Skip to main content

The Grumpets!



The Grumpets!

ISBN: 9781301565078
ASIN: B00D3JB0CW (for Kindle)

Published Today!

Grumpets are shy creatures who live in compost heaps.  At any moment of any day, wilting flowers, mouldy cabbage leaves or faded roses might tumble down upon them.
But the heap can be a dangerous place.
Grumpets have to keep alert for horrible Slimers.  And the dreaded Time of Turning….
Introducing a new species, one which even the mighty Sir David Attenborough has, as yet, overlooked!  Grumpets are, (as the above book blurb suggests), rather shy and retiring by nature, and they spend much of their time burrowing within warm, snug compost heaps.  They can be found in many gardens but it is unlikely, unless you keep a sharp eye out and know what you're looking for, that you will have spotted them.
The Grumpets is a short fantasy story for children, though it may well appeal to 'children' of all ages.  This foray into children's fiction is a new avenue for me, for although some of my short stories have a childlike element to them, such as with Clara's Wristwatch or Swap, these weren't intentionally written for children whereas The Grumpets definitely was.  The story is split into five distinct chapters, and was a lot of fun to write and gave me a break from working on the first draft of Fabian, the fourth novel in the Artisan-Sorcerer series.
Published today, it will take a little while for it to be available from all my listed distribution channels (which can be located alongside this blog post) but it's available right now from Smashwords.
Enjoy!


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Cure for Aging?

"All that we profess to do is but this, - to find out the secrets of the human frame; to know why the parts ossify and the blood stagnates, and to apply continual preventatives to the effort of time.  This is not magic; it is the art of medicine rightly understood.  In our order we hold most noble -, first, that knowledge which elevates the intellect; secondly, that which preserves the body.  But the mere art (extracted from the juices and simples) which recruits the animal vigour and arrests the progress of decay, or that more noble secret which I will only hint to thee at present, by which heat or calorific, as ye call it, being, as Heraclitus wisely taught, the primordial principle of life, can be made its perpectual renovator...." Zanoni, book IV, chapter II, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, first published in 1842. Oroboros keyring - Spooky Cute Designs The idea of being able to achieve an immortal life is probably as old as human life itself.  Folklore and myt...

Remembering Richie Tattoo Artist's Studio

Richard in the street entrance to his tattoo studio in Liverpool. The vertical sign next to Richard is now in the Liverpool Tattoo Museum. Yesterday, my sister Evelyn, Richard and myself stood outside Richard's old tattoo studio and looked up at the few remaining signs, whose paint has now mostly flacked away to reveal bare wood. On the studio's window are stick-on letters which read, "Art", where once it boldly announced his presence as the city's only "Tattoo Artist".  I can remember him buying that simple plastic lettering from an old-fashioned printer's shop. This was in 1993, not long after he'd opened the studio and before he could afford better signs. After he'd patiently stuck them onto the glass we realised that from the outside the sign read "Artist Tattoo", so we had to carefully peel the letters off the window and have another go, laughing over having made such an obvious error yet worried in case we spoiled the letteri...

Dear Diary...

Do you keep a diary? Why did you start it, and, if you started one then stopped, why was that? What sort of things do (or did) you write about? I ask as, as a long-time diarist myself, there is an interesting piece in The Guardian today which talks about one woman's diary habit, which she began at the age of fourteen. I started a diary around that age too, but destroyed it after my mother accused me of using cocaine.  A stern scene followed, with both parents perched ram-rod straight in their armchairs, while I was subjected to a heated inquisition. Where had I bought it, and who from? Didn't I know such things led to death and doom? I struggled to decipher their bewildering accusations, until Mum blurted out, "I read it in your diary!" To find my diary, Mum would first have had to rummage through my dressing table, obviously when I wasn't around to protest. Her intrusion on my privacy was assumed by both parents to be acceptable, and now, with this handwritten c...