Hello and welcome to my site! I'm a dad, a husband, and a believer in things magical, which is why I love writing children's books.
Billy and the Match Girl is about a twelve year old boy who travels back in time to stop his Great Gran Milly from contracting the dreaded bone disease, Phossy Jaw in a Victorian match factory. Changing history was never going to be easy and my latest book is an adventure with a magical twist!
Echo and the Magical Whispers and Lost Echo are books one and two in THE WHISPERS SERIES, a magical realism about elephants for children aged 9-12. As you may know, the outlook for African elephants is not great, given the poaching that is occurring. The WHISPERS books, written from the elephants' point of view, have a theme of conservation mixed in with the magic with profits going to Elephants For Africa, a registered charity in England & Wales and a registered NGO in Botswana.
Joe and the Ghoul is a magical realism about a modern day Dennis The Menace who meets a Ghoul and steps through a portal in his local art gallery into a world of fantasy (for children aged 9-12).
Comments are welcome, via email (firstname.lastname@example.org) or social media (Facebook and Twitter links are below) and if you'd like to review one of my books on Amazon or Goodreads that would be brilliant!
Billy and the Match Girl
12 year old Billy travels back to 1888 to stop his Great Gran Milly from contracting the dreaded 'Phossy Jaw' in a Victorian match factory.
Changing history was never going to be easy and this latest book by Paul Haston is an adventure with a magical twist!
1 THE START OF IT
Shadows run the room, disappearing into the corners like rabbits down a burrow. Windows rattle like they’re tumbled in a washing machine. Except that nothing ever gets washed at Number 43, Lime Street. The floors are black with soot, the walls streaked in grey. “Billy, you’re under my feet,” Ma screeches, leaning to position the towel between the yellow stained window and its sill. I pull a face, wondering why she bothers. The flyover above our roof is a giant in the sky, those beneath it deafened by a thousand car engines, suffocated by fumes that no number of wet towels is going to stop. “It won’t work, Ma,” I say, trying to explain through the din.
I’m met with a smile that is sharp around the edges.
“’Course it will, won’t it, Grandpa?”
Ancient eyes flicker open, like a ghost awakening. “What’s that?” Grandpa says.
“The towels. Keeps the air out, don’t it,” Ma says.
A leg shifts, with a groan. “If you say so, Martha.”
His wink brings out my smile, for perhaps the first time that day. I glance to the patterns of dirt on the window pane, wondering if that’s what gave Grandpa the arthritis: years of breathing in bad air?