Angela Timms
Bio
The winds blew wild across the Welsh Hillside. The goats were fed and locked away for the evening and the house was silent. That was a time to write and a time to create.
Novels got written and the Frixians were created.
Stories (3)
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The Weaver of Dreams
Wizel looked around the cave. He was a small, one foot tall, wizened old man with pointy ears and scant hair which was bald on top but he had grown what little he had left long so that it fell down over his ragged clothing. It reached into his brown wood hood of his jerkin which was tied with a bit of twine over his baggy cream trousers which in turn were tucked into his brown cloth boots. He was alone. Or he thought he was. He didn’t see Rak above him, lurking in the shadows. Rak was like him, similarly skinny but dressed in black, with black hair and much, much younger. Rak’s long sinuous fingers wrapped around the rocks which allowed him to cling precariously to a nearby flat wall and stare down at the bald head of the imp with the long pointed nose and long rheumy fingers. Those fingers were knotted like old sticks and as he tried to tie up a parcel with brown string Wizel made little grunting noises as the paper and string slipped away from him.
By Angela Timms4 years ago in Fiction
All Aboard the Ghost Train
Why does time go so slowly when you want it to go fast and fast when you want it to go slowly? Today we wanted it to go fast so that we can get out on our trip. I couldn’t believe it when I found out we were booked to go. The tickets were bought ages ago and I have kept them safe in my basket. Gadget has checked them so many times today to make sure they aren’t lost. Now they are safely packed in Angel’s handbag and we are nearly ready to go. But we still have to wait. My basket is waiting on the table and very soon we will get in there so that we are easy to carry. We wouldn’t want to get lost as we have to drive into town and get on the steam train. That may not be so easy as Angel and her friends have to, or shall I say are doing because they want to, go in costume. Long dresses, umbrellas and carrying us as well could prove a problem and we certainly don’t want to get wet.
By Angela Timms4 years ago in Fiction
The Princess and the Peach
Abigail was a little girl who always thought that she was a princess. Her mother always treated her like a princess. Her father mostly treated her as a princess but sometimes he annoyed her by telling her that she wasn’t. She acted like a princess and had all that she wanted and that was good enough for her.
By Angela Timms4 years ago in Fiction
