Hocksbox Short arrived as something we hadn't quite expected
Then Came the Shorts
A Letter from Sophia Salazar, Editor-in-Chief of
Hollyhock Books
Just when we thought the magic had reached its peak,
something new arrived.
Something wonderful.
You see, when we first began working with Joules
Young, we thought we understood what she was building. The Story Catcher's
collection. Those gentle, whimsical tales that began as letters across an
ocean. Stories that arrived one by one, like gifts in the post.
We were right about that magic. We were wrong about it
being the whole story.
Because while Joules was writing those quiet tales—the
ones about doors in gardens and frost foxes and pumpkins that rise on autumn
nights—she was also building something else. Something bigger. Something that,
frankly, took our breath away when we finally saw it all laid out.
Hocksbox.
Published by Hollyhock Books and produced by Studio
Hock in collaboration with Joules Young, Hocksbox arrived as something we
hadn't quite expected: a treasury of short, serialized adventures delivered
straight to our blog feeds. Storytelling without limits. A collection of tales
that wander across genres, eras, and dimensions.
And inside that box, we found three worlds we now
cannot imagine living without.
Sherlock Lockwood, Little & Dickie Pembroke, Watson
Let's begin in England.
In the hallowed halls of Saint Edwards Boarding
School—a place of ancient traditions, questionable porridge, and more corridors
than any child could possibly need—two small boys with very large curiosities
began solving mysteries that would make their elders blush.
Sherlock Lockwood-Little is our hero. Age eight and
three-quarters (the three-quarters is vitally important; it separates him from
the common, whole-numbered rabble). Imagine a heron that has been caught in a
mild electrical storm, then dressed in a slightly-too-large school uniform.
Sherlock's hair appears to have its own weather system, and his grey eyes have
a habit of fixing on things—and people—with an intensity that grown-ups find
"unnerving." His school cap is never straight. This is not a fashion
statement; it's simply that his head is moving too fast for fabric to keep up.
His companions are Little and Dickie Pembroke Watson.
(Yes, both of them. Their mother has strong opinions about names.)
Dickie—round-faced, rosy-cheeked, built like a friendly Labrador puppy who
hasn't quite grown into his paws—is the anchor to Sherlock's balloon, the
common sense to his madness. He can talk to anyone—bullies, matrons, cooks,
even cats—and leave them feeling slightly better about life. He writes down
Sherlock's theories in a small, battered notebook, not because he understands
them all, but because he knows they matter.
Together, these two spend their days dodging lessons
and chasing clues. A missing tartan waistcoat. A series of inexplicable
incidents in the dining hall. The strange case of the prefect who keeps
disappearing at exactly 3:17 each afternoon.
But every hero needs a villain, and these boys have a
doozy: the janitor, Mr. Magwath, and his mysterious cat, Tobias.
Mr. Magwath is constructed entirely of elbows,
suspicion, and damp grey overalls. He is the sort of man who, if you saw him in
a field, you would instinctively check that you hadn't done anything wrong
recently. His face is set in a permanent expression of having just discovered a
small boy hiding in a cupboard, and being quietly, terribly pleased about it.
His bicycle is a thing of legend—a rusty, creaking contraption that seems to
run on pure malice.
And his cat—Tobias—is a vast, ginger tom with one eye,
a torn ear, and the general demeanour of a retired prize-fighter who still
remembers how to throw a punch. He moves like smoke and appears like a bad
dream. His remaining eye sees everything, judges everything, and finds most of
it wanting. The alliance between Magwath and Tobias suggests either a deep bond
of mutual respect, or a deal struck with darker powers. Probably both.
What does Magwath know? What does he want? And why
does Tobias always look so suspicious?
The Sherlock Lockwood stories follow our young heroes
as they investigate, deduce, and occasionally get completely the wrong end of
the stick. They are, in Joules's own words, "a delightful romp through
childhood curiosity and unintended consequences," and readers have fallen
hard for these plucky young detectives.
There is also, I should mention, Nimbus—a small grey
kitten who arrived in one adventure and decided to stay. She is, objectively,
the most adorable creature in a fifty-mile radius, with a purr like a tiny
motorboat and the ability to reduce fearsome janitors to sputtering defeat with
no effort whatsoever.
The janitor's secrets, when they finally emerge, will
surprise you. The cat's role in everything will delight you. And the boys
themselves—well, they'll feel like friends by the time you're done.
Percival: Lost in Paradise
Oh, Percival.
I don't know quite how to explain Percival except to
say that he is, without question, the most hapless hero in all of children's
literature, and readers adore him for exactly that reason.
Let me introduce him properly:
"Good day to you. My name is Percival
Featherstonehaugh—pronounced, I might add, Fanshaw—though I hardly expect the
unlettered masses of these tropical climes to trouble themselves with the finer
points of aristocratic diction."
Poor, sweet, hapless Percival. He ran away from love
when his beloved Emily Fairbourne's father took exception to the courtship—and
expressed that exception with a firearm. Sensible man that he is, Percival
fled. Having grown somewhat weary of the dreary golf clubs and tepid weather of
England, he took it upon himself to embark upon a Grand Tour of the Caribbean—a
region so often described as "paradise," and yet, as he has
discovered, fraught with a most alarming number of goats, street vendors, and,
on one notable occasion, a most spirited game of barefoot football into which
he was rather unwillingly conscripted.
Now he finds himself on a sun-drenched island,
accompanied by his new pet goat (who also needs a friend, because even the
universe agrees that Percival shouldn't be entirely alone), trying to make
sense of a world where the coconuts seem to judge him. These are the chronicles
of his adventures—the noble triumphs, the humbling defeats, and the countless
occasions upon which he very nearly expired from either heat, indignity, or the
overzealous application of pepper sauce.
The Percival stories are something rare: genuinely,
deeply funny without ever mocking their protagonist. Joules writes Percival
with such tenderness, such affection, that you can't help but root for him even
as you're laughing at his latest misunderstanding. He tries so hard. He means
so well. He fails so consistently and so beautifully.
The island, as it turns out, is interesting. There are
others here—castaways, dreamers, people who also ran away from something and
ended up somewhere else. There are mysteries to solve, friendships to form, and
an ongoing negotiation with a goat who has very firm opinions about who gets
the best spot under the palm trees.
Readers have embraced Percival with the kind of
affection usually reserved for beloved pets and old friends. His bewilderment
is our delight. His paradise is the escape we all secretly crave.
These are the recollections of a year spent far from
home, written for Miss Emily Fairbourne, whose memory steadies every unsteady
step. If you should choose to walk with him through dust, sun, laughter, and
longing—then let us begin.
Holloway and Graves: Supernatural Investigation and
Other Suspicious Activities
And then there is Trinidad.
When we say this series has everything, we mean it.
Everything. Supernatural mysteries, botanical miracles, a disgraced U.S.
Marshal who's made regrettable life choices, and a ghost who refuses to stop
commenting on literally everything.
Let me introduce the cast properly:
Dr. June Holloway is our
heroine. If you were to wander into the jungles of Southern Trinidad and see a
woman arguing with a fern about its life choices, you've met Dr. June Holloway.
Consider saying hello. Also, consider running.
Born in Palo Seco, a village where the folklore is 70%
lies and 30% government health warnings, Her childhood hobbies included running
a "plant clinic" for cacti with anxiety and successfully lobbying the
village council to recognize a century-old samaan tree as a legal consultant.
(The tree's closing arguments were... leafy.)
Her academic career was less a scholarly pursuit and
more a series of controlled explosions. She was expelled from the University of
the West Indies for "borrowing" a Venus flytrap for a diplomatic
mission, and her Cambridge PhD thesis, Chlorophyll as a Medium for
Spiritual Channeling (And Mild Cursing), caused three esteemed botanists to
switch careers to accounting.
She doesn't just see ghosts; she hosts them, usually
without their consent. She is armed with a machete,' a satchel of seeds that
are illegal in six countries, and a deep, abiding fear of air-conditioning and
polite small talk. She is, in short, magnificent.
Edward Alistair Graves is
a specter of inconvenience. If you have ever met a ghost who apologizes for
phasing through your chest, complains about tropical humidity despite having no
skin, and insists on afternoon tea he cannot drink, you've encountered Edward
Graves.
Born in the 19th somethings to a family
that valued good manners over common sense, Edward's life was a brief and
unpleasant interlude. He attended Eton (where he was voted "Most Likely to
Die Mysteriously"), joined Scotland Yard, and perished in a locked room
with a missing emerald and a vengeful marmoset. His final words were, "Oh
bother, not again."
Death was no escape. After a botched séance, his
spirit was tethered to an antique pocket watch and shipped to Trinidad, where
he discovered the humidity was "an abomination against the natural
order." He now serves as the agency's ectoplasmic consultant, providing
historical context, polite criticism, and the ability to cool your tea without
being asked. His greatest regret is never solving his own murder, though he
strongly suspects the marmoset.
Aloysius Frank Duncan is
a walking cautionary tale. If bad luck were a stray dog, it would follow
Aloysius Duncan home, eat his shoes, and then have puppies on his favorite rug.
He is the human equivalent of a warning label on a power tool.
A disgraced U.S. Marshal from Montana, Duncan's career
ended with The Incident. On a routine warrant service, he mistook the mayor's
prized bull, Titan of the Prairie, for an armed suspect. Witnesses maintain the
bull was sleeping. Duncan maintains it "looked aggressive." He fired
seven warning shots, all of which somehow hit the bull's hindquarters, a fence
post, and the mayor's prized melon.
He was banished to Trinidad, where he met June and
attempted to arrest her ghost partner. He now serves as the agency's
"firearms consultant," though he is technically barred from loading
his revolver. He provides a healthy skepticism, a near-constant supply of
moonshine, and a unique talent for getting bitten, stung, or possessed by
whatever they're investigating. Their dynamic—she competent and exasperated, he
charming and chaos-prone—is one of the great joys of the series.
Finnegan "Finney" Montague III & Toby complete
the chaos crew. No organization is complete without its intern, and ours is
Finnegan Montague III, a trust-fund baby who is proof that Darwinism
occasionally takes long vacations. Finney is a spiritual tuning fork; he
attracts ghosts like moths to a very expensive, cashmere-clad flame. He has
been accidentally exorcised twice, speaks fluent Middle English from a cursed
jewelry box incident, and receives weekly love letters from a banshee he
accidentally proposed to.
His emotional support bloodhound, Toby, is the only
creature at the agency less competent than its owner. Toby is a champion
bloodhound who gets lost in closets, a search-and-rescue trainee who only
rescues sandwiches, and a therapy animal who causes the need for therapy. His
greatest achievement is being banned from the Trinidad Botanical Gardens for
"excessive communion with carnivorous plants."
Together, this unlikely team tackles hauntings,
mysteries, and other suspicious activities—if they can stop bickering long
enough. They operate out of 17½ Palo Seco Beach Road, a hilltop house that is
equal parts Victorian asylum, botanical crime scene, and architectural suicide
note. The wraparound veranda is 40% wood and 60% pure hope. One floorboard
screams in reverse Latin, the kitchen door occasionally opens into a 1950s rum
shop, and the mailbox bites. It's not haunted. It's "architecturally expressive."
The cases range from the straightforward (a haunted
plantation house, a ghostly ship that appears at midnight) to the genuinely
bizarre (a vegetable that only grows in cemeteries, a poltergeist with strong
opinions about tea). But whatever the mystery, the joy is in watching this
unlikely team work—and fail to work—together.
It is, quite simply, unlike anything else being
written today. Warm, witty, and wonderfully strange. A supernatural series
where the supernatural is almost beside the point. The point is the people. The
point is the found family they're becoming, whether they like it or not.
What a Year it will be
As we look forward to twelve months of stories, we're
struck by something unexpected: these characters are becoming friends.
We check in on Sherlock and the janitor's cat the way
we might check on old neighbors. We wonder how Percival's goat is doing. We
hope June Holloway has finally gotten Aloysius to stop causing incidents. (She
hasn't. She never will.)
This is what Joules Young has built. Not just stories,
but habitats. Living, breathing spaces where the ordinary rules of reality take
a holiday. Where readers can pop in anytime, follow characters across multiple
adventures, and feel like they're part of an inside joke.
The Sherlock Lockwood stories feel like classic
British boarding school mysteries, but with a warmth and whimsy that's entirely
Joules's own. The Percival adventures are something else entirely—a comedy of
errors set in paradise, gentle and hilarious in equal measure. And Holloway and
Graves? That's the one we can't stop thinking about. The one that feels like it
could run forever, following this unlikely team through case after case,
deepening their bonds, revealing their pasts, building toward something we
can't quite see yet.
Three worlds. Three sets of characters. Three reasons
to keep coming back.
The Year Ahead
The wonderful thing about a universe this rich is that
it doesn't stop growing.
New installments arrive regularly. New mysteries
unfold. New characters wander in.
Sherlock and Dickie have at least half a dozen cases
waiting in Joules's notebooks. Mr. Magwath grows more suspicious by the day.
Tobias watches from the shadows.
Percival's island is about to receive some unexpected
visitors. His goat remains unimpressed.
And Holloway and Graves—let's just say that Aloysius's
past is catching up with him, and June is not pleased about it. Finney is still
accidentally attracting ghosts. Toby is still lost in a closet somewhere.
Edward is still complaining about the humidity.
The portal remains open. The box remains unlocked.
For those who haven't yet stepped through: welcome.
You've found us. Or perhaps, we've found you.
For those who've been here from the beginning: thank
you. For reading. For caring. For making these characters real by showing up
and wanting more.
The box arrived. We opened it. And inside, we found
worlds we never want to leave.
A Final Thought
There's a moment in one of the Holloway and Graves
stories where June says something that has stayed with me:
"People think investigating the supernatural
means finding proof of ghosts. But that's not it at all. It's finding proof of
people. Of lives lived. Of stories that didn't end when they were supposed
to."
That's what Hocksbox Short is, in the end. Proof of people. Of lives
lived. Of stories that didn't end when they were supposed to.
Sherlock and Dickie. Percival and his goat. June,
Edward, Aloysius, Finney, and Toby.
They're all still here. Still living. Still having
adventures. Still waiting for you to drop by.
The box is open.
Come on in.
With wonder and welcome,
Sophia Salazar
Editor-in-Chief, Hollyhock Books
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