Mirrors: Sparkling new stories from prize-winning authors
Mirrors: Sparkling new stories from prize-winning authors
Wendy Cooling
Specially commissioned short stories, by prize-winning authors, on the theme of Mirrors.READERSHIP: 10 – 14A collection of new , specially commissioned short stories by some of the finest authors of children’s books today: Anne Fine, Berlie Doherty, Leslie Howarth, Mary Arrigan, Gaye Hicilmaz, Jeremy Strong, Malorie Blackman, Elizabeth Laird , Melvin Burgess, Celia Rees, Kate Thompson, Paul Stewart, Vivian French, Alan Durant, Annie Dalton in range of genres – humour, horror, fantasy, traditional, realism and romance. The collection is aimed at good readers between 10 and 14, and the strength of the stories combined with the excellence of their authors will be certainly be welcomed by teachers, librarians and parents. Edited by Wendy Cooling, a well-known and highly respected figure in the world of education and children’s books and the editor of Centuries of Stories.
SPARKLING NEW STORIES
FROM PRIZE-WINNING AUTHORS
Mirrors
EDITED BY WENDY COOLING
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
SARAH YOUNG AND TIM STEVENS
CONTENTS
Cover (#uc20d01a3-a47d-5631-807c-1c7f739613c5)
Title Page (#u8f07857d-37d5-59d9-864b-c80765cf2522)
Introduction (#u7eebeff3-10cd-52d1-a150-a3f48c71fdf9)
Elizabeth Laird: The Fateful Mirror (#ulink_30a98770-11c1-538a-9542-287e767fb786)
Gaye Hiçyilmaz: The Mirrored Garden (#ulink_1ec7fe02-c86c-5138-a23d-cefe4800fe19)
Lesley Howarth: Mirrors dot com
Jeremy Strong: Never Trust a Parrot
Malorie Blackman: Watching
Vivian French: Selim-Hassan the Seventh
Melvin Burgess: Whose Face do you See?
Celia Rees: Silver Laughter
Anne Fine: Use it or Lose it
Paul Stewart: Double Vision
Kate Thompson: The Dragon’s Dream
Alan Durant: Rochefault’s Revenge
Annie Dalton: Lilac Peabody
Mary Arrigan: The Disappearance
Berlie Doherty: The Girl of Silver Lake
About the Contributors (#ua111a659-0afc-554d-b09c-e12ba38fe767)
Other Works (#uf46b826f-91cf-54b9-823c-03482a2ddc4a)
Copyright (#u66b8c737-63e8-503e-94c9-cc55c897bfbb)
About the Publisher (#ua07ad25c-83d9-5a71-85b1-150c282a9e70)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_303e25cf-e6c8-5eec-a470-752aba54a13d)
Mirrors and reflections have played their part in stories from the ancient tales of the basilisk and the story of Snow White, to the present day story of Harry Potter. The mythical basilisk could turn a creature to stone with just a look and could only be destroyed by seeing its own reflection in a mirror. Snow White’s step-mother appeals to her all-seeing mirror for confirmation of her beauty. Harry Potter finds the Mirror of Erised and sees in it what he desires most in life – his family.
The dictionary definition of ‘mirror’ is something that gives a faithful reflection. In fiction, mirrors do not have to play by the rules! This book contains fifteen newly written stories in which a mirror plays a vital part. One is a beautiful re-telling of the story of Narcissus and his reflection – perhaps the oldest mirror story of all – and the rest, brand new stories that reflect the imaginations of some of today’s finest writers. Read the stories in any order, then maybe you’ll want to go on and look at some of the novels written by these authors.
Enjoy!
Elizabeth Laird THE FATEFUL MIRROR (#ulink_7a4f1220-17c2-50c8-88a8-2e60c62039b9)
The Story of Echo and Narcissus
In ancient times, when the old gods ruled from Mount Olympus, a handsome young hunter roamed the earth, trapping in his nets any prey that came within his reach.
He was sixteen years old, and already many young women, and men too, had fallen in love with him.
His name was Narcissus.
In the forest where he hunted, a young girl wandered, looking for flowers. She talked as she ran about, and her tongue, like her feet, was never still. But her speech was meaningless, for the goddess Juno, angered by the girl’s endless chatter, had cruelly condemned her only to repeat the words that others spoke.
Her name was Echo.
One day, worn out by the hunt, Narcissus lay down in the shade of a spreading tree and closed his eyes. Echo ran past and saw him. She stopped at once when she saw the boy, then crept towards him and stood looking down at him, at the dark curls falling over his high forehead, the blush of red on his cheek, and the slender strong hands that still held his nets as he slept. And as she gazed at him, she fell in love.
She longed to touch his hand, to wake him and tell him that she loved him, but she could not. The only words she could utter would be echoes of his own.
She crept away and hid behind a tree.
I’ll wait, she thought. When he wakes up I’ll follow him and listen. Perhaps he’ll say something I can repeat, to show him that I love him.
At last Narcissus opened his eyes, sighed, sat up and stretched himself. Then he looked round. With the sharp senses of the hunter he knew he was not alone.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
Echo trembled at the sound of his voice, lightly shaking the branch she was holding. The leaves rattled and a leaf fell to the ground.
‘Who’s there?’ Narcissus called again.
He thought a wild animal must be lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out at him, so he snatched up his nets and ran forward to catch it. Echo stepped silently aside and hid herself under an overhanging rock.
Puzzled, Narcissus moved on through the forest and, flitting noiselessly from tree to tree, Echo followed him. Often he stopped and looked over his shoulder, and she froze in her tracks, so that in the dappled light that shone through the leaves overhead, he would mistake her for the trunk of a young sapling, or a shaft of light, shining on a boulder.
All day she followed him, waiting for her chance, her heart brimming over with love and longing.
At last, when the sun was setting, Narcissus stopped. He could no longer ignore the uneasy prickling in his neck, that told him by his hunter’s instinct that he was being followed.
‘Whoever you are,’ he called out angrily, ‘show yourself! Come here!’
‘Come here!’ answered Echo, taking her chance, and summoning all her courage, she stepped out into the open and ran up to him, her eyes soft with adoration.
Narcissus stepped back.
‘What’s this? Who are you?’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ repeated Echo, letting her voice linger on the final word.
She stepped near to him, but dazzled by his beauty did not notice the cold disdain in his eyes.
‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’ cried Narcissus.
‘Touch me!’ laughed Echo, delighted that at last the words she was forced to say reflected her true feelings, and she tried to throw her arms round his neck.
Narcissus pushed her roughly aside. He had never known love, and he had none to give.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted angrily. ‘How dare you think that I could love you?’
‘I could love you,’ faltered Echo, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ Narcissus said, and he turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Away! Alone!’ murmured Echo.
Her face burned with shame and she slipped back into the shadow of the trees. Rejected, her heart shrinking with misery, she fled from the forest, and wandering aimlessly, took refuge in the cold, distant mountains. There she starved herself, refusing to eat, and at last she pined away, until all that remained of her was her voice.
Down in the forest, the spirits of the woods and the water were angry with the cold-hearted Narcissus. They held up their hands to heaven and called out, ‘Gods, punish Narcissus! Let him love, but never be loved in return.’
Nemesis, the god of vengeance, heard their prayers. He began to watch Narcissus, waiting for the chance to punish him.
One day, hot and tired after a weary hunt, Narcissus stumbled into a forest clearing, where reeds and lush marsh flowers grew up around the rim of a woodland pool. He knelt beside the water and lowered his head, ready to drink. But then, shimmering beneath him, the image of a face seemed to rise up through the water and gaze at him.
The face was framed with black curls that fell across a pale forehead. A pair of eyes, dark in their sockets and full of wonder, looked into his. Beneath the nose, straight and perfectly formed, the red lips were parted in surprise.
Enchanted, Narcissus stared. The creature in the water was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and his heart was filled with the first passionate love he had ever known.
Trembling, he put out his hand, longing to touch and stroke the creature’s soft cheek. But as soon as his hand touched the water, the lovely face disappeared, fractured by a thousand ripples.
Afraid he had been too hasty, Narcissus shrank back, then slowly, his heart beating fast, he leaned forward again.
The face had returned. Almost faint with relief, Narcissus cried out with joy. The lips below him parted soundlessly, as if the image was answering his delight.
‘Who are you?’ whispered Narcissus. ‘A nymph?’
The mouth beneath him moved, silently giving back the question.
‘I love you! Oh, I love you!’ cried Narcissus.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered his face to the water. The image rose to meet him. The eyes gazed worshipfully into his. The mouth was pursed to kiss.
Narcissus shut his eyes, and his head was spinning as he bent lower still, longing to feel the soft lips on his own.
Instead of warm flesh he touched cold water.
His eyes flew open. The face had splintered again into jagged shards of light. He could see nothing but a writhing nose, shaking shadows where the eyes should be, and a broken mouth that twisted and disappeared, then formed itself again and gaped in horror that echoed his own.
Filled with despair, Narcissus lay down on the bank again and wept.
It was evening now, and a little breeze ruffled the water. Leaves blew down on to its surface, and fish leaped up from the depths to snatch at the gnats that hovered over the shimmering pool. Narcissus gazed and gazed, but the creature he loved had gone.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Narcissus whispered to the pool. ‘I’ll wait and watch till you return, and then I’ll love you forever.’
He slept when darkness fell. In the morning, the breeze had dropped and an early mist covered the water. Anxiously, Narcissus waited, and as it cleared the face appeared to him again.
Narcissus greeted it rapturously and pleaded with his loved one to step out of the water and embrace him, but the cold image only moved silently in reply.
In desperation, Narcissus called out, ‘I know you love me as much as I love you. You stretch out your arms and raise your lips to kiss me whenever I lower mine. You laugh when I laugh, and your sighs are the same as mine. Only a little stretch of water keeps us apart, but it could be the widest ocean or the deepest river because however much I try I can never cross it.’
His tears fell then and disturbed the water, and his reflection shattered and disappeared.
‘Where are you going, my love? Come back! Don’t leave me!’ he called out in despair.
A kind of madness had seized Narcissus. Unable to tear himself away from the pool, he no longer ate or drank, and he began to waste away, worn out by love. His dark curls hung limply round his face. His cheeks grew pale and thin. His arms could no longer lift the nets which he had once hurled so skilfully to trap the running deer. His legs had no strength now to support him.
He could only lie and gaze at himself, and he became weaker and weaker, day by day.
Echo heard his despairing cries, and her soft voice repeated them, sending them sadly through the forest clearing, her distress matching his own.
At last, exchanging one final long look with his own reflection, Narcissus murmured, ‘My only love, goodbye!’ And he closed his eyes and died.
‘Goodbye!’ Echo whispered, and the surface of the pool shivered as the sound of her voice rippled over it.
On the heights of Mount Olympus, the gods grieved for the handsome boy who now lay dead by the pool. They changed him into a flower. And if you, who are reading this story, should roam through the woods in the springtime, and if you should come to a pool in a clearing between the trees, you will find narcissus flowers growing at the water’s edge, their white petals perfectly reflected in the cold clear water.
And if you should then climb up to the wild high places, or down to the sea where the cliffs rear up from the shore, or into the caves that tunnel the hills, and if you should call out, raising your own voice, ‘Hello! Are you there?’ Echo will hear you. Echo will answer, repeating the words, ‘You there!’
You will call out again, and she will answer again, and again, her restless soul calling out to you, on and on to the end of time.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/wendy-cooling/mirrors-sparkling-new-stories-from-prize-winning-authors/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Wendy Cooling
Specially commissioned short stories, by prize-winning authors, on the theme of Mirrors.READERSHIP: 10 – 14A collection of new , specially commissioned short stories by some of the finest authors of children’s books today: Anne Fine, Berlie Doherty, Leslie Howarth, Mary Arrigan, Gaye Hicilmaz, Jeremy Strong, Malorie Blackman, Elizabeth Laird , Melvin Burgess, Celia Rees, Kate Thompson, Paul Stewart, Vivian French, Alan Durant, Annie Dalton in range of genres – humour, horror, fantasy, traditional, realism and romance. The collection is aimed at good readers between 10 and 14, and the strength of the stories combined with the excellence of their authors will be certainly be welcomed by teachers, librarians and parents. Edited by Wendy Cooling, a well-known and highly respected figure in the world of education and children’s books and the editor of Centuries of Stories.
SPARKLING NEW STORIES
FROM PRIZE-WINNING AUTHORS
Mirrors
EDITED BY WENDY COOLING
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
SARAH YOUNG AND TIM STEVENS
CONTENTS
Cover (#uc20d01a3-a47d-5631-807c-1c7f739613c5)
Title Page (#u8f07857d-37d5-59d9-864b-c80765cf2522)
Introduction (#u7eebeff3-10cd-52d1-a150-a3f48c71fdf9)
Elizabeth Laird: The Fateful Mirror (#ulink_30a98770-11c1-538a-9542-287e767fb786)
Gaye Hiçyilmaz: The Mirrored Garden (#ulink_1ec7fe02-c86c-5138-a23d-cefe4800fe19)
Lesley Howarth: Mirrors dot com
Jeremy Strong: Never Trust a Parrot
Malorie Blackman: Watching
Vivian French: Selim-Hassan the Seventh
Melvin Burgess: Whose Face do you See?
Celia Rees: Silver Laughter
Anne Fine: Use it or Lose it
Paul Stewart: Double Vision
Kate Thompson: The Dragon’s Dream
Alan Durant: Rochefault’s Revenge
Annie Dalton: Lilac Peabody
Mary Arrigan: The Disappearance
Berlie Doherty: The Girl of Silver Lake
About the Contributors (#ua111a659-0afc-554d-b09c-e12ba38fe767)
Other Works (#uf46b826f-91cf-54b9-823c-03482a2ddc4a)
Copyright (#u66b8c737-63e8-503e-94c9-cc55c897bfbb)
About the Publisher (#ua07ad25c-83d9-5a71-85b1-150c282a9e70)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_303e25cf-e6c8-5eec-a470-752aba54a13d)
Mirrors and reflections have played their part in stories from the ancient tales of the basilisk and the story of Snow White, to the present day story of Harry Potter. The mythical basilisk could turn a creature to stone with just a look and could only be destroyed by seeing its own reflection in a mirror. Snow White’s step-mother appeals to her all-seeing mirror for confirmation of her beauty. Harry Potter finds the Mirror of Erised and sees in it what he desires most in life – his family.
The dictionary definition of ‘mirror’ is something that gives a faithful reflection. In fiction, mirrors do not have to play by the rules! This book contains fifteen newly written stories in which a mirror plays a vital part. One is a beautiful re-telling of the story of Narcissus and his reflection – perhaps the oldest mirror story of all – and the rest, brand new stories that reflect the imaginations of some of today’s finest writers. Read the stories in any order, then maybe you’ll want to go on and look at some of the novels written by these authors.
Enjoy!
Elizabeth Laird THE FATEFUL MIRROR (#ulink_7a4f1220-17c2-50c8-88a8-2e60c62039b9)
The Story of Echo and Narcissus
In ancient times, when the old gods ruled from Mount Olympus, a handsome young hunter roamed the earth, trapping in his nets any prey that came within his reach.
He was sixteen years old, and already many young women, and men too, had fallen in love with him.
His name was Narcissus.
In the forest where he hunted, a young girl wandered, looking for flowers. She talked as she ran about, and her tongue, like her feet, was never still. But her speech was meaningless, for the goddess Juno, angered by the girl’s endless chatter, had cruelly condemned her only to repeat the words that others spoke.
Her name was Echo.
One day, worn out by the hunt, Narcissus lay down in the shade of a spreading tree and closed his eyes. Echo ran past and saw him. She stopped at once when she saw the boy, then crept towards him and stood looking down at him, at the dark curls falling over his high forehead, the blush of red on his cheek, and the slender strong hands that still held his nets as he slept. And as she gazed at him, she fell in love.
She longed to touch his hand, to wake him and tell him that she loved him, but she could not. The only words she could utter would be echoes of his own.
She crept away and hid behind a tree.
I’ll wait, she thought. When he wakes up I’ll follow him and listen. Perhaps he’ll say something I can repeat, to show him that I love him.
At last Narcissus opened his eyes, sighed, sat up and stretched himself. Then he looked round. With the sharp senses of the hunter he knew he was not alone.
‘Who’s there?’ he called out.
Echo trembled at the sound of his voice, lightly shaking the branch she was holding. The leaves rattled and a leaf fell to the ground.
‘Who’s there?’ Narcissus called again.
He thought a wild animal must be lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out at him, so he snatched up his nets and ran forward to catch it. Echo stepped silently aside and hid herself under an overhanging rock.
Puzzled, Narcissus moved on through the forest and, flitting noiselessly from tree to tree, Echo followed him. Often he stopped and looked over his shoulder, and she froze in her tracks, so that in the dappled light that shone through the leaves overhead, he would mistake her for the trunk of a young sapling, or a shaft of light, shining on a boulder.
All day she followed him, waiting for her chance, her heart brimming over with love and longing.
At last, when the sun was setting, Narcissus stopped. He could no longer ignore the uneasy prickling in his neck, that told him by his hunter’s instinct that he was being followed.
‘Whoever you are,’ he called out angrily, ‘show yourself! Come here!’
‘Come here!’ answered Echo, taking her chance, and summoning all her courage, she stepped out into the open and ran up to him, her eyes soft with adoration.
Narcissus stepped back.
‘What’s this? Who are you?’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ repeated Echo, letting her voice linger on the final word.
She stepped near to him, but dazzled by his beauty did not notice the cold disdain in his eyes.
‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’ cried Narcissus.
‘Touch me!’ laughed Echo, delighted that at last the words she was forced to say reflected her true feelings, and she tried to throw her arms round his neck.
Narcissus pushed her roughly aside. He had never known love, and he had none to give.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted angrily. ‘How dare you think that I could love you?’
‘I could love you,’ faltered Echo, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ Narcissus said, and he turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Away! Alone!’ murmured Echo.
Her face burned with shame and she slipped back into the shadow of the trees. Rejected, her heart shrinking with misery, she fled from the forest, and wandering aimlessly, took refuge in the cold, distant mountains. There she starved herself, refusing to eat, and at last she pined away, until all that remained of her was her voice.
Down in the forest, the spirits of the woods and the water were angry with the cold-hearted Narcissus. They held up their hands to heaven and called out, ‘Gods, punish Narcissus! Let him love, but never be loved in return.’
Nemesis, the god of vengeance, heard their prayers. He began to watch Narcissus, waiting for the chance to punish him.
One day, hot and tired after a weary hunt, Narcissus stumbled into a forest clearing, where reeds and lush marsh flowers grew up around the rim of a woodland pool. He knelt beside the water and lowered his head, ready to drink. But then, shimmering beneath him, the image of a face seemed to rise up through the water and gaze at him.
The face was framed with black curls that fell across a pale forehead. A pair of eyes, dark in their sockets and full of wonder, looked into his. Beneath the nose, straight and perfectly formed, the red lips were parted in surprise.
Enchanted, Narcissus stared. The creature in the water was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and his heart was filled with the first passionate love he had ever known.
Trembling, he put out his hand, longing to touch and stroke the creature’s soft cheek. But as soon as his hand touched the water, the lovely face disappeared, fractured by a thousand ripples.
Afraid he had been too hasty, Narcissus shrank back, then slowly, his heart beating fast, he leaned forward again.
The face had returned. Almost faint with relief, Narcissus cried out with joy. The lips below him parted soundlessly, as if the image was answering his delight.
‘Who are you?’ whispered Narcissus. ‘A nymph?’
The mouth beneath him moved, silently giving back the question.
‘I love you! Oh, I love you!’ cried Narcissus.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered his face to the water. The image rose to meet him. The eyes gazed worshipfully into his. The mouth was pursed to kiss.
Narcissus shut his eyes, and his head was spinning as he bent lower still, longing to feel the soft lips on his own.
Instead of warm flesh he touched cold water.
His eyes flew open. The face had splintered again into jagged shards of light. He could see nothing but a writhing nose, shaking shadows where the eyes should be, and a broken mouth that twisted and disappeared, then formed itself again and gaped in horror that echoed his own.
Filled with despair, Narcissus lay down on the bank again and wept.
It was evening now, and a little breeze ruffled the water. Leaves blew down on to its surface, and fish leaped up from the depths to snatch at the gnats that hovered over the shimmering pool. Narcissus gazed and gazed, but the creature he loved had gone.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Narcissus whispered to the pool. ‘I’ll wait and watch till you return, and then I’ll love you forever.’
He slept when darkness fell. In the morning, the breeze had dropped and an early mist covered the water. Anxiously, Narcissus waited, and as it cleared the face appeared to him again.
Narcissus greeted it rapturously and pleaded with his loved one to step out of the water and embrace him, but the cold image only moved silently in reply.
In desperation, Narcissus called out, ‘I know you love me as much as I love you. You stretch out your arms and raise your lips to kiss me whenever I lower mine. You laugh when I laugh, and your sighs are the same as mine. Only a little stretch of water keeps us apart, but it could be the widest ocean or the deepest river because however much I try I can never cross it.’
His tears fell then and disturbed the water, and his reflection shattered and disappeared.
‘Where are you going, my love? Come back! Don’t leave me!’ he called out in despair.
A kind of madness had seized Narcissus. Unable to tear himself away from the pool, he no longer ate or drank, and he began to waste away, worn out by love. His dark curls hung limply round his face. His cheeks grew pale and thin. His arms could no longer lift the nets which he had once hurled so skilfully to trap the running deer. His legs had no strength now to support him.
He could only lie and gaze at himself, and he became weaker and weaker, day by day.
Echo heard his despairing cries, and her soft voice repeated them, sending them sadly through the forest clearing, her distress matching his own.
At last, exchanging one final long look with his own reflection, Narcissus murmured, ‘My only love, goodbye!’ And he closed his eyes and died.
‘Goodbye!’ Echo whispered, and the surface of the pool shivered as the sound of her voice rippled over it.
On the heights of Mount Olympus, the gods grieved for the handsome boy who now lay dead by the pool. They changed him into a flower. And if you, who are reading this story, should roam through the woods in the springtime, and if you should come to a pool in a clearing between the trees, you will find narcissus flowers growing at the water’s edge, their white petals perfectly reflected in the cold clear water.
And if you should then climb up to the wild high places, or down to the sea where the cliffs rear up from the shore, or into the caves that tunnel the hills, and if you should call out, raising your own voice, ‘Hello! Are you there?’ Echo will hear you. Echo will answer, repeating the words, ‘You there!’
You will call out again, and she will answer again, and again, her restless soul calling out to you, on and on to the end of time.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/wendy-cooling/mirrors-sparkling-new-stories-from-prize-winning-authors/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Wendy Cooling
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Детская проза
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Specially commissioned short stories, by prize-winning authors, on the theme of Mirrors.READERSHIP: 10 – 14A collection of new , specially commissioned short stories by some of the finest authors of children’s books today: Anne Fine, Berlie Doherty, Leslie Howarth, Mary Arrigan, Gaye Hicilmaz, Jeremy Strong, Malorie Blackman, Elizabeth Laird , Melvin Burgess, Celia Rees, Kate Thompson, Paul Stewart, Vivian French, Alan Durant, Annie Dalton in range of genres – humour, horror, fantasy, traditional, realism and romance. The collection is aimed at good readers between 10 and 14, and the strength of the stories combined with the excellence of their authors will be certainly be welcomed by teachers, librarians and parents. Edited by Wendy Cooling, a well-known and highly respected figure in the world of education and children’s books and the editor of Centuries of Stories.