Ma’s Apple Pie

By Brockton Moutray

Have you ever found yourself tossing and turning on your bed unable to get some much-needed shut-eye because the deafening silence of the night suddenly sounds like a jamboree? People snore, cats meow, crickets cry, dogs bark, birds chirp, your bed creaks, and your stomach growls. Have you ever tossed and turned because you couldn’t stop thinking of that delicious homemade pie just waiting to be devoured?

 

Pip, a chubby mouse with floppy ears and a drooping tummy, who only stops eating when his arms get tired, devours an entire apple pie in the middle of the night. Feeling like a swollen tube of toothpaste, Pip rolls off the windowsill and falls into a magical world where an unforgettable journey awaits. This begins an inconceivable friendship, a delightful fantasy, a vivid adventure, and a magical journey. Will unrelenting teamwork, unyielding commitment, unshakable friendship, and a host of zany and unforgettable characters help Pip back to his warm comfy bed where he can feel snug as a bug and get some much-needed shuteye?

Ma’s Apple Pie is the second book in the trilogy. It is a story of fantasy and magic that promises to knock your socks off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398434516

Brockton Moutray

Brockton lives with his wife, Sonia; and their three children, Alyssa, Adrienne and Joseph, in beautiful Vaughan, Ontario, Canada. Brockton dreams his stories and writes his dreams. He enjoys crafting magical, adventurous tales that transport readers into magical lands and introduce them to wacky and zany characters that remain with us forever and ever and ever. His wish is that his writing puts a smile on every reader’s face while teaching valuable lessons about life and the importance of friendship. Brockton loves to travel and has a weakness for different foods. He claims to stop eating only when his arms get tired. When he’s not writing, teaching or eating, he loves spending time in the great outdoors.

Book preview

About the Author

Brockton Moutray lives with his wife, Sonia, and their three children, Alyssa, Adrienne, and Joseph, in beautiful Vaughan, Ontario, Canada. Brockton dreams his stories and writes his dreams. He enjoys crafting magical, adventurous tales that transport readers into magical lands and introduce them to wacky and zany characters that remain with them forever and ever and ever. His wish is that his writing puts a smile on every reader’s face and that his stories teach the world the importance of friendship. Brockton is a very proud Canadian, who loves to travel, exploring different corners of the world, and making new friends. He has a weakness for different foods and claims to stop eating only when his arms get tired. When he’s not writing or teaching or eating, he loves spending time with his pet dog, Louie, and his two pet cats, Tangles and Kiwi. He’s presently thinking of getting a fourth pet, maybe a peculiar parrot or a lazy lizard or a rascally raccoon or a busy beaver or a friendly frog or a grumpy goat or a plump pig or maybe a magical mouse.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to all peoples of the world who understand that there is nothing more important than friendship.

Copyright Information ©

Brockton Moutray 2022

The right of Brockton Moutray to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398434509 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398434516 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgements

Thanks a bunch to all the fantabulous, fantasterrific teachers and professors who have taught me how to make ideas explodify into enjoyable narratives. Your knowledge, guidance, commitment, and dedication to the art of crafting stories have been ginormous.

Chapter 1

Forty Winks

In a lush green valley, not too far from here, lived a 10-year-old boy named Joseph. Joseph lived on his grandpa’s farm with his mother and father and three older brothers Seth, Jacob and Jeremiah and his best friend for life, Pip. Joseph had curly carrot-coloured hair that always sprung out from under his straw hat, a smiling face full of freckles, two missing front teeth and deep blue eyes that always sparkled. Most of Joseph’s friends called him Tadpole or Sprout because of his size. When not at school or doing chores on the farm, Joseph loved to read. He loved reading stories about magical fairies or grumpy ogres or ancient wizards or fire-breathing dragons or brave knights. He especially loved reading stories that ended with … and they lived happily ever after. When Joseph wasn’t at school or doing chores or reading stories filled with magic and adventure, he most certainly could be found sitting alone on the stonewall at the far end of the meadow under the cool shade of the giant maple tree, daydreaming about a pretty girl named Emma Lapis. Everyone said Emma was as cute as a button and Joseph Logan had a secret crush on her.

Pip, Joseph’s best friend for life, was a chubby, blue-gray mouse with a long, thick snout, long whiskers, floppy ears, a cherry nose, orange feet, a long, pink pencil-thin tail and a drooping tummy that was always grumbling and rumbling. Pip loved to eat. He only stopped eating when his arms got tired. Joseph and Pip became the best of friends after an absolutely incredible, magical adventure that took place just a few days ago. Joseph and Pip became best friends for life after Pip lost his tail for mistakenly drinking some milk that belonged to an evil old man named Wilbur. Joseph helped Pip replace the milk, despite having to deal with unforeseen obstacles and many unbelievable characters in the magical lands of Zorak and Blackberry Bog. Joseph’s Pa always said, If you can’t run with big dogs, stay under the porch. Joseph simply had to help Pip get back his tail, no matter what the risks. Friendship, collaboration, perseverance and a whole lot of courage, helped Pip and Joseph find their way back to Grandpa’s Farm. Joseph’s ma was right when she would say, Slow and steady wins the race. This was a life lesson that allowed Pip and Joseph to find themselves, on this very early morning, in a comfortable bed tucked safely under warm, cosy sheets.

Everyone except Pip was fast asleep on Grandpa’s farm. Pip lay awake suffering through a snoring chorus of rumbles, rasps and grunts. The furry mouse hummed and hawed, yawned, tossed and turned on Joseph’s pillow unable to get some much-needed shut-eye. Growing nervous and restless, Pip gently nudged slumbering Joseph whispering, Hey Sprout… hey Joseph… hey Tadpole—whatever you want me to call you—wake up, wake up. Your snoring is going to wake everyone on Grandpa’s farm, everyone in Juniper County and everyone in the whole wide world. A crescendo of snoring, followed by silence lasting only a few seconds, interrupted by sporadic spluttering, more rumbling, more rasping and more grunting, forced Pip to turn on his large, drooping belly, plug his long, floppy, pink ears with his fingers and bury his long, thick, snout deep in the soft plush pillow. His long pink tail swayed agitatedly back-and-forth, back-and-forth in the dark, as if to signal I can’t take this anymore… please stop snoring.

Hey buddy, if you don’t stop your snoring, you’re going to cause an earthquake, the mouse mumbled in the pillow. Pip slowly lifted his head off the pillow hoping to hear nothing but total silence. Disappointed, restless and hungry, Pip shuffled, flipped onto his back, slid his paws behind his head and stared up at the ceiling with its exposed wood beams. Pip crossed his short legs and swayed his tiny orange feet to the beat of Sprout’s (that’s what he called Joseph) uninterrupted snoring, the staccato calling cry of the crickets, the plaintive bleating of the sheep, the pointless braying of the donkey and the rapid rhythmical grunting of the sow on Grandpa’s Farm. Pip hummed and hawed, yawned, smacked his lips and rubbed his rumbling, grumbling, whirring, churning, drooping tummy. He tossed and turned, turned and tossed, making the metal frame of the bed squeak and creak and screech. With all your snoring and rumbling and rasping and grunting, my humming and hawing, the rumbling and tumbling and whirring and churning of my tummy, the crying and bleating and braying and grunting of the farm animals and the squeaking, creaking and screeching of this bed, I reckon we can enter Juniper’s Jamboree and win first prize for the best band sound in the county. Pip chuckled, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

Pip turned and stared at the silhouette of the young boy sleeping next to him; the one some called G. I. Joe on account of his khaki-coloured overalls, the one they often call Tadpole on account of being the shortest kid in Juniper County who, as Grandpa always said, couldn’t weigh more than a half-sack of ’taters. Whatever he was called, he would always be Pip’s BFF: Best Friend Forever.

Pip hummed and hawed, rubbed his bloodshot eyes and looked around the semi-dark room. The eight-drawer barn wood dresser and a section of the whitewashed walls were partially illuminated by the moon’s silvery beams that poured in through the bedroom window. With bloodshot eyes, Pip stared at Buddy, the bloodhound curled up on the mat next to the ox-red, leather butterfly chair in the corner of Sprout’s bedroom. He placed his snout next to Sprout’s ear and whispered, Hey Sprout wake up, wake up… you’re snoring louder than a tractor and you’re driving me crazy. Please wake up. I can’t sleep… and I’m hungry. The haunting stirs of the barnyard animals sent shivers along Pip’s spine. Hey Sprout, the barnyard animals won’t shut up and… and did I mention I’m hungry as a wolf? muttered Pip.

Pip rolled back onto his back, pulled the steel-gray wool blanket up to his chin and placed his tiny paws behind his head. To get his mind off food, Pip thought of all the fun he had yesterday watching young Sprout climb apple trees in the orchard, walk the high beams in the barn and jump hundreds of times from the loft window into the haystack below. Pip could still hear Sprout’s brothers shouting: "Bombs away!" after every jump. Still humming and hawing and tossing and turning, he pictured Sprout playing hide-and-seek in the cornfield, playing baseball behind the barn and chasing the chickens around the yard. He remembered scurrying down to Grandpa’s pond to watch Sprout catch greasy green frogs and watch them slip and slide through Pip’s hands like wet bars of soap, only to be caught all over again.

Unsure of what to do and very, very hungry, Pip slapped his forehead and sighed. His mind filled with images of his fantastical journey two nights ago through the magical lands of Zorak and Blackberry Bog with Sprout by his side. Now that was some adventure! he muttered. Pip rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his orange paws, turned and whispered into Sprout’s ear, When I first met you in that old steeple in Zorak you were more confused than a chameleon sitting on a mound of coloured crayons… and who could ever forget Old Man Wilbur? I thought he’d never give me back my long, pink, beautiful tail. Pip quickly flipped onto his tummy and wagged his tail to-and-fro in utter relief, thankful that they had managed to get back his tail from that mean, evil, crooked giant named Wilbur. A gentle breeze fluttered the leaves on the trees of Grandpa’s farm. The wind chime jingled and jangled and the rocking chair squeaked and creaked on the porch. Hanging aprons fluttered and flapped on Ma’s clothesline in the midnight breeze. Hunger pangs continued grumbling and rumbling in Pip’s empty tummy.

Sprout tossed and turned in his sleep. He mumbled incomprehensible words amid snores, rasps and grunts. He turned onto his side and snored and whistled, whistled and snored, sounding like a whistling chainsaw.

Pip lay back on Sprout’s pillow. "I hope I never, ever, ever, see that that old, crooked man as tall as a giant’s rake, with that long triangular face, those jug-like ears, that prominent nose and that patch over his left eye… like never! he mumbled, thinking of Old Man Wilbur. Pip hid under the pillow. His legs and snout trembled and his heart raced, remembering the old, tall, scraggy giant running towards him. Hey, Sprout… are you awake? Please say something. Please wake up. Pretty please with sugar on top," mumbled Pip, nudging Sprout. Pip nestled tightly against snoring Sprout. He shuddered at the thought of almost being eaten alive by Wilbur and he trembled remembering that the crooked giant ate little boys for breakfast, little girls for lunch and anyone he could find for dinner.

Pip kicked off the blanket and stood on the pillow. He hummed and hawed, yawned, smacked his lips and rubbed his rumbling, grumbling, whirring, churning, drooping tummy. "Gee, Sprout, I could eat a horse right about now. I really wish you were awake. You said you were going to catch yourself forty winks, but by the looks of it… and by the sound of it, I think you meant to say four hundred and forty-four thousand winks," he mumbled.

Pip’s mind momentarily wandered to the opened shelf in Ma’s kitchen. He smacked his lips thinking of the succulent honey bear cookies and the yummy hot-crossed buns. He rubbed his tummy thinking of Ma’s jars of delicious homemade strawberry jams and tasty homemade peanut butter that lined the shelf. He sat on the pillow and shook his head, yawning and rubbing his grumbling, rumbling, drooping tummy. He slapped his forehead. Why can’t I sleep? After all, it’s the middle of the night. It’s not time for breakfast or lunch or dinner… it’s time to sleep, he mumbled. Pip laughed at the thought of reasoning with himself in the middle of the night.

The chubby, hungry, restless mouse leaned against sleeping Sprout. Why am I laughing? I should be asleep like everyone else. This is crazy. He chuckled, tugging on his whiskers. Pip shut his eyes and thought of all the funny names Sprout was given by those fantastical characters they had encountered on their incredible, unbelievable journey through the zany worlds of Zorak and Blackberry Bog two days ago. Gee Sprout, we really did meet some strange characters on our journey… and I can’t believe all the names you were given, he whispered. In an effort to somehow dwindle away the wee hours of the night, Pip smacked his lips, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scratched his floppy ears and began listing all the different names. "Let’s see… I guess… let’s begin with… okay first, you were called Sir Joseph by Do, Re and Mi the singing swallows that wore top hats and white gloves, then you were called Kid by Acorn the Tomcat that wore different coloured sneakers and an orange and purple striped tie, then you were called Pajama Boy by Buffy the Billy Goat with the long white beard and dark-rimmed glasses, then you were called Blondie Blue Eyes by Patches the Possum; then you were called Dumb by Larry the Checked Lizard, then Morsel by Old Wilbur and… Geez, I’m too hungry right now to remember any more names, he muttered. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. I know I should be sleeping but I really need some grub… a piece of cheese, some nuts, a corn on the cob, a slice of bread… a few marshmallows… anything really, just to tie me over until breakfast," he mumbled smacking his lips and rubbing his drooping tummy.

Pip lay on his back and