One of the best ways to improve your writing is to read lots - it is why we get children to read lots, not only to improve their reading but also their writing. Another great way to improve your writing is actually just to write. I want to improve my writing as well as my story-telling, especially as my daughrter grows up. I want to be full of cute, little stories to tell her. This space is intended to foster that and incubate it. Please, let me know any feedback or thoughts in the comments or in a message. Without further ado, through the medium of a bearded fellow called Harold, here is the story of a boy who was turned into a fox.
Harold sat with his arms tightly crossed over his great paunch, a thick green jumper the final resting place for many crisp crumbs and pork scratchings. His ginger beard was a fire that over the years had crept further and further down from his weather-beaten face, over his chest and down to his crotch. The tough, brown cord of his trousers, battered from years of woods-walking and heath-hiking, uttered countless stories and mysteries. It was largely unknown whether his leathery boots were originally brown or whether the years of dirt and grime had permanently stained them but it was assumed that there were few tracks, fields, or forests, which had not seen the sight of Harold.
Teetering by some unknown magic on his three-legged stool, in the pub he was understood to be the authority on everything creeping and crawling, croaking and creaking. His deep, gruff voice added an air of wisdom to the folksy figure, as if when he spoke the trees groaned in approval and the white water in the river babbled in agreement. When the families came in, the adults would come together and discuss the boring details of their scandal-ridden Member of Parliament’s comings and goings or how the changes in the weather in the valley would affect this year’s harvest.
Normally, Harold was left to himself. The adults thought he lived in a world of fairytales, inhabited by forest spirits and wild animals. However, the children, with their packet of salt and vinegar crisps to share between them and some apple juice too, would crowd around Harold. Intently listening to his stories, they would strain their ears to hear stories of the animals that live in the woods and the spirits that hide amongst the rocks and copses.
As the children crowded around, they all stared up at their bearded elder, waiting for the next story. One of them, a dark-haired boy called James, was getting bored. With a frown on his face, he looked up at Harold and stomped his feet. “Harold! Harold! We want a story!”
Beneath pillowy eyebrows, Harold stirred. His brow furrowed. “Okay,” he muttered, stroking his beard, “Have you heard of the boy called Jeremy Fox?” James shook his head and sat down, looking eagerly at the red-haired giant sat before him. “Well then, here is his story.”
“Jeremy Fox was the naughtiest of boys,
He often crept about without making a noise.
Some said he would sneak about
And steal other children’s toys.
With his red hair and high white socks
He had a canny knack for picking locks,
For getting in tight spaces
And stealing pocket clocks.
One day in the veggie patch
In his head a plan did hatch.
When he saw where the chickens lived
With their door and open latch.
But a spell was put upon that box
With the simplest touch he became a fox
With the bushiest red tail and beady eyes
He ran around in his white socks!
So if you hear the rustling of paws on concrete
Or a flash of red with little white feet
You may find yourself in the company of
Jeremy Fox out in your street.”
His task fulfilled, Harold finished his pint. He stood up and wandered over to the bar, leaving the children to excitedly talk about every time they had seen or heard a fox and litigate over whether any of them had spotted the real Jeremy Fox or not.