Sunday, 19 December 2010

My finished book
A really low quality camera phone photograph of my finished product, my hardback book with dust jacket and a homemade hardboard barn to house it. The barn was a complete nightmare to make and construct but I am over the moon with the result.
Bobbin the brave- A story by Anna Welsh
The narrative to my recent book, it's canny long so no offence taken if you can't face reading it! But it all rhymes and i'm really proud of it!

The story begins in a Renault Megane, the family car of Jack and Dianne,
the atmosphere tense around an unhappy boy, for where he is going he shall not enjoy.
“You’re staying with Aunt Groany-Moan, we’re off to the Moon, going on vacation, we’ll be back soon”.
A terrified child sits in the back, the car speeds down the unbeaten track,
filled with dread and somewhat sedate, Bobbin awaits his treacherous fate.

At Groany-Moan’s farm he’s dropped at the front, a crooked crone gives out a grunt,
“Beautiful place don’t you agree? How many onions can you see?” 
Grabbing Bobbin in her icy clutch, He shudders from her hostile touch,
“Whilst you’re here you’ll do as I say, the barn’s off limits, as is play!”

In the corner young Bobbin cowers, over him Aunt Groany-Moan towers,
the shower of spit, the gust of shout, as she howls the orders out.
“Before supper there are jobs to do, mop the floor and clean the loo,
scrub the bath or feel my wrath, earn your keep you little creep!”

Onions at breakfast, onions at lunch, Onions at teatime, hear them crunch!
“Eat your onions, then scrape my bunions! When day is dead, it’s off to bed”
Up the stairs and along the hall, creepy portraits line the wall,
Bobbin shuffles to find his room, followed by a cloud of gloom.

Gazing at the moon with its daisy white glow, Notice the shadow skulking below,
It’s old Aunt Groany-Moan, but up to what? Where she was going he knew not.
Night after night with dark at its peak, into the barn his Aunt would sneak.
A week went by, curiosity grew, Bobbin decided that he would pursue.

Through the keyhole his eye did pry, super stealth and extra sly,
Bobbin crept around the door, amazed at what was on the floor,
Groany-Moan’s skin sagged in a heap, back of the barn a cave ran deep,
cows in line wall to wall, conveyor belt used to haul,
a slimy trail going into the cave, Bobbin’s chance to be brave,
off he would go into the dark, upon his quest he did embark.

Cows in order on the track, a humming machine, Bobbin holds back,
this daunting grinder, with intake of cattle, as cogs turn they do rattle,
output of leather, burgers and bones, the smell of flesh and haunting groans. 
Through the tunnel a pitiful light, eye watering stench, obscured sight,
a distant murmur, bones galore, Bobbin’s eager to know more,
on he goes drawing ever near, full of suspense rather than fear,
his stomach tight, mouth dry, following the sound of a chicken’s cry. 

Bobbin gasps at what he sees, with thumping heart and trembling knees,
Groany-Moan herself in monstrous form, her screaming comparable of a storm.
“Onions you must lay my brood, eat the leather, your special food,
for Honion Hens you are my girls, boil the onions, create the pearls.”
After bawling out orders, Groany-Moan departs, the pearl making process swiftly starts,
Hens eat leather, onions they lay, boil them in molasses, hundreds per day,
the product a pearl, great value indeed, feeding Aunt Groany-Moan’s gruesome greed.

Bobbin creates an intelligent plan, contacts the hens through string and tin can,
one receives the tactic, then passes it on, a plan so perfect, conclusion foregone.
Decant the molasses and drown the beast, Honion Hens to be released,
working together they turn the tap, the bubbling ooze completes the trap. 
Groany-Moan returns and gets stuck in the sludge, she kicks and squirms but will not budge,
Bobbin and hens down the tunnel they run, molasses creeping, a liquid tonne,
hurry they must if they wish to escape, through the barn, door agape. 

Upon the roof the escapees climb, ascending to safety just in time,
hot air balloon in the distance there be, their only escape from a molasses sea,
in the basket, Dianne and Jack, “It’s Mam and Dad, they’ve come back!”
“Come on son, it’s time to go, grab the rope we’ve thrown below,
for that mess I hope you’re not to blame, a scolding lecture I must proclaim!” 
Off they went, Groany-Moan slain, flying away over sticky terrain,
Bobbin and the Honion hens wave goodbye, as they soar to freedom through crystal sky,
his parents sceptic to his tale, its believability off the scale!

Monday, 13 December 2010

Bobbin the brave
Here's a selection of illustrations from a children's book I created as part of a university project. I really enjoyed this project as it gave me a chance to be as bizarre and as imaginative as I liked. It's quite a long story to explain in brief so I will post the narrative up on here.