We proudly present the opening pages of 2023’s shortlisted children’s books, including overall winner The Train with No End.

Niflheim

A Tørson Adventure by Andrew Wilson

1

Ebenezer

Ebenezer stood at the edge of the world and stared into the abyss. Wind and spray lashed his slim frame and stung his eyes. The relentless cold bit at numb fingers that gripped the rim of his sodden top hat. Ebenezer’s short cape, useless against the elements, flapped violently and tore at his neck as
if it also wished to escape from this place.

Yet there the boy stood. Atop the seawall he shivered, his lip trembling as he peered out into the black night’s storm. Waves crashed and the sea roiled beneath him. Ebenezer looked down at the churning water, foaming and seething, ready to swallow him. His mind returned to the image of her coffin being lowered into the ground and Ebenezer wondered whether this would be his enduring memory of his mother.

The grip of his frozen fingers loosened and his hat was plucked from his head. Ebenezer snatched at it but it was gone in an instant, vanished against the black. He cursed loudly but the wind roared back at him, drowning out his pitiful cry.

Then there came another sound; a deep humming noise far out to sea, faint at first but growing steadily louder, coming closer. Ebenezer sheltered his eyes. There was a light out on the water, dancing erratically on the waves. As the humming grew, the light became brighter and Ebenezer could make out the shape of a small boat. It approached the wharf, riding each wave and then plunging down again, momentarily disappearing from view. Each time Ebenezer feared the vessel sunk, the orange light of the lantern reappeared and the small boat followed it up the next wave, the thrum of its paraffin-wick engine driving it on.

The boat crashed into the wharf fifty yards from where Ebenezer stood and a short, stocky man leaped over the gunwale.

Ebenezer lifted his large suitcase and descended the steps from the sea wall. Trying to control his shivering, he puffed out his chest and approached the man.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man did not hear but continued to strain at the ropes, harnessing the boat to the wharf. He was clad from head to toe in thick oilskins, tattered and torn at the edges. Even so, Ebenezer knew those weathered garments offered far better protection on this night than his own waterlogged dress jacket and breeches.

“Sir,” said Ebenezer. Then shouting, “I say, sir!”

The man started and looked up. “Bleeding frost, boy! Ain’t no one ever tell you not to sneak up on an old man?” He finished tethering the boat, then snatched the oil lamp that hung from the bow and raised it to Ebenezer’s face. Ebenezer was dazzled by the sudden light but puffed out his chest again and held the man’s gaze.

“You’re the Tørson boy,” said the man.

Outfoxed

by Rachel Darwin

Chapter One

GEORGE FOX SLINKED HIS SMALL body against the concrete wall. He was panting loudly. Much too loudly! If he was going to have any hope of hiding from Kipper, Jane and Barclay (or “The Hounds” as George liked to call the trio of bullies) he was going to need to be pretty much silent. So, he pinched his nose and tried hard to quiet his breathing.

Pinching his nose was a great help to George for another reason too. He had run right into the small courtyard between the school kitchen and the dumpsters. The smell was horrid! It was awful! It was downright terrible! If he had carried on breathing through his nose, the stench might have got stuck up his nostrils forever.

Old blue cheese and stinky feet.

Rotten eggs and mouldy veg.

Crusty pants and hairy drains.

No, no, no. George Fox had no interest in sniffing that sort of slop, thank you very much!

Which is why, he thought cleverly, moving even closer towards the putrid pong, it’s the perfect hiding spot. Nobody would try and sniff me out here! Not even The Hounds!

Quickly and quietly, George slid into a small, dark space, between two particularly pungent dumpsters.

Since his mum died two years before, George and Dad had pretty much survived on beans on toast (and scrummy Scrumpton apples of course, from Pippin Farm, but more on that later). Dad was wonderful at many things. He could read bedtime stories and do all the different voices. He could build duvet dens strong enough to last the whole weekend. He could even sew George’s clothes back together whenever they ripped. But he simply could not cook.This meant that George hadn’t grown an awful lot since Year Four. So,
despite being in Year Six now, he was no bigger than most of the children two years below. This may have been seen as a bad thing by some, but it did mean he was able to fit into some extremely tight spots. Just like this one…

Between the dumpsters, covered in a pile of autumn leaves, George huddled his body into the smallest shape it could be. He hugged his legs into his chest and tucked his chin between his knees (helpfully, this also covered his nose!) until he was barely visible.

Silent now, unmoving, he stared out towards the pathway… and waited.
Any person passing the courtyard would have been none the wiser that someone was hiding there. In fact, they would have had to look really, really closely in order to spot the giveaways… two hazel-coloured, almond-shaped eyes, peering out from underneath a bushel of hair so orange… it seemed to glow in the dark.

And anyway, George thought craftily, who’s going to come looking that closely? Nobody would come so close to these stinky dumpsters! Not even The Hounds!

And that theory was about to be put to the test. Because The Hounds were just around the corner…

Scarlett Buckling and the Case of the Missing Pictures

by Mario Ambrosi

1: SOLVING PUZZLES

“Four across: Treasures you can’t hold in your hand.”

Gran was in her armchair, peering through her magnifying glass at the crossword.

“I still don’t know the answer, Gran,” I looked up from the detective story I’d got off her bookshelf. “It doesn’t matter how many times you ask me.”

“Have I said that one already, Scarlett?” She rested an elbow on the worn red velvet arm of her chair and rubbed her chin.

“About a hundred times.” To be fair, it’d only been three or four in the hour I’d been there. After the day I’d had at school, though, I wasn’t in the mood for puzzles.

Gran stared at the ceiling. I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to think of the answer or just remember asking the question before.

“Go on then,” I sighed, closing the book over my finger so I didn’t lose the page. “Treasures you can’t hold in your hand. How many letters?”

Gran pressed the little button on the side of the magnifying glass and a yellow moon shone onto the page in her magazine. She squinted at the box of black and white squares.

“Eight. Starts with M. It’s the only clue I’ve not got.”

“M… m…” I looked at her blankly.

“How about a bit of cake to feed those little grey cells?” She tapped her head and started to lift herself out of the armchair.

“It’s OK, Gran,” I said. Her eyes followed mine down to the coffee table next to me. On it was a plate with a piece of lemon drizzle cake. “You already got me some, remember?”

She’d only put it there five minutes earlier but Gran looked at slice like it’d appeared by magic.

“Huh!” she forced a smile.  Her hand shook as she gripped her magnifying glass. “I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

I put down my book and quickly picked up the cake. Maybe she was upset because I hadn’t eaten it yet.

A crunch of sugar then soft, sticky lemon sponge melting in my mouth.

“Oh, wow, Gran! This is… mmm!”

I took another bite and grinned at her, hamster cheeked. Laughter lines wrinkled around her eyes as she forgot about what had annoyed her and smiled back at me.

Beeeeeeep!

The sound of the car horn out front was followed by a dog’s bark. Bogey, Gran’s old Jack Russell, skittered in from his basket in the kitchen. He stood between Gran and the source of the noise – and growled.

“Calm down, Bogey,” said Gran. “It’s only…” she looked at me. “What’s your mum’s boyfriend called again?”

I swallowed. “James.” A bitter taste filled my mouth that wasn’t from the lemon cake so I changed the subject. “Gran, why is your dog called B…?”

Another beep from outside. Longer this time. It set Bogey off barking again.

“You’d better not keep him waiting,” said Gran. She lifted herself out of her chair and handed me the book I’d been reading. I followed her into the dark little hall.

Car headlights shone through the front door’s frosted glass, reflecting off the picture frame fixed to the wall. Gran was looking at the photos it held, her eyes pinpricks of light. Little plastic corners fixed each of the family photos in place behind the single piece of glass. There was one of me as a baby at our old house. Another showed Mum and Uncle Frank as children. In the middle was one of Gran and Grandad on their wedding day. They looked like glamorous old time film-stars.

Glistening in the headlights, Gran’s eyes flitted around the pictures. I guessed she missed Grandad.

“Good memories?” I said, not quite sure what to say.

Gran sighed. “Yes. It’s just… I seem to remember less and less these days.” Suddenly she brightened. “That’s it!” She waved the magazine she was still holding.

“That’s what?” I hooked my schoolbag over my shoulder and tugged down the woolly hunter’s hat I pretty much live in.

“Eight letters. Starts with M,” she said. “Memories. They’re treasures you can’t hold in your hand. Memories.”

I just smiled, waved and headed out the door. I didn’t realise then that it was the last time I’d see her before everything changed.

The Blue Canoe

by Carmen Wittmeier

CHAPTER 1
Now

I’ve never been a sleepwalker. That’s why, when I wake up all alone in a stranger’s kitchen, I’m disoriented. No, not disoriented. Completely frazzled.

Am I really awake? is my first thought. My heart starts to pound then, so loud it sounds like a drum held up right against my ear. The pounding makes my chest hurt, until all I can do is stand in that strange kitchen and breathe. Breathe deep, slow, even breaths and wait for my heart to stop trying to bust out my ribcage.

Think, Ben, I tell myself when I can finally hear again. Look for the explanation.

Making sense of my predicament is easier said than done. I’ve never woken up in a kitchen before, let alone a completely unfamiliar one. To make matters worse, I wasn’t even asleep before I woke up. I was in a car with my father. And even though there’s a light on, something is wrong with my vision.

I blink. I blink again and again until the kitchen disappears and reappears more than a dozen times. Each time I open my eyes, it’s still there. I’m still here.

This has to be a dream, I think. Maybe I only thought I was awake.

I’ve had dreams like that before, ones where I doing chores for hours only to wake up to find them still waiting for me.

Wake up, Ben. Wake up.

I shut my eyes, this time counting down from 10 as I breathe. I imagine pulling out of the dream the same way a diver pushes to the surface. But when I finally open them again, the kitchen is still there.

At least it’s now in focus, I think.
It’s an oddly familiar space, the sort of room where you’d find your grandmother baking an apple pie. But my own grandma has been in a special care home for years, so this couldn’t be hers, even though I get the nagging sense that it should be. Grandma belongs here more than she does in a warehouse for people with dementia.

I try to keep my panic down by studying the wallpaper with the tiny blue flowers. It’s water-stained in a few places and once again, I get the uncanny feeling that I’ve seen these stains before. I drop my gaze to the floor. The hardwood is worn, and the colour faded, the imperfections too detailed to belong in a dream.

That’s when my dazed mind finally notices that my feet are bare. In my dreams, they’re never bare: I never see my feet at all!

“Where am I?” I say out loud. “Is this the backrooms?”

Maybe I’m in one of those liminal spaces everyone talks about at school—another dimension you accidentally no-clip into, like in the video game. The backrooms are always familiar spaces: school hallways, or stairwells, or offices with dividers and artificial lighting. The one thing they have in common is that they’re never right. They’re empty, and the lights buzz, and when you try to walk away, you discover you can’t. If I were to walk through the kitchen door, I might find myself in another kitchen. Maybe an identical one. Maybe even miles and miles of them— an infinity of kitchens.

Shut up, Ben! I scold myself. Are you losing your mind?
I’m not ready to even try going through the door: my mind might crack.
Maybe this is an elaborate prank. Maybe I’m on a reality show, and every move I make is being filmed. Maybe this is an escape room.

There’s a wooden table with four chairs, and a single old-fashioned light fixture. There’s a yellow refrigerator with some tacky plastic fruit magnets: an orange, a banana, and a cluster of purple grapes. There’s a window over the sink with yellow curtains. I can’t see outside; the glass is dark. I blink rapidly.

Dad would have had to sign a form to put me on a show, I realize. He’d never do that.

My legs feel like they’re melting into the floor.

It’s the backrooms that are yellow and poorly lit. It’s the backrooms that have ugly light fixtures. And I have no idea how I got here.

I stand, baffled, trying to remember the last place I was. That’s when I hear the voice.

The Train with No End

by Carmen Wittmeier

1/2)

Henry boarded the train when he was small. There were two people waiting there to greet him. He knew the sound of their voices, and he saw that their faces were bright.

“Oh!” they cried as they took him up in their arms.

The whistle blew as the train pulled out of the station.

3/4)

Through the windows, scenes of wonder passed. At first, Henry was only tall enough to see the shiny blue leather seats, the pebble on the floor, and the faces of his mama and papa. Then he discovered that there were other passengers in different cars. Stumbling along on unsteady feet, he found them.

His favorites were Gran and Gramps. Their car was attached to his, and they were always there to greet him at the door.

He liked to stare at the lacy white curtains that lined their windows. He liked the taste of their sweet tea, and the smell of cough drops on his grandpa’s breath.