Rhyming boy
Rhyming boy is my first prose fiction for young people.
Jayden Hayden, wordsmith, aka rhyming boy, doesn't have a dad - just a mum obsessed with Jayden Finch, the footballer, and an embarrassing name that gets him teased. When a school father-son day is announced, Jayden's quest for answers becomes a puzzle he needs to solve, and quickly. Could Jayden Finch be more than just a footballer? With the help of his an-answer-to-every-question friend Saskia, he aims to track down his namesake and his father all in one go.

A novel about a young boy's search for family, friendship and ... footballers.
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since April 09
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Page One of RHYMING BOY

In the street of silly names

I turn the page quickly.

 
Riley Willis, firefighter, smashes down the heavy wooden door with his axe and leaps through the flames, lifting Henry Tumbleton onto his broad shoulders and carrying the overweight
octogenarian from the blazing fury of his scorching lounge room.


Never leave chips on the stove when you're watching The Price Is Right!

'Jayden, what's the score, darl?'

Mum's in the kitchen, doing some cooking of her own.

'I'm reading, Mum.

She appears, wearing a blue and white butcher's apron and the lilac ugg boots I gave her for her thirty-fifth birthday. Hanging loosely around her shoulders is a striped football scarf. She's holding a spoon full of a mysterious dark red liquid. She runs her finger along the spoon and tastes it, smacking her lips loudly.


‘Keep an eye on the game, darl! Whistle if the hunk scores again. I’m not wearing this blessed scarf for fashion, you know.’

The hunk is Jayden Finch, in his farewell season for Souths. He’s so famous people name their children after him. Like Mum, who’s searching for the television remote. She picks up
my books scattered on the couch.

‘It’s like a plague of books in here.’

‘I was reading and checking the score, Mum.
 
She walks to the spare room, opens the door and throws the books inside.

‘Jayden, a wise mouth gathers no foot. You can’t do two things at once. Either watch footy or spend all day with your head stuck in those pages like a toucan.’

‘Haven’t you heard of multi-tasking, Mum.’

It’s my word for the day.
Every morning at precisely seven-fifteen, I close my eyes, open my dictionary at a random page and point to a word. I study its meaning, then try to fit it into a conversation during the day.
The only word to stump me this year was precipitant - to rush headlong, hastily.
Something Mum’s pretty good at.

‘Multi-task my eye! Watch the telly, darl. Some things are more important than books.’

Mum looks at the spoon in her hand, trying to remember what she’s been doing.

‘Blood, Mum. Mixing blood in the kitchen.’

She holds the wooden spoon close to her nose and sniffs.

‘Don’t be silly. You’d need a metal spoon for blood. It’s raspberry coulis.’
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