Ms Cheryl Diane Parkinson



Me and My Dragon.

Well, it may sound crazy, but I have a dragon. His name is Draco – means dragon… I think. But he’s mine, and I definitely have one. He breathes fire, and his breath absolutely reeks! It stinks mostly of raw rotting meat. He needs a giant toothbrush to brush those razors – I’m looking into it.  

He does have a bit of a temper – swears a lot, like dragons do. Turns the air blue sometimes! Which can be really funny to see as he is a bright emerald green! He is very beautiful so it’s rather colourful when he’s cross!

He lives… well… that’s kind of hard to explain. Draco lives under my bed, in my house, in my bedroom and makes quite a mess I can tell you! Does my mum mind? Well, here’s more magical stuff. She doesn’t actually see him. No-one does but me. Which is kind of good I suppose because it means he can go anywhere and do anything and it’s all fine!

The best bit about having a dragon? Is that no-one thinks there is such things as dragons, but I know of course, that there is. And the best thing, the truly best thing is when we decide to go for a ride. He will let me climb on his back and then he just leaps out of my bedroom window and we take off into the skies! It’s fantastic! The best feeling in the world is flying high above the clouds where no-one can get to you. Just you and your dragon. The sun is brilliant up there… did you know?

So what do we do? Me and my dragon? We escape mostly. Life can be tough you know. Especially in today’s modern world. It’s not like how it was in the olden days… oh no! Back then, kids just had simple games to play with, out in the street when bombs whizzed past your head. Yes, there was a war on, but kids could be kids… that’s what I’ve heard anyway. These days, there’s computers and mobile phones and technology and stuff like that which makes things harder. Much, much harder. Mum said they are ‘sexualising the young’ whatever that means. I think she means stuff like high heels and lip glosses and nice bags and stuff. I can’t see what is wrong with all that. I quite like bags – they can be very useful. Especially when you need to carry a lot of stuff when going away for a while. Rucksacks can be very handy when you are riding your dragon. They hang onto your back, while you hang onto your dragon. But, you probably haven’t got one have you? I would say you could borrow mine… but well, you can’t. Dragons don’t work like that. They are extremely rare, and like to attach themselves to individuals of their own accord.

Mine came to me when I needed him most- when they were fighting. When I thought my life was in danger, when there was no-one else to save me, Draco came along, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, whipped me onto his neck and burst me out of there like a bullet!  

Glass smashed everywhere from the window he burst me out of making an awful mess! I was hiding in my room upstairs and they were coming to get me! I could hear their footsteps pounding angrily on the stairs – they are always angry these days. But I wasn’t scared when the dragon arrived. He looked at me. His eyes as big as saucers were glittering a magical blue – inviting me to jump on, and I did. I didn’t look back because I knew. He smashed the furniture out of the way, his jaws roaring as he did so, making an awful racket that made my heart sing with happiness. And we burst out of there!

I never looked back. I knew that looking back would be like a betrayal to my dragon and he would leave. No, never look back, only onward and upwards… up up up into the blue sky… and the beyond – it’s the only way to fly!



Witches and Vampires – a useful guide.

There is an idea that witches are fun. That they cast magic spells that tidy your room really quickly, or make feathers flutter in the air beautifully. And there is an idea that vampires are pretty; their skin glittering like diamonds in the sun, as if  they are the embodiment of precious jewels. It isn’t true. I hate to tell you, but you have been lied to. And oh! What a beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless.

Vampires are the creatures of the Devil and they come flaming from hell. And witches, are the servants of that same Devil – the Vampires natural allies. And so, this book comes with a warning. If you are of a faint heart, if you like butterflies, rainbows and fluffy bumblebees buzzing around summer flowers, you ought to put this story down… this one is not for you.       

But, if you are anything like Amelia, brave of heart. Fiery and fierce…  you might want to use this book as a helpful guide to help you traverse the minefield of life, because whether you realise it or not…
Everything is trying to kill you.


The Old Wily Wood

Would you take a walk through the Old Wily Wood?

Where the Ambergris Grimm is up to no good?

Would you take a stroll through the deep if you could?

Knobbly limbs lobes, probes, trunks awkwardly stood.


The moon riding high casting an eerie glow,

Distorting the shadows that flick two and fro,

Stretching and haunting  nooks, crooks and low,

Ghostly shadows in the brush, eyes red a-glow.


A quiver, a shiver, shudders up your spine,

A soft moaning wind, whines round through the pines,

Shadows n’ figures, glide and entwine,

The trees, reaching branches, snag, scrape: so malign.


Flaunting the haunting, the wood loses your steps,

Stumbling and fumbling through the darkness and wet,

The rain in cahoots, drizzles cold wet and frets,

As the wind whips up the pace; your fate is set.


Leaves floating free tumble and cover your tracks,

Whispers and flutters round your ears, face and back,

Changing, evolving the wood stops your backtrack,

The  wily wood’s laughter, rings live through the black.


Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?

Heart hammers in fear, could you burn firewood?

Knowing the trunks and branches where they stood,

Could rip up their roots, move, betraying deadwood.


Would you take a walk through the dead of the night?

Shadows seeping, creeping and curling in sight,

The moon riding high, lonely, pale and in fright

The freaky whispers; pluming breath, fragile-white.


Rough knobbly fingers rip and tear at your hair,

Not for the faint hearted, so better beware!

Red eyes in the undergrowth, tread with a care!

Moaning winds, yawning mouths, beware the beast’s lair!


Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?

Knowing that the trees there were up to no good?

Would you take a stroll through the dark if you could?

Knobbly limbs, lobes, probes, trunks awkwardly stood.


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Penelope Parker, the prickly girl from Peckham, meets the Precocious Pangaloo from Puddelonia.


Puddelonia: a place that none do speak,

Where persons were not permitted to peek,

For people were thought of as pernicious punks,

Polluting, profaning, poisonous skunks!


Peculiar Puddelonians were pint-sized; petite,

So small they could slip in the pleats of the streets,

Puddles of Peckham lay wet on the floor,

battered by rain as it splattered and poured.


Swelling the dwelling; the puddles of Peckham,

You’d think the out-pouring of raindrops would wet ‘em!

Puddelonians loved the rain to come through,

Cos spectacular Puddelonia, grew and then grew.


The more it poured and pelted of rain,

The brighter and sunnier Puddelonia became.

And, in private spectral presence, there lived,

A Pangaloo of Puddelonia! And his name was Viv.


He shimmered and shone; the Puddelonians pride,

And he peppered and sprayed so well that they cried!

He showered with pinks and purples and blues,

A rainbow of colour from this Pangaloo!


Now back to a perverse and prickly imp,

Who was rude and cheeky as a cheeky little chimp!

Penelope Parker was a prickly pear,

A proper madam she did appear.


In private she liked to pick her nose,

Her Papa would encourage a tissue to dispose,

The repulsive green pulp she’d pop in her mouth,

Promptly chewed it and then sent it down south!


The people of Peckham who saw such a sight,

Would wrinkle their nose, spin round or turn right.

But prickly Penelope with her bandy legs,

Defended her choice to recycle her dregs!


Yelling and screaming! Such a horrible girl!

And yet her father thought her a pearl.

He spoiled her, his precious Penelope pansy,

She’d pout and preen, and he’d melt like warm candy.


One day Penelope flopped in a strop,

Cos’ the peltering rain just would not stop!

People of Peckham donned waterproof hats,

While Penelope Parker was being a brat!


“Daddy make the sun shine! I want to play out!”

She screamed and she yelled with a frown on her mouth.

Puddles formed perfectly in the pouring rain,

But prickly Penelope thought it all a pain.


Papa insisted on her pink wellie boots,

But she picked up the remote and turned him on mute!

Pouncing and pounding out of the door,

Dressed in pale pantaloons, sun hat, and more.


Her weakling papa, just like that, let her go!

Cos he couldn’t bring himself to say “no.”

She skipped and jumped in her pretty plimsolls,

Expecting the sun to do what it was told.


Her papa had told it to shine out today.

Cos Penelope Parker was ready to play…

On seeing the rain was still wet as it poured,

Penelope Parker screamed and she bawled!


Her pigtails were sodden and stuck to her face,

She screamed and cried “I hate this place!”

The Pangaloo from Puddelonia heard her cry,

And decided he wanted to find out why…


A Panagloo is magical, that is for sure.

It’s linage unique; a thoroughbred pure!

And as weird as it seems, this one thing is true,

The Pangagloo’s secret’s in the gangaloo!


What’s gangaloo? I hear you enquire

It’s magic that shimmers and quivers like fire…

It’s properties a mystery, none can tell,

Where in Puddelonia the creature does dwell.


Penelope Parker piqued his interest,

He thought her a porker, for her tales never rests!

And when she strolled past Puddelonia’s puddle,

He befuddled her huddle sending her in a muddle.


Whiz! Pop! Kazoom! Magic! Just like that!

Penelope Parker fell and shrunk with a splat!

She shot down in size so fast she could see,

That she was as tiny, as tiny as an ant on a tree!


Looking for blame, she’s bound to rebuke!

But a wobbly stomach made her puke and puke…

The precocious Pangaloo looked down his nose,

At Penelope Parker’s twos and her throws…


He thought her a pampered and spoilt princess,

Who’s terrible tantrums caused a mess.

For her puking and puking caused such a stink!

That no-one cared if her plimsolls were pink!


Surely no-one would miss such a horrible child!

If she disappeared no report would ever be filed…

So the magical marvellous being went active,

His shimmering coat became radioactive!


It shimmered and shone, pinks and blues,

The Pangaloo’s fur as it went gangaloo.

And Penelope Parker who picked her nose,

Turned into a… what do you suppose?


The purpling palette of colours for sure,

Turned Penelope Parker into a panda with paws!

Then sent her promptly to puddle filled Peckham,

Where she went post-haste to her papa: Graham.


Who screamed in panic, and pined for his princess,

He prayed and prayed to see her yellowish tress,

He even missed her wails and moans,

And annoying complaints in grey monotone.


Her whining and pining and her ’get it now!’

Even when he was dumbfounded as to how.

She was his girl, his baby, his love,

The precious one sent to him from above.


And so, screwing his courage he went a searching

For the one who’d done the treacherous transferring.

The magical Pangaloo felt his cry,

And whizzed him to Puddelonia to hear his ‘why’?


On reaching there, what he saw made him stare,

It was the Pangaloo’s mate, the fair Pangelaire.

And just like him her magic was wild,

And her interest piqued by a naughty child.


‘What have you done to my girl you monster!’

The Pangelaire’s temper grew hotter and hotter.

For where the Pangaloo was lovely and calm.

The Pangelaire was much more likely to do harm!


She bared her teeth and roared so loud!

Her shimmery coat was now a storm cloud!

What once was bright yellow and pink,

Was now getting darker and full of black ink.


Puddelonians sensed danger and ran for cover,

And at a safe distance, they liked to hover.

For nothing creates such a scare,

As a Pangelaire who’s fur goes gangalaire!


Her normally bright coat went black as thunder!

From her face disappeared all her innocent wonder…

As she listened to him scream and shout and yell,

She could see the traits Penelope developed so well.


The Pangaloo watched as she shimmered with rage,

Which he thought was justified so did not assuage.

His partner, he loved her sense of justice;

Where he was soft, she was more like Augustus


Severe when angered, and swift with judgement,

But quick to cool when the reason was spent.

But here and now, was Penelope’s dad,

Causing a scene and behaving so bad!


The Pangalaire’s fur: a shocking gangalaire!

All of the Puddelonians could see and could hear!

The whizzing and popping and screeching noise

As she grew and grew to an unbelievable size.


A massive thunder cloud searing with light!

Like a great ball of darkness, anger and fright.

Any idiot would have apologised, run if they could,

But Penelope’s dad went on cussing where he stood.


Furious she flashed and out shot the light!

A massive bolt that gave the watchers a fright!

It struck him hard between the eyes on his face,

Causing him to collapse, right there in that space.


And then she performed her master stroke,

She changed his make-up, (and this is no joke)

‘A matching pair!’ she said with such glee

And she turned the man into a panda: a ‘He’


The ‘he’ matched the ‘she’ that was Penelope Parker.

A punishment for the pair, like a permanent marker.

And to top it all, she transported them with magic,

Straight to a zoo to make it more tragic.


And that’s what happened to Penelope Parker

Who’s future now is sombre and much darker

than it was before when she was a girl.

And life like a flower, would curl and unfurl.


So let that be a lesson to the human child,

There’s consequences attached to growing up wild,

Never defy your parents so true,

Allow them with wisdom, to look after you.


Never shout, demand, or curl up your fists

Throw tantrums, scream loud and have hissy fits,

For you never can tell if magic is nearby

If a Pangelaire is aware of your terrible cry.


Never swear, or demand, or be a spoilt brat.

Never wear in winter, a cool summer hat.

For no one likes a moany old bat,

Who has no respect for others and that.


No one likes a kid who’s a raving nut.

No one likes a kid who behaves like a mutt.

So never wear in the winter a cool summer hat,

If you have any designs on staying a brat.

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The Biscuit Munchin’ Monster

The Biscuit Munchin Monster #2The biscuit munchin monster #1

A biscuit munchin’ monster’s lair,

Is something that’s extremely rare,

Like ghosts, spooks, and alien beings,

No-one can prove that they’ve been seen.

But little Amelia, she knew better,

She knew monsters to the letter,

She knew monsters old and new,

For, she felt, she’d met a few.

She knew the monster under the bed,

Who, with a glare, could strike you dead,

Took careful handling on her part,

Like avoiding being alone in the dark.

And then the monster in the Wily Woods,

Who Amelia knew was up to no good,

Waiting for her to take the short cut,

Which all sounds fine, except for the but.

In the Woods lived a monstrous rat,

Now, who on earth could have guessed that?

But Amelia avoided at all costs,

The evil rat that wants her lost.

The biscuit monster she’d never seen,

But always knew where he’d been,

He’d leave a trail of biscuit crumbs,

On the table tidied up by mum.

On the floor and round the corner,

He would never be a biscuit mourner!

Out the door and down the lane,

Crumbs all scattered round the drain.

Now Amelia was a brave little soul,

The super sleuth was her role,

She’d follow clues where they’d lead,

For she knew he’d need a feed.

The monster needs to store his hoard,

For his rumbly belly wasn’t ignored

With no teeth to gnash on his stash,

The crumbly biscuits were for his cache.

Amelia was good and wise and true,

But even she never really knew,

Where he kept his monstrous feed,

After he did his terrible deed.

Each time she’d follow the biscuit trail,

Each time she’d disappointedly, fail,

To find the monster and his lair,

And recover the biscuits he had there.

For what she didn’t know was this,

She never, ever seemed to miss,

She’d find him each and every time,

But never catch him in the crime.

For he would vanish, up in smoke,

And cover his lair with an invisible cloak,

To hide each time that she was near,

For she was the one he would fear.

He couldn’t lose his staple meal,

An empty tummy did not appeal,

For mother was a fabulous cook,

She’d bake biscuits by the book.

And every Friday without fail,

A batch’d be cooling: the Holy Grail,

The biscuit monster’d guiltily steal,

The whole hot batch for his meal!

And Amelia would, sadly, get the blame,

And every Friday it was the same,

And she would put a stop to it,

As soon as she could find the git!

Alas, alack, that’d never be,

For he absolutely loved his tea,

And what goes nicely with his crumbs?

Some hot Earl Grey, in his tum!

And so each week she did her best,

Without stopping, without rest,

She’d try to find where he lived,

So she could take back, not give.

But to find a biscuit monster’s lair,

Is something that’s extremely rare,

Like ghosts, spooks, and alien beings,

None could prove that they’d been seen.