls, and hired someone to travel to Ireland to track down one of the five remaining blue-billed Irish ducks. One was found shivering in a small bog outside of Cork. He had it flown back to his house, and the children stared in amazement as it flapped its wings neatly inside the brass cage they had built. Its beak was the most sensational colour blue.

'Sing!' shouted Timothy at the bird, but it only dipped its head and quacked. Timothy looked disappointed and wandered off while Sapphire hit at the bars of the cage, laughing as the duck flew up and down. Mr Lukra rubbed his hands together and went to work.

Some time later, walking into the house, he found his two children lying down in the hallway, sobbing and kicking their feet up and down.

'What is it now?' he asked. He had a bad feeling.

'The stupid duck!' groaned Timothy. 'It's dull. It's lame. It's the most boring thing I've ever looked at!'

'Sapphire?' asked Mr Lukra hopefully.

'Its feathers are disgusting!' she huffed. 'I can't bear it any more!'

Mr Lukra rocked back on his feet. 'Did you feed it like I asked you to?'

Sapphire sobbed some more. 'I don't like the colour blue. I only like pink.'

'Timothy?' said Mr Lukra, turning to his son.

'We let it go, Daddy,' said Timothy. 'Anyway, that's not what we want any more. We need the cage for a real pet.'

'You what? You let it go?' Mr Lukra thought of the trouble he had gone to, to get it for them.

Yes, Daddy,' Sapphire cried, 'a really special pet!'

Mr Lukra sighed. He sensed they had something in mind already.

Timothy spread his arms wide in excitement. 'A Barbary lion,' he said, 'is what we want. What a great shaggy coat it has. And it looks so growly!'

Mr Lukra looked it up in a book. 'Timothy and Sapphire,' he said sadly, 'The Barbary lion is extinct in the wild. There's only a few remaining in the whole world, and only in captivity ...'

Sapphire began to sob again, and as she did so she hit her hands on the floor. 'We want a big lion,' she wept.

'But honey,' said Mr Lukra, 'I would have to steal one from another country's zoo. It would cost me so much money.'

Timothy started to climb up one of the curtains. He was flushed in the face and fast approaching the ceiling. 'A Barbary lion!' he screamed at his father from above.

'I see,' said Mr Lukra. He gave in. 'You must promise that you will look after it. It will be terribly difficult to get for you. Do you promise you will feed it?' He looked at his children desperately.

Timothy slid down the curtain and picked Sapphire up. They clung to each other and did a strange round and round dance in the hallway, singing, 'A lion for us, hooray for Daddy!'

Mr Lukra almost cried with relief. He sighed, wiped his face, and walked out to his car.

Mr Lukra made some calls. It was very difficult, and extremely expensive, but he managed to hire some soldiers to break into Hong Kong Zoo and steal their only Barbary lion. The big cat arrived with a flourish, held in a large net suspended from a helicopter. It was indeed a noble beast, licking itself slowly. When it was put in its cage it padded back and forth, sizing up the area. It let out a low growl.

Timothy stood absolutely still watching it. He had a huge grin on his face. Sapphire stood behind him, nervously holding onto his shirt.

Mr Lukra slowly let out his breath and went to the office.

Later Mr Lukra drove home. He was in a very strange mood. He had rung his bank manager and discovered he had absolutely no money left. The three pets had cost more than he'd realised – millions of dollars. He swallowed dryly. All that money, gone. He might have to sell the house, and his gold plated car. What would he do? What would he tell the children?

He walked in the door. His two children were kneeling in the hallway, holding each other as they sobbed and screamed.

Mr Lukra stopped short. His heart began to race.

'Daddy!' they cried. 'We need a new pet!'

'Ummm,' he said. He couldn't speak.

'The stupid lion was ugly!' shouted Sapphire.

'And just like any dumb lion! It was BORING!' yelled Timothy.

'And it had icky eyelashes!' screamed Sapphire.

'And it growled when I threw rocks at it!' squeaked Timothy.

Mr Lukra stood there looking at them, but he didn't say anything. Slowly he picked his bag up and walked to the bedroom.

'We let the stupid lion go!' shouted Timothy, but by this time Mr Lukra couldn't hear them. He was lying down on his bed with his hands over his ears.

He woke up in a sweat and went to work. The day was a miserable blur. Then something happened to change his mood. The road seemed smooth as Mr Lukra drove home. He had just had a very interesting phone call with a certain Mr Bullion. He had made a highly lucrative deal. He was no longer poor, he had made all his money back. He was so cheerful he even began to whistle.

He walked in the door. Just like usual his two children were waiting for him in the hallway. As soon as they saw him they started in on how they really needed a new pet, but he put his fingers to his lips to shush them, and something about his smile made them stop talking.

'Timothy, Sapphire,' he said, 'I have some big news for you.'

They eyed him suspiciously.

'I have just spoken to a friend of mine, named Mr Bullion. Mr Bullion has two children, named Jewell and Leo. Well, they are very, very rich children, and they are used to getting whatever they want. Mr Bullion has been trying to get them a rare pet, but everything he has tried has not worked out. And guess what they asked for this afternoon?'

'I don't care,' mumbled Timothy. Sapphire stood still.

'Ah, but you will, Timothy, you will.' Mr Lukra was definitely in a good mood. 'You see, they had a very original idea – they thought they might like to have two children – human children – to keep as pets.' He spoke louder. 'Apparently they have a very comfortable cage - it has pillows and a high ceiling and it gets plenty of sunshine.' He folded his arms and looked at them. Timothy and Sapphire were gaping up at him. 'So, I have decided to sell YOU to Mr Bullion.' He rubbed his hands together.

Sapphire fainted, slowly slithering to the floor. Timothy retreated a step, and then asked in a small voice, 'Daddy, how could you give us away to someone else?'

Mr Lukra strode to his room, all energy now. He stopped at the doorway and looked back at them. 'Well, the fact is, children, I find you boring.'

68

