Curtis Jobling's Blog, page 3
May 21, 2013
WEREWORLD: STORM OF SHARKS out today in US! Plus, Sandbach School visit...
Today sees the US release of WEREWORLD: Storm of Sharks - long awaited and the penultimate volume in the series. Still working on the last book as we draw dangerously close to the deadline date, but rest assured War of the Werelords will be in stores in October. 
You can also take a look at the cracking video piece produced from yesterday's visit to Sandbach School. I had a fabulous time there (as you can probably tell) and am very much looking forward to a repeat visit. Huge thanks to librarians Ms Abrahams and Ms Tomlinson for arranging a great day.
Bada Bling!
May 18, 2013
Author talks in Bristol...
I had a great time this week on a rare visit to Bristol with the fine folk of Puffin. I visited two schools - Queen Elizabeth High and Bristol Grammar - encountering a super bunch of students and teachers. It was lovely to be back there as my own career really started in Bristol nearly twenty years ago, with a work experience placement at Aardman Animation Studio working on Wallace & Gromit's "A Close Shave". This made my talk particularly relevant to the guys and gals in the audience I expect.
There's a lovely write-up of the BGS gig here. Really hope I can make a return visit to both schools soon to spread the 'Were-word' that little bit further. Huge thanks to Hannah at Puffin, Annette at QEH and Lucy at BGS for organising the events. And if you want me to visit your school to do a talk - GET IN TOUCH! Speak with your teachers and send them this way. Would be great to come and talk to you.
Bada Bling!
May 8, 2013
Ray Harryhausen, 1920 - 2013
The first year I spoke at the Animex International Festival of Animation in Middlesbrough, I found myself on a panel with fellow industry bods including visFX guru Tom Martinek from Industrial Light and Magic. The panel was hastily arranged as there was a technical fault, so the four of us fielded questions from the audience. Then came the beauty: 'What was it that first made you want to work in the movies?' I think Tom fielded the question, unsurprisingly name-checking the opening shots of STAR WARS as the Star Destroyer looms into view whilst chasing the Rebel Cruiser. It's undeniably breathtaking and had a profound effect on both myself and Tom as kids, as well as the other members of the panel - they all agreed that this shot was possibly the 'lightbulb' moment where they fell in love with cinema. Not so for me. I bucked the trend. Much as I loved Star Wars and profound as its influence was on my young mind, it was another film that had fired my imagination, from the comfort of my living room. Jason And The Argonauts.
Seeing the statue of Talos groan into life, watching the skeletons rise from the ground, sprouting from the Hydra's teeth - these were what captured my heart as a kid. Yes it's jerky compared to modern day CGI special effects, but as stop motion animation goes this remains sophisticated, stylish and utterly breathtaking. Indeed, this film no doubt inspired every single film maker on the Star Wars franchise, not least George Lucas and Phil Tippett, stop motion animator of many memorable sequences in the series. The name of the fancy shmancy restaurant in Monsters Inc is no coincidence. A namecheck to whom? Uncle Ray, of course.
That's how I've always referred to him, anyway, though I only met him the once. Mention 'Uncle Ray' to any animator, and they'll know who you're speaking about instinctively, just like 'Uncle Walt'. Harryhausen's influence cannot be underestimated as it isn't just animators who have been inspired by him: illustrators and storytellers alike take their beats from his work. The many Sinbad movies, at times flawed by dodgy acting from the human cast, were never let down by the true stars - the monsters of Harryhausen remained utterly believable, the master breathing life into the unreal. One of my real favourites was The Valley Of Gwangi - cowboys vs dinosaurs? What's not to love? He was doing mash-ups before anyone KNEW what a mash-up was... And now he's gone, though his influence remains. If I hadn't fallen in love with his films and characters, I'd probably never have spent my childhood playing with Action Men and Star Wars toys at the bottom of the garden, 'dolly-waggling' as my imagination ran riot. This was where I started growing as a storyteller, lost in my own little world, re-enacting the shenanigans Sinbad and Jason got up to. I would never have fallen in love with the Greek Myths if it weren't for Uncle Ray. I'd never have devoured every puppet animation I saw as a kid if it hadn't been for Uncle Ray. I'd never wanted to be an illustrator if it wasn't for Uncle Ray. I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with roleplaying games if it weren't for Uncle Ray, as this was truly where I learned to spin a yarn. I wouldn't have worked on Bob the Builder, or Wallace and Gromit, or Raa Raa if it weren't for Uncle Ray. And I'm pretty sure my first paid gig, Mars Attacks, wouldn't have happened if Uncle Ray hadn't first animated those skeletons.
I met him that one time twenty years ago at the short lived Banbury Animation Festival. He'd have been in his early seventies at the time and, frail though he was, commanded the audience's attention. Having a plethora of monsters on stage with him also helped as the assembled geek army watched on with slack-jawed wonder. I recall Dr Graeme Garden, of the Goodies fame, sat behind me in the crowd, there with his son. A fan, just like anyone else, who wanted to queue up and shake the great man's hand at the end of the talk. Hands that brought monsters to life...
You'll be missed, Mr Harryhausen, but never forgotten.
Seeing the statue of Talos groan into life, watching the skeletons rise from the ground, sprouting from the Hydra's teeth - these were what captured my heart as a kid. Yes it's jerky compared to modern day CGI special effects, but as stop motion animation goes this remains sophisticated, stylish and utterly breathtaking. Indeed, this film no doubt inspired every single film maker on the Star Wars franchise, not least George Lucas and Phil Tippett, stop motion animator of many memorable sequences in the series. The name of the fancy shmancy restaurant in Monsters Inc is no coincidence. A namecheck to whom? Uncle Ray, of course.
That's how I've always referred to him, anyway, though I only met him the once. Mention 'Uncle Ray' to any animator, and they'll know who you're speaking about instinctively, just like 'Uncle Walt'. Harryhausen's influence cannot be underestimated as it isn't just animators who have been inspired by him: illustrators and storytellers alike take their beats from his work. The many Sinbad movies, at times flawed by dodgy acting from the human cast, were never let down by the true stars - the monsters of Harryhausen remained utterly believable, the master breathing life into the unreal. One of my real favourites was The Valley Of Gwangi - cowboys vs dinosaurs? What's not to love? He was doing mash-ups before anyone KNEW what a mash-up was... And now he's gone, though his influence remains. If I hadn't fallen in love with his films and characters, I'd probably never have spent my childhood playing with Action Men and Star Wars toys at the bottom of the garden, 'dolly-waggling' as my imagination ran riot. This was where I started growing as a storyteller, lost in my own little world, re-enacting the shenanigans Sinbad and Jason got up to. I would never have fallen in love with the Greek Myths if it weren't for Uncle Ray. I'd never have devoured every puppet animation I saw as a kid if it hadn't been for Uncle Ray. I'd never wanted to be an illustrator if it wasn't for Uncle Ray. I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with roleplaying games if it weren't for Uncle Ray, as this was truly where I learned to spin a yarn. I wouldn't have worked on Bob the Builder, or Wallace and Gromit, or Raa Raa if it weren't for Uncle Ray. And I'm pretty sure my first paid gig, Mars Attacks, wouldn't have happened if Uncle Ray hadn't first animated those skeletons.
I met him that one time twenty years ago at the short lived Banbury Animation Festival. He'd have been in his early seventies at the time and, frail though he was, commanded the audience's attention. Having a plethora of monsters on stage with him also helped as the assembled geek army watched on with slack-jawed wonder. I recall Dr Graeme Garden, of the Goodies fame, sat behind me in the crowd, there with his son. A fan, just like anyone else, who wanted to queue up and shake the great man's hand at the end of the talk. Hands that brought monsters to life...
You'll be missed, Mr Harryhausen, but never forgotten.
May 6, 2013
Author visit to the Anglo American International School in Moscow
Hot on the heels of the Endangered Authors jaunt across the United States, my next adventure took me to their old sparring partner, Russia. For a good look at how the trip went, check out the splendid wee film produced by Bogdan across on Vimeo. I arrived into Domodedovo which is one of Moscow's airports. I say it's Moscow's, but it's a whopping hour and a half's drive away on a clear run. I didn't get a clear run on the way i...n - the rain had descended in quite dramatic fashion, making the long road into the city quite a joyless affair. It's fair to say one has a preconceived idea of what Moscow is before one visits, thanks in no small part to what appears in the news and press. First impressions weren't great for me, as I drove past countless high rise blocks for mile upon mile. However, upon finally reaching the apartment I would be staying in, my opinion was beginning to change.
Librarian of the Middle and High School library at the AAS, John Bishop, was waiting to meet me at the door, showing me in giving me a moment to settle before rustling up some company for the evening. Joined by the very lovely Bogdan Mihai and ace art teacher Ellie, we set off to the Corner Burger restaurant. I know, I know, it's not the authentic Muscovite meal, a BLT Cheeseburger, but I was in need of instant and familiar sustenance at that point in time. We shared a laugh and the guys filled me in on the school before I set off back to my apartment to sleep.
An old school bus waited for us in the morning, taking myself and a gang of teachers from the apartment block to the school itself. Security was tight, as one would expect: the school caters for the children of diplomats, business leaders and the like, from over 60 countries in all. Melanie Sobool, Elementary Librarian, and co-conspirator of John's, helped me set up and introduced me to the kids over the following three days. I have to say the kids and staff of the AAC were universally fab, to every man, woman and child. I was made to feel thoroughly welcome and just enough of a rock star to think they might rather dig WEREWORLD once they start reading the books. But this wasn't all about WEREWORLD - I was speaking to kids from pre-Kindergarten upward, not my usual crowd for a distant school visit, but Bob The Builder casts a long shadow over my CV it would appear. Concentrating on picture books and preschool television, I then moved onto Frankenstein's Cat for the 2nd and 3rd Graders before moving onto WEREWORLD with the 4th and 5th Grades.
Suffice to say it'd be great to return and talk not only to the Middle school but also the High school - there's plenty in my colourful career that should appeal to any young person setting out into a creative future.
Subsequent evenings didn't disappoint, and I've really got to thank John, Bogdan, Melanie, Ian Forster and the rest of the staff for chaperoning me throughout my visit. Monday evening we walked down to Red Square to cop an eyeful of the Kremlin. That's an awful lot of bricks. And mortar. And gold. Lots of gold. Tuesday evening involved a trip to the Stanisavsky and Danchenko theatre to watch the ballet - my first time for a bit of tight-festooned dance action and it didn't disappoint. Quite incredible and breathtaking. The only disappointment was the crooked old woman who pushed me aside in her eagerness to get into the theatre beforehand, resulting in a torn pair of jeans.
Home now, and things are slowly returning to normal. Very slowly...
Bada Bling!
Librarian of the Middle and High School library at the AAS, John Bishop, was waiting to meet me at the door, showing me in giving me a moment to settle before rustling up some company for the evening. Joined by the very lovely Bogdan Mihai and ace art teacher Ellie, we set off to the Corner Burger restaurant. I know, I know, it's not the authentic Muscovite meal, a BLT Cheeseburger, but I was in need of instant and familiar sustenance at that point in time. We shared a laugh and the guys filled me in on the school before I set off back to my apartment to sleep.
An old school bus waited for us in the morning, taking myself and a gang of teachers from the apartment block to the school itself. Security was tight, as one would expect: the school caters for the children of diplomats, business leaders and the like, from over 60 countries in all. Melanie Sobool, Elementary Librarian, and co-conspirator of John's, helped me set up and introduced me to the kids over the following three days. I have to say the kids and staff of the AAC were universally fab, to every man, woman and child. I was made to feel thoroughly welcome and just enough of a rock star to think they might rather dig WEREWORLD once they start reading the books. But this wasn't all about WEREWORLD - I was speaking to kids from pre-Kindergarten upward, not my usual crowd for a distant school visit, but Bob The Builder casts a long shadow over my CV it would appear. Concentrating on picture books and preschool television, I then moved onto Frankenstein's Cat for the 2nd and 3rd Graders before moving onto WEREWORLD with the 4th and 5th Grades. Suffice to say it'd be great to return and talk not only to the Middle school but also the High school - there's plenty in my colourful career that should appeal to any young person setting out into a creative future.
Subsequent evenings didn't disappoint, and I've really got to thank John, Bogdan, Melanie, Ian Forster and the rest of the staff for chaperoning me throughout my visit. Monday evening we walked down to Red Square to cop an eyeful of the Kremlin. That's an awful lot of bricks. And mortar. And gold. Lots of gold. Tuesday evening involved a trip to the Stanisavsky and Danchenko theatre to watch the ballet - my first time for a bit of tight-festooned dance action and it didn't disappoint. Quite incredible and breathtaking. The only disappointment was the crooked old woman who pushed me aside in her eagerness to get into the theatre beforehand, resulting in a torn pair of jeans.
Home now, and things are slowly returning to normal. Very slowly...
Bada Bling!
Endangered Authors US Tour
I'm back home in Blighty now, the tour complete and a mountain of dirty laundry all I have to show for it. If you want to find out more about the tour, your best port of call is the official Wereworld Facebook page. The tour featured four authors - myself, Geoff Rodkey, Jacqueline West and Adam Gidwitz - with Peter McNerney from the Story Pirates the maniac behind the microphone. But this is just a teaser of how things went, the transcript of the final days of the tour and a few choice snaps from the trip. How were those final two days? Let me tell you.
We were in Connecticut for the penultimate day, our first port of call Meadowside School in Milford where librarian Gail Sostilio and a tremendously excited gang of kids (and teachers) awaited.... Molly Sardella from Penguin had joined the gang - alongside Elyse Marshall the whole tour has been down to their perfect pitch, planning and handiwork. In the afternoon we headed down the road to Abraham Pierson School in Clinton, where librarian Emily Kelsey greeted us with grinning kids and rather fabulous homemade brownies.
Thanks to Karen from RJ Julia bookstore for championing both of these events.
And the final day? New Jersey awaited, under the watchful eye of Watchung Booksellers (specifically the lovely Marisela and Liane!) What hospitable hosts and grand (and giddy) company! Our first port of call was Charles H Bullock Elementary in Montclair, followed by Ridgewood Avenue school in Glen Ridge. Both schools provided us with a terrific send off for the final Endangered Authors day. Adam's temptation to total the set on the final event at Ridgewood Ave needed to be tempered - I suspect he'd seen a Who documentary or somesuch the night before. Or he'd had too much coffee at the fab Comfort Food Kitchen that lunch. We certainly went out on a high, with Peter pulling out all the stops as Holden A Grudge for the last two shows. There was mad cackling, pantomime child-bullying, screaming, hooting and hollering - all wholesome, nutritious family entertainment. And I only managed to upset one girl with my One Direction mockage (sorry Hannah!)
Then we were on our way, Jacqui and I the first to depart to Newark for our respective flights home. It was strange and sad to say goodbye to the gang after we'd formed such a tight unit/troupe over the previous three weeks. We'd all got used to one another's oddities: Geoff's need to eat six square meals a day; Peter's inability to imbibe more than one beaker of alcofrolic drink; Jacqueline's moist eyes whenever a waggy-tailed, furry-rumped, four-legged friend trots by; and Adam's penchant for locking his travelling companions in the back of each car we travelled in. Yep, sad indeed to say goodbye to them all as I feel I've made friends for life.
I've got to say a BIG thank you to Elyse Marshall and Molly Sardella at Penguin who put the tour together. It's been quite an incredible achievement - thank you so much my dears for inviting this wee fella along with such fabulous authorly company.
THANK YOU to all the schools and especially their librarians who have got behind the tour. This has only confirmed to me my suspicion that the job of librarian is truly a calling and one of the most worthy within any school.
CHEERS to all the students who attended the show - I hope you've fallen in love with all four of the authors who fought for their lives under Holden A Grudge's wicked questioning. Remember - KEEP YOUR HOBBIES! Who knows where they might lead?
LOVE and STUFF to all the wonderful booksellers and stores who have liaised between Penguin and the schools and ensured that every child (and adult) had a chance to snaffle a book or four as a memento of the tour.
But most of all THANKS to my fab four travelling companions. Couldn't have imagined doing this with anybody else. The sadness of our parting is outweighed by my reunion with the Jobling wolfpack back home, though. Coming next is my report from my trip over to Moscow to speak at the Anglo American International School. It was a hoot and an eye opener. Don't expect my body clock to be in working order again until sometime in May.
Bada Bling!
We were in Connecticut for the penultimate day, our first port of call Meadowside School in Milford where librarian Gail Sostilio and a tremendously excited gang of kids (and teachers) awaited.... Molly Sardella from Penguin had joined the gang - alongside Elyse Marshall the whole tour has been down to their perfect pitch, planning and handiwork. In the afternoon we headed down the road to Abraham Pierson School in Clinton, where librarian Emily Kelsey greeted us with grinning kids and rather fabulous homemade brownies.Thanks to Karen from RJ Julia bookstore for championing both of these events.
And the final day? New Jersey awaited, under the watchful eye of Watchung Booksellers (specifically the lovely Marisela and Liane!) What hospitable hosts and grand (and giddy) company! Our first port of call was Charles H Bullock Elementary in Montclair, followed by Ridgewood Avenue school in Glen Ridge. Both schools provided us with a terrific send off for the final Endangered Authors day. Adam's temptation to total the set on the final event at Ridgewood Ave needed to be tempered - I suspect he'd seen a Who documentary or somesuch the night before. Or he'd had too much coffee at the fab Comfort Food Kitchen that lunch. We certainly went out on a high, with Peter pulling out all the stops as Holden A Grudge for the last two shows. There was mad cackling, pantomime child-bullying, screaming, hooting and hollering - all wholesome, nutritious family entertainment. And I only managed to upset one girl with my One Direction mockage (sorry Hannah!)
Then we were on our way, Jacqui and I the first to depart to Newark for our respective flights home. It was strange and sad to say goodbye to the gang after we'd formed such a tight unit/troupe over the previous three weeks. We'd all got used to one another's oddities: Geoff's need to eat six square meals a day; Peter's inability to imbibe more than one beaker of alcofrolic drink; Jacqueline's moist eyes whenever a waggy-tailed, furry-rumped, four-legged friend trots by; and Adam's penchant for locking his travelling companions in the back of each car we travelled in. Yep, sad indeed to say goodbye to them all as I feel I've made friends for life.
I've got to say a BIG thank you to Elyse Marshall and Molly Sardella at Penguin who put the tour together. It's been quite an incredible achievement - thank you so much my dears for inviting this wee fella along with such fabulous authorly company. THANK YOU to all the schools and especially their librarians who have got behind the tour. This has only confirmed to me my suspicion that the job of librarian is truly a calling and one of the most worthy within any school.
CHEERS to all the students who attended the show - I hope you've fallen in love with all four of the authors who fought for their lives under Holden A Grudge's wicked questioning. Remember - KEEP YOUR HOBBIES! Who knows where they might lead?LOVE and STUFF to all the wonderful booksellers and stores who have liaised between Penguin and the schools and ensured that every child (and adult) had a chance to snaffle a book or four as a memento of the tour.
But most of all THANKS to my fab four travelling companions. Couldn't have imagined doing this with anybody else. The sadness of our parting is outweighed by my reunion with the Jobling wolfpack back home, though. Coming next is my report from my trip over to Moscow to speak at the Anglo American International School. It was a hoot and an eye opener. Don't expect my body clock to be in working order again until sometime in May.Bada Bling!
April 15, 2013
Rolling down the shutters and packing up shop...
You may be able to tell from the severe lack of posts that the Badablingthing BlogSpot isn't the best place to go for the latest up-to-date news from what's happening in the wild and woolly world of Curtis Jobling. Pretty much all of my social media comments (99% of which are obviously piffle) now take place on Twitter, so you really need to be on that there site to follow what I'm up to. You'll find me there as @CurtisJobling - that's easy to remember, right? Trust me, I'm not hard to find.
And the more sensible WEREWORLD related posts tend to appear on the official Facebook page. That's the best place for ALL news on the novel series, with frequent updates not just from myself but the fine folk in the offices of Penguin in London and New York.
So that's me signing out for the last time. BlogSpot was a lot of fun while it lasted, but it was too much to keep up the blogposts, especially when it looked like nobody was reading them ;)
Goodnight, thanks for all the giggles, and I'll see you fine folk across on TwitFace!
Curtis Jobling
And the more sensible WEREWORLD related posts tend to appear on the official Facebook page. That's the best place for ALL news on the novel series, with frequent updates not just from myself but the fine folk in the offices of Penguin in London and New York.
So that's me signing out for the last time. BlogSpot was a lot of fun while it lasted, but it was too much to keep up the blogposts, especially when it looked like nobody was reading them ;)
Goodnight, thanks for all the giggles, and I'll see you fine folk across on TwitFace!
Curtis Jobling
October 31, 2012
WEREWORLD: Rise of the Wolf - the missing chapter!
Hello lovely folks.
I've been promising this so here it is. In truth, it's not so much a lost or missing chapter from 'Rise Of The Wolf'. Although it's a scene that I was particularly fond of, after chatting it through with my super smart editor Shannon Cullen, we decided to drop it from the manuscript. Fun though it was, and a great explanation of the horror Drew has just endured, it effectively postponed us from getting to where we needed to be - the Dyrewood. The artwork here was provided by the fabulous illustrator Sean Steele for the Scarefest Festival in the UK, where the chapter recently appeared for the first time. A couple of elements from this passage made their way into the following chapter in the finished book, but here's the whole passage in its entirety: 'HUE AND CRY'. I hope you enjoy, and have a very happy Halloween!
CJ
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
HUE AND CRY Drew ran.
Bare feet splashed into mud and puddles, occasionally flying out from under him as he skidded along. Each step brought a jolt of pain, his feet tattered, peppered with shards of glass from the melee in the farmhouse. Still he stumbled on. What had started as a flat-out sprint had waned into blind flight, Drew simply wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the horrors he’d left behind. The constant rain slowed his every step, sucking the strength from him.
Over meadow and field he had run, leaping and diving over hedgerow wherever possible, tearing straight through them where no other way could be found. Wicked thorns had torn strips from him, lashing his exposed flesh. The palms of his hands were slick with blood; whose he could no longer tell. Was it the monster’s black blood that stained them, or that of his mother? His own blood mingled fresh with them as he crashed onwards.
The horn blew.
He’d first heard its clear cry over three hours ago, and since then it had drawn closer, joined by others. Occasionally the bark of a dog echoed over the downs, carried on the wind to the fleeing boy's ears. As others had picked up the chase, it was that one horn that Drew heard above the others, as he recognised it immediately. It rose, crystal clear, calling all to come to its aid. It was his father’s horn.
Drew crashed into the cracked trunk of a lone sycamore, clinging to the bark as he recaptured his breath. The tree stood atop a small hillock, a single sentry that stood proud, reaching up into the stormy night sky. His lungs heaved ragged and fast in his chest, his throat dry and parched. Noticing a pool of rainwater between the trees revealed roots, he dropped to his knees, snatching up handfuls of dirty water in his cupped hands. He buried his face in the puddle, which carried the sickening taste of moss, mud and blood. Foul as it was, it quenched his thirst. He dragged himself to his feet, the not-so-distant horns reminding him that he could not dally.
It was then he realised that the hilt of the sword still sat proud from his belly, sheathed within his insides. The pain that he had felt initially had all but gone. He raised his hand to his shoulder, where his father’s first strike had found its target. The blade had carved a great wound there. Blood had spilled forth. Now, although the wound still ached, a scab had already formed over the top of it. The wound itself, where jagged inches of flesh had been torn apart, had already begun to knit itself back together again. How this was possible he might have pondered a while longer, had the sword in his stomach not demanded his attention a little more urgently. What should have been a fatal wound now held about as much discomfort to the boy as a severe case of gut rot.
Still, the sword remained.
Drew grasped the hilt between both his hands and pulled, once. The sword flew out, a fresh gout of blood following it as it came. A familiar pain struck him as the wound reopened, a dizzy spell washing over him as the injury assailed him anew. He tossed the sword to the ground at his feet, pausing a moment to lean against the tree trunk while he caught his breath and bearings.
The horns called, his father’s closest by the sound of it. He counted six in all, the surrounding farms obviously coming to Mack’s aid. Reuben, Brody, old Ben Feather. Grem Jeffers was probably there too, and his boys, Luke and Lester. Luke and Drew had spent many a summer together on the downs, both boys being shepherds and sharing a mutual love for the outdoors. Like Drew, Luke was a natural outdoorsman. Heck, he was probably leading the hunt. These folk who, up until a few hours ago, Drew would have trusted with his life, now sought that very thing from him.
He still couldn’t believe that his father was hunting him, wanted him dead. Couldn’t the old man have afforded him even a sliver of doubt, stayed his hand until the boy had said his peace? What kind of monster did he think he was that would have killed his own mother? Drew appreciated that the situation had looked bad. Very bad. As bad as things could possibly be, to be fair. But he loved his father and now, fleeing as he was, felt pain he couldn’t have before imagined at his betrayal. When the chips were down Mack Ferran had been incapable of giving his son even a chance at explaining. He’d made his mind up without a moment’s hesitation and that cut Drew deeper than any sword blade could. In a matter of hours, the boy had gone from being part of a loving home, to being an orphan, having no family at all.
More barking rolled over the hills and fields now, closing on him. His breath recaptured, he readied himself to start running once more. Glancing at the moon’s position in the sky Drew figured it was probably three or four in the morning. Simply looking at it caused the boy to grow dizzy. It held a spell over him, enthralled and sickened him at the same time. His flight had been staggered by bouts of spasms, attacks that had once more ravaged his body. None of the attacks had been as extreme as the remarkable transformation that had taken him in the farmhouse, but each had been debilitating. At times he had dropped, pole-axed with the pain, as the cramps hit him. On other occasions, the slightest changes had threatened to escalate, as claws and teeth had grown and elongated before slowly returning to their natural state. His body seemed to be in a constant state of flux as Drew battled with the monster that raged within, wanting to break free.
A wavering black line broke up the visible horizon to the east, growing in places as it neared him before thinning as it receded into the distance. It stretched as far as the eye could see, the refuge that he so desperately sought. When he had first fled the farm he was out of his mind, running blind for at least an hour before stopping to think. In his fevered state he had figured that the road was the best route for him, and by following it to Tuckborough he might have been able to gather his thoughts, hopefully before arriving at the town. From there he hadn’t a clue where his road would take him. To be fair he had been hoping that he would wake from his bad dream before then, but such relief had not been forthcoming. His living nightmare had continued, unabated. When he heard the horn he was left with little option. He had left the open road, hoping that higher ground might provide some cover or opportunity to lose his pursuers. But this hadn’t worked, and the further east he had run, the closer he had come to the forest.
The Dyrewood. Ancient and vast, the great forest ran across Lyssia, some three hundred miles long in all and half as wide in places. Widely considered haunted, there were few who dared enter the woodlands, tales of the monsters and terrors within dissuading all but the most foolhardy. Wizened black trees lined the edge of the forest, gnarled twisted trunks that splintered into the ground as if driven there like great stakes, marking the borderlands where civilisation ended and the wilds began. Beyond, the lusher trees of the Dyrewood thrived, expansive green canopies blotting out the sun from the forest floor below. The occasional road wound its way into the forest, but Drew had no clue as to where they led. For the most part they had remained virtually untraveled in recent years, routes that had once been well used now becoming overgrown and impassable. The boy had heard the stories about strange creatures within the Dyrewood, that there were settlements within the forest where people lived, even a great city, but as far as he could tell these were no more than fairytales for little ones. The Wyldermen, however, were no such fantasy. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live in such a Brenn-forsaken place.
As ill luck would have it his pursuers were driving him ever closer to the woods. It seemed to Drew that a decision was being taken out of his hands. The Dyrewood was his only chance for survival. Facing what lay within the forest sounded like a fair gamble compared to the prospect of being torn to pieces by a pack of dogs, or worse still slaughtered by family and friends. Not in a position to dwell on possibilities, his mind still a scrambled mess of shattered emotions, Drew was set on the woods, terrifying prospect though it was. He’d never been this close, the forest a mile away at most now. If he could just get there…
He was about to set off running once more when he wavered, looking down. There in the mud lay the Wolfshead longsword, half submerged in the filthy puddle. He should leave it there, this token of his father’s. Once he got into the woods he would keep running, putting distance between himself and the life he used to lead. He didn’t want to remember, wanted to lose his mind and escape the grief. He let out a scream of anguish, wailing at the moon that seemed to mock him from on high. The scream rounded into a howl as Drew emptied his lungs into the heavens. The dogs, so near now, stopped barking at the sound of this. He looked back to the sword. Reaching down he slipped his hand into the mud, grasping the handle and pulling it clear. Why, he didn’t know; maybe to remind him of this hellish night, possibly to defend himself with. But he took the sword nonetheless.
He set off down the hillside, skidding through the slick earth as he went. Tumbling to the bottom of the slope he scrambled into a dash once more, legs leaden and heavy as he ran as fast as his exhausted body would permit for the remainder of the distance. Halfway to the forest edge he chanced a look back. The posse of farmers appeared over the hilltop on horseback, torches wavering and sputtering in the rain as they gathered by the sycamore tree. Pointing, they blew horns and cried out. “Beast” he heard them yell. “Murderer”. The dogs ran ahead of them, chasing him down, finding their barks again.
Drew’s legs burned, muscles screaming for him to stop, but he couldn’t; to stop for even a moment was a difference between life and death. He pushed himself on, sobbing in fear with every step. The dogs closed as he neared the Dyrewood. The black boundary trees loomed up before him, striking terror as he dashed under the shadows of their boughs. The dogs behind skidded to a halt, not so foolish as to follow him into the sinister forest. Glancing back as he tripped and floundered, Drew could see the pack had gathered short of the twisted trees, some growling, others whimpering, all of them fearful. He looked into the great expanse of woodland, the darkness washing over him like a cold black wave. The men on horseback were nearing. He trudged on, creeping now, stalking as silently as he could, deeper into his chilling haven.
The dogs watched on as their prey slowly blinked out of sight, disappearing into the deep, dark woods. The hunt was over, at least for now.
I've been promising this so here it is. In truth, it's not so much a lost or missing chapter from 'Rise Of The Wolf'. Although it's a scene that I was particularly fond of, after chatting it through with my super smart editor Shannon Cullen, we decided to drop it from the manuscript. Fun though it was, and a great explanation of the horror Drew has just endured, it effectively postponed us from getting to where we needed to be - the Dyrewood. The artwork here was provided by the fabulous illustrator Sean Steele for the Scarefest Festival in the UK, where the chapter recently appeared for the first time. A couple of elements from this passage made their way into the following chapter in the finished book, but here's the whole passage in its entirety: 'HUE AND CRY'. I hope you enjoy, and have a very happy Halloween!
CJ
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
HUE AND CRY Drew ran.
Bare feet splashed into mud and puddles, occasionally flying out from under him as he skidded along. Each step brought a jolt of pain, his feet tattered, peppered with shards of glass from the melee in the farmhouse. Still he stumbled on. What had started as a flat-out sprint had waned into blind flight, Drew simply wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the horrors he’d left behind. The constant rain slowed his every step, sucking the strength from him.
Over meadow and field he had run, leaping and diving over hedgerow wherever possible, tearing straight through them where no other way could be found. Wicked thorns had torn strips from him, lashing his exposed flesh. The palms of his hands were slick with blood; whose he could no longer tell. Was it the monster’s black blood that stained them, or that of his mother? His own blood mingled fresh with them as he crashed onwards.
The horn blew.
He’d first heard its clear cry over three hours ago, and since then it had drawn closer, joined by others. Occasionally the bark of a dog echoed over the downs, carried on the wind to the fleeing boy's ears. As others had picked up the chase, it was that one horn that Drew heard above the others, as he recognised it immediately. It rose, crystal clear, calling all to come to its aid. It was his father’s horn.
Drew crashed into the cracked trunk of a lone sycamore, clinging to the bark as he recaptured his breath. The tree stood atop a small hillock, a single sentry that stood proud, reaching up into the stormy night sky. His lungs heaved ragged and fast in his chest, his throat dry and parched. Noticing a pool of rainwater between the trees revealed roots, he dropped to his knees, snatching up handfuls of dirty water in his cupped hands. He buried his face in the puddle, which carried the sickening taste of moss, mud and blood. Foul as it was, it quenched his thirst. He dragged himself to his feet, the not-so-distant horns reminding him that he could not dally.
It was then he realised that the hilt of the sword still sat proud from his belly, sheathed within his insides. The pain that he had felt initially had all but gone. He raised his hand to his shoulder, where his father’s first strike had found its target. The blade had carved a great wound there. Blood had spilled forth. Now, although the wound still ached, a scab had already formed over the top of it. The wound itself, where jagged inches of flesh had been torn apart, had already begun to knit itself back together again. How this was possible he might have pondered a while longer, had the sword in his stomach not demanded his attention a little more urgently. What should have been a fatal wound now held about as much discomfort to the boy as a severe case of gut rot.
Still, the sword remained.
Drew grasped the hilt between both his hands and pulled, once. The sword flew out, a fresh gout of blood following it as it came. A familiar pain struck him as the wound reopened, a dizzy spell washing over him as the injury assailed him anew. He tossed the sword to the ground at his feet, pausing a moment to lean against the tree trunk while he caught his breath and bearings. The horns called, his father’s closest by the sound of it. He counted six in all, the surrounding farms obviously coming to Mack’s aid. Reuben, Brody, old Ben Feather. Grem Jeffers was probably there too, and his boys, Luke and Lester. Luke and Drew had spent many a summer together on the downs, both boys being shepherds and sharing a mutual love for the outdoors. Like Drew, Luke was a natural outdoorsman. Heck, he was probably leading the hunt. These folk who, up until a few hours ago, Drew would have trusted with his life, now sought that very thing from him.
He still couldn’t believe that his father was hunting him, wanted him dead. Couldn’t the old man have afforded him even a sliver of doubt, stayed his hand until the boy had said his peace? What kind of monster did he think he was that would have killed his own mother? Drew appreciated that the situation had looked bad. Very bad. As bad as things could possibly be, to be fair. But he loved his father and now, fleeing as he was, felt pain he couldn’t have before imagined at his betrayal. When the chips were down Mack Ferran had been incapable of giving his son even a chance at explaining. He’d made his mind up without a moment’s hesitation and that cut Drew deeper than any sword blade could. In a matter of hours, the boy had gone from being part of a loving home, to being an orphan, having no family at all.
More barking rolled over the hills and fields now, closing on him. His breath recaptured, he readied himself to start running once more. Glancing at the moon’s position in the sky Drew figured it was probably three or four in the morning. Simply looking at it caused the boy to grow dizzy. It held a spell over him, enthralled and sickened him at the same time. His flight had been staggered by bouts of spasms, attacks that had once more ravaged his body. None of the attacks had been as extreme as the remarkable transformation that had taken him in the farmhouse, but each had been debilitating. At times he had dropped, pole-axed with the pain, as the cramps hit him. On other occasions, the slightest changes had threatened to escalate, as claws and teeth had grown and elongated before slowly returning to their natural state. His body seemed to be in a constant state of flux as Drew battled with the monster that raged within, wanting to break free.
A wavering black line broke up the visible horizon to the east, growing in places as it neared him before thinning as it receded into the distance. It stretched as far as the eye could see, the refuge that he so desperately sought. When he had first fled the farm he was out of his mind, running blind for at least an hour before stopping to think. In his fevered state he had figured that the road was the best route for him, and by following it to Tuckborough he might have been able to gather his thoughts, hopefully before arriving at the town. From there he hadn’t a clue where his road would take him. To be fair he had been hoping that he would wake from his bad dream before then, but such relief had not been forthcoming. His living nightmare had continued, unabated. When he heard the horn he was left with little option. He had left the open road, hoping that higher ground might provide some cover or opportunity to lose his pursuers. But this hadn’t worked, and the further east he had run, the closer he had come to the forest.
The Dyrewood. Ancient and vast, the great forest ran across Lyssia, some three hundred miles long in all and half as wide in places. Widely considered haunted, there were few who dared enter the woodlands, tales of the monsters and terrors within dissuading all but the most foolhardy. Wizened black trees lined the edge of the forest, gnarled twisted trunks that splintered into the ground as if driven there like great stakes, marking the borderlands where civilisation ended and the wilds began. Beyond, the lusher trees of the Dyrewood thrived, expansive green canopies blotting out the sun from the forest floor below. The occasional road wound its way into the forest, but Drew had no clue as to where they led. For the most part they had remained virtually untraveled in recent years, routes that had once been well used now becoming overgrown and impassable. The boy had heard the stories about strange creatures within the Dyrewood, that there were settlements within the forest where people lived, even a great city, but as far as he could tell these were no more than fairytales for little ones. The Wyldermen, however, were no such fantasy. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live in such a Brenn-forsaken place.
As ill luck would have it his pursuers were driving him ever closer to the woods. It seemed to Drew that a decision was being taken out of his hands. The Dyrewood was his only chance for survival. Facing what lay within the forest sounded like a fair gamble compared to the prospect of being torn to pieces by a pack of dogs, or worse still slaughtered by family and friends. Not in a position to dwell on possibilities, his mind still a scrambled mess of shattered emotions, Drew was set on the woods, terrifying prospect though it was. He’d never been this close, the forest a mile away at most now. If he could just get there…
He was about to set off running once more when he wavered, looking down. There in the mud lay the Wolfshead longsword, half submerged in the filthy puddle. He should leave it there, this token of his father’s. Once he got into the woods he would keep running, putting distance between himself and the life he used to lead. He didn’t want to remember, wanted to lose his mind and escape the grief. He let out a scream of anguish, wailing at the moon that seemed to mock him from on high. The scream rounded into a howl as Drew emptied his lungs into the heavens. The dogs, so near now, stopped barking at the sound of this. He looked back to the sword. Reaching down he slipped his hand into the mud, grasping the handle and pulling it clear. Why, he didn’t know; maybe to remind him of this hellish night, possibly to defend himself with. But he took the sword nonetheless.
He set off down the hillside, skidding through the slick earth as he went. Tumbling to the bottom of the slope he scrambled into a dash once more, legs leaden and heavy as he ran as fast as his exhausted body would permit for the remainder of the distance. Halfway to the forest edge he chanced a look back. The posse of farmers appeared over the hilltop on horseback, torches wavering and sputtering in the rain as they gathered by the sycamore tree. Pointing, they blew horns and cried out. “Beast” he heard them yell. “Murderer”. The dogs ran ahead of them, chasing him down, finding their barks again.
Drew’s legs burned, muscles screaming for him to stop, but he couldn’t; to stop for even a moment was a difference between life and death. He pushed himself on, sobbing in fear with every step. The dogs closed as he neared the Dyrewood. The black boundary trees loomed up before him, striking terror as he dashed under the shadows of their boughs. The dogs behind skidded to a halt, not so foolish as to follow him into the sinister forest. Glancing back as he tripped and floundered, Drew could see the pack had gathered short of the twisted trees, some growling, others whimpering, all of them fearful. He looked into the great expanse of woodland, the darkness washing over him like a cold black wave. The men on horseback were nearing. He trudged on, creeping now, stalking as silently as he could, deeper into his chilling haven.
The dogs watched on as their prey slowly blinked out of sight, disappearing into the deep, dark woods. The hunt was over, at least for now.
June 7, 2012
So good they named it twice...
I'm in New York on the last day of my visit for Book Expo America, an industry convention on a scale I've never quite seen before. I'm here as a guest of my US Publishers, Penguin, specifically to promote the hardcover release of
Wereworld: Rage of Lions
and paperback of
Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf
on Tuesday.
I'm staying in the W Hotel off Times Square which is next door to an old friend, the Edison, where my wife and I stayed on honeymoon. It was a big geekfest getting to stay at the Edison, like many places in NY the scene from many a movie. I'd say the most famous one would be the death of Luca Brasi from The Godfather. Plus Dominic Chianese, Uncle Junior from The Sopranos, sang in the piano bar too every thursday. No regular hotel...
The Penguin authors got to meet the whole of the Penguin team on Tuesday evening at a party on the Highline, high over the city, the view from which was breathtaking.
My hat of geekdom was back on as I spied fellow author Bob Balaban across the room, actor from sooooo many shows films that one would recognise - Gosford Park, Seinfeld, Close Encounters. I was hoping to get a chance to chat with him but the event was quite overwhelming (in a smashing way) as we got to meet everyone who had played such an active part in promoting Wereworld in the US.
Wednesday was possibly the craziest working day I've had in a long, long time. In the morning it was off to the media suite at Penguin HQ to be interviewed for their website. Lots of questions were whizzed my way from the fans who'd answered the call on Facebook and Twitter, so keep your peepers peeled for that footage.
At lunchtime it was into Book Expo itself, to take part in the Speed Date event. 19 tables full of the nation's top booksellers, educators and librarians - each author participating had 3 minutes alone to pitch their book to them. My spiel consisted of doodling of Bob The Builder transformed into a Werewolf and rapid fire series description right to the gong, with a liberal dose/helping of cheeky banter and double entendres. As you'd expect. I thought it would look quite sophisticated and dapper to appear for this event in my gorgeous tweed jacket - y'know, the eccentric Brit author, what what. Turns out rapid-fire speed-dating and tweed don't make the best combo - when I took my jacket off at the 7th table, I quickly put it back on again as it looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water over me. Hindsight's a wonderful thing.
In the afternoon it was back to the Penguin Booth in the main hall for my official signing, which had a very healthy queue disappearing round the corner and went on for longer than the alloted hour, all the copies of the HB Rise of the Wolf being snaffled by the fab folk who turned up for it - hope they can go on to 'spread the Were-word' now.
Met up with my US editor Kendra Levin and UK editor Shannon Cullen in the evening at the lovely Home restaurant down on Cornelia St off 4th.
The greedy hobbit had steak, naturally. Rude not to really. Then it was back to my hotel for an early night, not before a cheeky wander through Times Square.
Off to a school in Brooklyn today, Visitation Academy, to do my first ever school author talk in the US. Hope they understand my language. Oh, and I did bump into Bob Balaban again yesterday, and I wasn't half so shy second time round...
Bada Bling!
I'm staying in the W Hotel off Times Square which is next door to an old friend, the Edison, where my wife and I stayed on honeymoon. It was a big geekfest getting to stay at the Edison, like many places in NY the scene from many a movie. I'd say the most famous one would be the death of Luca Brasi from The Godfather. Plus Dominic Chianese, Uncle Junior from The Sopranos, sang in the piano bar too every thursday. No regular hotel...The Penguin authors got to meet the whole of the Penguin team on Tuesday evening at a party on the Highline, high over the city, the view from which was breathtaking.
My hat of geekdom was back on as I spied fellow author Bob Balaban across the room, actor from sooooo many shows films that one would recognise - Gosford Park, Seinfeld, Close Encounters. I was hoping to get a chance to chat with him but the event was quite overwhelming (in a smashing way) as we got to meet everyone who had played such an active part in promoting Wereworld in the US.Wednesday was possibly the craziest working day I've had in a long, long time. In the morning it was off to the media suite at Penguin HQ to be interviewed for their website. Lots of questions were whizzed my way from the fans who'd answered the call on Facebook and Twitter, so keep your peepers peeled for that footage.
At lunchtime it was into Book Expo itself, to take part in the Speed Date event. 19 tables full of the nation's top booksellers, educators and librarians - each author participating had 3 minutes alone to pitch their book to them. My spiel consisted of doodling of Bob The Builder transformed into a Werewolf and rapid fire series description right to the gong, with a liberal dose/helping of cheeky banter and double entendres. As you'd expect. I thought it would look quite sophisticated and dapper to appear for this event in my gorgeous tweed jacket - y'know, the eccentric Brit author, what what. Turns out rapid-fire speed-dating and tweed don't make the best combo - when I took my jacket off at the 7th table, I quickly put it back on again as it looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water over me. Hindsight's a wonderful thing.
In the afternoon it was back to the Penguin Booth in the main hall for my official signing, which had a very healthy queue disappearing round the corner and went on for longer than the alloted hour, all the copies of the HB Rise of the Wolf being snaffled by the fab folk who turned up for it - hope they can go on to 'spread the Were-word' now.
Met up with my US editor Kendra Levin and UK editor Shannon Cullen in the evening at the lovely Home restaurant down on Cornelia St off 4th.
The greedy hobbit had steak, naturally. Rude not to really. Then it was back to my hotel for an early night, not before a cheeky wander through Times Square.
Off to a school in Brooklyn today, Visitation Academy, to do my first ever school author talk in the US. Hope they understand my language. Oh, and I did bump into Bob Balaban again yesterday, and I wasn't half so shy second time round...
Bada Bling!
May 31, 2012
PRESS RELEASE: Two Book Deal with Simon & Schuster
Chuffed to be announcing the following book deal with S&S today - huge thanks to my agent John Jarrold and editor Venetia Gosling for putting this deal together!
TWO-BOOK TEEN GHOST DEAL WITH S&S FOR CURTIS JOBLING
Venetia Gosling, Editorial Director of Simon & Schuster Children’s Books in London, has acquired world rights in two teenage ghost novels by Curtis Jobling. The first novel, titled HAUNT, will be published in 2013, with the sequel following in 2014. The agent was John Jarrold. Curtis is the author of four WEREWORLD fantasy novels published successfully by Puffin on both sides of the Atlantic, with two more volumes already signed up. He said, of this deal:
‘I'm delighted to be working with Venetia and Simon & Schuster on HAUNT. The book is ultimately about friendship, and how not even death's bony fingers can tear it apart. I wanted to marry comedy and the supernatural together and write a ghostly tale from the point of view of a teenager whose life has been stolen away on the cusp of great things. Well, on the cusp of snogs from the girl of his dreams, anyway. I wondered whether an awkward, nerdy youth would draw on some profound inner power when faced with a limbo existence, haunting his best friend. As ill luck would have it, he becomes an awkward, nerdy ghost. I'd like to say that this isn't semi-autobiographical, but who am I kidding?’
Curtis Jobling designed the Bafta winning BOB THE BUILDER and is also the creator of FRANKENSTEIN’S CAT, the BBC's hit children’s animation series based upon his book of the same name. In addition he has numerous shows in development with Disney, the BBC and others. His website is at: http://www.curtisjobling.com.
For further details, please contact John Jarrold or Catherine Ward on:John Jarrold - email: j.jarrold@btinternet.com phone: 01522 510544Catherine Ward catherine.ward@simonandschuster.co.uk 0207 316 1979.
TWO-BOOK TEEN GHOST DEAL WITH S&S FOR CURTIS JOBLING
Venetia Gosling, Editorial Director of Simon & Schuster Children’s Books in London, has acquired world rights in two teenage ghost novels by Curtis Jobling. The first novel, titled HAUNT, will be published in 2013, with the sequel following in 2014. The agent was John Jarrold. Curtis is the author of four WEREWORLD fantasy novels published successfully by Puffin on both sides of the Atlantic, with two more volumes already signed up. He said, of this deal:
‘I'm delighted to be working with Venetia and Simon & Schuster on HAUNT. The book is ultimately about friendship, and how not even death's bony fingers can tear it apart. I wanted to marry comedy and the supernatural together and write a ghostly tale from the point of view of a teenager whose life has been stolen away on the cusp of great things. Well, on the cusp of snogs from the girl of his dreams, anyway. I wondered whether an awkward, nerdy youth would draw on some profound inner power when faced with a limbo existence, haunting his best friend. As ill luck would have it, he becomes an awkward, nerdy ghost. I'd like to say that this isn't semi-autobiographical, but who am I kidding?’
Curtis Jobling designed the Bafta winning BOB THE BUILDER and is also the creator of FRANKENSTEIN’S CAT, the BBC's hit children’s animation series based upon his book of the same name. In addition he has numerous shows in development with Disney, the BBC and others. His website is at: http://www.curtisjobling.com.
For further details, please contact John Jarrold or Catherine Ward on:John Jarrold - email: j.jarrold@btinternet.com phone: 01522 510544Catherine Ward catherine.ward@simonandschuster.co.uk 0207 316 1979.
March 29, 2012
Work from the children of East Peckham Primary
Posts on the blog have been few and far between in the last couple of months on account of two three things:(a) a steady stream of school workshops 4/5 days of each week(b) ongoing editorial work on the WEREWORLD series(c) being a dad! One of the first schools I visited this year was East Peckham Primary, near Tunbridge Wells in Kent - the work the children had been doing there, especially under fab teacher Miss Braybrook, was terrific. The children were well aware of the Wereworld series before I even got there and were all well and truly on board. Below are the models and poems that the Year 6 pupils of East Peckham produced to celebrate the visit. 
Beware! I am the king of the night,
Eager, waiting to sink my jagged teeth into your flesh,
Always check in your garden in case I'm there, growling,
Somewhere, searching, I look up, down, left and right,
Turning my howl into an evil laugh…(Amelia)
Dagger like teeth,
filthy, black bomb,
eyes ocean blue,
ears jagged but short.
Stalking the night,
searching for his kill,
desperate for ruby red blood.
(Bethany)
Beware my blood red eyes searching for you!
My greasy black tongue is waiting for the sweet taste of blood.
My razor sharp teeth are coming for you, just like a wood cutter.
I'm like deadly soldier, if you hit me I will not fall.
Try to avoid my massive claws.
If you see my rough black fur, try to run away.
See the full moon, hear my ear braking howl.
(Bradley)
My blood red eyes tell anything to keep their distance from me,
I have black, gritty teeth as rough as tarmac thirsty for fresh blood,
Beware my deformed claws,
You can never escape me; I can hear you from a mile away,
If you try to run I can just reach out for you,
I have a deadly, disturbing, ear breaking howl.
What am I?
(Callum)
I am a werewolf
Fresh blood is what I crave.
I come to eat,
I come for meat,
My fangs are my slaves.
My claws as sharp as razors,
My eyes as red as lasers.
My fangs as ready as a new, grey, iron dagger.
Single combat
Of tooth and claw
Will never frighten me
I will come along and bite their necks
It would be sure to kill thee
I would come away laughing
With my victory
Then I would change back and become the human me.
(Charlotte)
I have long grey and pure white fur,
I have glaring black eyes,
Seeking my delicious prey,
Sometimes I don't need all four legs,
I can hunt,
But I can be hunted,
I have a short fat furry tail,
I can be a scavenger,
I am dreaded on Halloween,
I have short, sharp gnashers,
Sometimes human,
Sometimes animal,
I howl under a full moon.
(Daniel)
It stalks with accuracy,
The deadly type.
Its jaws are strong,
Crunching,
Crashing.
Teeth like ice bergs,
Moulded and Yellow,
Jagged, Sharp.
Its snout is long,
A food detector,
Damp, Cold.
Black fur in clumps,
Dark and never cleaned,
Ripped, Greasy,
The stench of monsters,
Overwhelming, Rotten, Beastly.
Wolves run, Eagles hide,
Scarred, Frightened.
When It howls,
With tongue as green
As Its serpent tail,
Flickering, Snaking.
Beware,
Beware,
The Night Beast,
As It creeps in your dreams!
(Fred)
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Breath like rotten eggs,
Raging teeth.
Narrowed eyes,
Glow gold in the moonlight,
Moist, curling tongue,
Lolling all around.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Evil eyes full of gloom,
Like a dark cave.
Oily black fur,
Clumped and patchy,
Tatty and matted
Black and scruffy.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Sagging down his fat belly,
Just so wrinkly.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws.
Don't get too close,
Or danger occurs.
(Gabrielle)
When the full moon appears you fear me
Evil eyes as red as fire
Read about my ferocious attacks in horror books
Everyone is scared of my deadly sharp teeth
When you smell my greasy fur you go completely mad
Oh and my claws as sharp as blades
Let me dig into your juicy guts
For I am the werewolf, thirsty for blood!
(Jacob)
Beware! He is coming, for you tonight.
Eyes as red as balls of fire, raging, raging
A rough tongue as black, as death itself
Strong, like a hound in battle
Teeth like pearls, white and shine.
(Jake)
The beast as tall as the trees,
His long spiny tail dragging through the green leaves.
His teeth as sharp as shark's teeth,
His breath smells like rotting cheese.
His red glowing eyes shining in the dark night.
His hairy grey arms dangle down.
He sneaks out at night to find a midnight feast.
He only howls on a fall moon.
He might be coming to eat you soon! Hawoo!
(Jasmine)
Beware, he hunts for you at night
Eyes glowing red blinding you when you look
Always thirsty, for your boiling blood
Sharp claws like a singular knight's sword
Teeth sinking into its prey like a speeding bullet.
(Jay)
I have deadly, dark eyes the size as round as saucers,
I am bigger and taller than a gorilla,
My tail is big, black and bushy,
I have dark fur that sticks out of my back like needles.
I have sharp teeth that look like daggers,
Sometimes I am on four legs but sometimes I'm on two,
At midnight I come out ready to bite,
I'm sometimes furry sometimes not,
I am always…
thirsty for… BLOOD!
(Kiera)
Beware the beast, beware at night.
Eager for the juicy blood of prey.
Always hunting at full moon, hear my deafening howl.
Spiky teeth like barbwire.
Towering ten foot tall...
So watch out reader you might be next!
(Matt)
Looks Deadly,
Claws ready to pounce,
Eager to scrape and scratch,
Jaws open wide as if about to eat a human,
Tongue lolling out,
As slimy as a snail,
Rough all over,
Spitting, sickening, saliva,
His greasy clumped fur,
Like a cloak on his back,
Eerie, thin, eyes,
Do you dare to look?
Ears poking up,
Hearing every sound you make,
Searching for its prey,
A new feast every day…
(Megan)
Beware the bad beast beware.
Eagerly hunting for juicy blood.
Always searching here, there, everywhere.
So always be on the lookout and check under your bed
Tears meat like scissors across paper
(Michael)
I have the stench of mouldy eggs,
My eyes light up luminous ORANGE in the dark,
My fangs hang down jagged craving for human blood.
I have razor sharp claws ready to attack my prey,
I also have oily black fur that droops in my face,
I'm nine foot and ready to kill,
I'm looking for my prey, YOU could be next!!!
(Molly)
Beware, beware the beast comes out at night.
Eyes as round as a football, glaring at YOU,
A tongue as black as a tyre.
Stench, clinging like rotting cheese,
Teeth, sharp like daggers, coming at your flesh.
(Myles)
Huge dark eyes like glass
hair of a wolf,
ears as black as the winter's night
teeth dripping with ruby red blood nails piercing through the wooden floor,
breath like a rotten soul.
(Sophie)
Hatred and wicked fill its blood red eyes,
Obvious killer with a heart of evil.
Reaching out with its sharp claws, full of disease and infection.
Rotten egg breath, gags its enemy.
Only the fastest can get past its razor teeth, yellow and crooked,
Roaring like a lion, it is the king of wherever it wants to go.
Beware, Beware !!
(Thomas)
Bigger than incredible hulk
Eyes wide like saucers, waiting, waiting for your juicy blood
Anxiously it waits, crouched behind a tree ready to gobble you up
Suddenly it pounces on your head, then works its way down
Teeth like daggers ready to devour your flesh.
(Zoe)
Beware! I am the king of the night,
Eager, waiting to sink my jagged teeth into your flesh,
Always check in your garden in case I'm there, growling,
Somewhere, searching, I look up, down, left and right,
Turning my howl into an evil laugh…(Amelia)
Dagger like teeth,
filthy, black bomb,
eyes ocean blue,
ears jagged but short.
Stalking the night,
searching for his kill,
desperate for ruby red blood.
(Bethany)
Beware my blood red eyes searching for you!
My greasy black tongue is waiting for the sweet taste of blood.
My razor sharp teeth are coming for you, just like a wood cutter.
I'm like deadly soldier, if you hit me I will not fall.
Try to avoid my massive claws.
If you see my rough black fur, try to run away.
See the full moon, hear my ear braking howl.
(Bradley)
My blood red eyes tell anything to keep their distance from me,
I have black, gritty teeth as rough as tarmac thirsty for fresh blood,
Beware my deformed claws,
You can never escape me; I can hear you from a mile away,
If you try to run I can just reach out for you,
I have a deadly, disturbing, ear breaking howl.
What am I?
(Callum)
I am a werewolf
Fresh blood is what I crave.
I come to eat,
I come for meat,
My fangs are my slaves.
My claws as sharp as razors,
My eyes as red as lasers.
My fangs as ready as a new, grey, iron dagger.
Single combat
Of tooth and claw
Will never frighten me
I will come along and bite their necks
It would be sure to kill thee
I would come away laughing
With my victory
Then I would change back and become the human me.
(Charlotte)
I have long grey and pure white fur,
I have glaring black eyes,
Seeking my delicious prey,
Sometimes I don't need all four legs,
I can hunt,
But I can be hunted,
I have a short fat furry tail,
I can be a scavenger,
I am dreaded on Halloween,
I have short, sharp gnashers,
Sometimes human,
Sometimes animal,
I howl under a full moon.
(Daniel)
It stalks with accuracy,
The deadly type.
Its jaws are strong,
Crunching,
Crashing.
Teeth like ice bergs,
Moulded and Yellow,
Jagged, Sharp.
Its snout is long,
A food detector,
Damp, Cold.
Black fur in clumps,
Dark and never cleaned,
Ripped, Greasy,
The stench of monsters,
Overwhelming, Rotten, Beastly.
Wolves run, Eagles hide,
Scarred, Frightened.
When It howls,
With tongue as green
As Its serpent tail,
Flickering, Snaking.
Beware,
Beware,
The Night Beast,
As It creeps in your dreams!
(Fred)
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Breath like rotten eggs,
Raging teeth.
Narrowed eyes,
Glow gold in the moonlight,
Moist, curling tongue,
Lolling all around.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Evil eyes full of gloom,
Like a dark cave.
Oily black fur,
Clumped and patchy,
Tatty and matted
Black and scruffy.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws,
Sagging down his fat belly,
Just so wrinkly.
Razor sharp claws,
Dagger like jaws.
Don't get too close,
Or danger occurs.
(Gabrielle)
When the full moon appears you fear me
Evil eyes as red as fire
Read about my ferocious attacks in horror books
Everyone is scared of my deadly sharp teeth
When you smell my greasy fur you go completely mad
Oh and my claws as sharp as blades
Let me dig into your juicy guts
For I am the werewolf, thirsty for blood!
(Jacob)
Beware! He is coming, for you tonight.
Eyes as red as balls of fire, raging, raging
A rough tongue as black, as death itself
Strong, like a hound in battle
Teeth like pearls, white and shine.
(Jake)
The beast as tall as the trees,
His long spiny tail dragging through the green leaves.
His teeth as sharp as shark's teeth,
His breath smells like rotting cheese.
His red glowing eyes shining in the dark night.
His hairy grey arms dangle down.
He sneaks out at night to find a midnight feast.
He only howls on a fall moon.
He might be coming to eat you soon! Hawoo!
(Jasmine)
Beware, he hunts for you at night
Eyes glowing red blinding you when you look
Always thirsty, for your boiling blood
Sharp claws like a singular knight's sword
Teeth sinking into its prey like a speeding bullet.
(Jay)
I have deadly, dark eyes the size as round as saucers,
I am bigger and taller than a gorilla,
My tail is big, black and bushy,
I have dark fur that sticks out of my back like needles.
I have sharp teeth that look like daggers,
Sometimes I am on four legs but sometimes I'm on two,
At midnight I come out ready to bite,
I'm sometimes furry sometimes not,
I am always…
thirsty for… BLOOD!
(Kiera)
Beware the beast, beware at night.
Eager for the juicy blood of prey.
Always hunting at full moon, hear my deafening howl.
Spiky teeth like barbwire.
Towering ten foot tall...
So watch out reader you might be next!
(Matt)
Looks Deadly,
Claws ready to pounce,
Eager to scrape and scratch,
Jaws open wide as if about to eat a human,
Tongue lolling out,
As slimy as a snail,
Rough all over,
Spitting, sickening, saliva,
His greasy clumped fur,
Like a cloak on his back,
Eerie, thin, eyes,
Do you dare to look?
Ears poking up,
Hearing every sound you make,
Searching for its prey,
A new feast every day…
(Megan)
Beware the bad beast beware.
Eagerly hunting for juicy blood.
Always searching here, there, everywhere.
So always be on the lookout and check under your bed
Tears meat like scissors across paper
(Michael)
I have the stench of mouldy eggs,
My eyes light up luminous ORANGE in the dark,
My fangs hang down jagged craving for human blood.
I have razor sharp claws ready to attack my prey,
I also have oily black fur that droops in my face,
I'm nine foot and ready to kill,
I'm looking for my prey, YOU could be next!!!
(Molly)
Beware, beware the beast comes out at night.
Eyes as round as a football, glaring at YOU,
A tongue as black as a tyre.
Stench, clinging like rotting cheese,
Teeth, sharp like daggers, coming at your flesh.
(Myles)
Huge dark eyes like glass
hair of a wolf,
ears as black as the winter's night
teeth dripping with ruby red blood nails piercing through the wooden floor,
breath like a rotten soul.
(Sophie)
Hatred and wicked fill its blood red eyes,
Obvious killer with a heart of evil.
Reaching out with its sharp claws, full of disease and infection.
Rotten egg breath, gags its enemy.
Only the fastest can get past its razor teeth, yellow and crooked,
Roaring like a lion, it is the king of wherever it wants to go.
Beware, Beware !!
(Thomas)
Bigger than incredible hulk
Eyes wide like saucers, waiting, waiting for your juicy blood
Anxiously it waits, crouched behind a tree ready to gobble you up
Suddenly it pounces on your head, then works its way down
Teeth like daggers ready to devour your flesh.
(Zoe)
