Something Else Challenging This Way Comes Write Your Own Percival Episode

 

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Blog 10: Something Else Challenging This Way Comes  Write Your Own Percival Episode

By Sophia Salazar, Editor-in-Chief

 

Last time, we challenged you to write an episode of Holloway & Graves. This week, we're doing it again—but with a different corner of the Hocksbox universe.

 

We're talking about Percival.

 

Percival Featherstonehaugh. Pronounced "Fanshaw," as he would be the first to tell you. The most hapless hero in all of children's literature. The man who fled England after his beloved Emily Fairbourne's father expressed his opposition to the courtship "with a firearm." The gentleman adventurer who now finds himself on a sun-drenched Caribbean island, accompanied by goats, baffled by street vendors, and writing letters to a woman who may never read them.

 

We love him. You love him. And now we want to see what adventures you can send him on.

 

The Challenge

Write us an episode of Percival: Lost in Paradise.

 

It can be set anywhere in the Caribbean—or anywhere in the world, if you can imagine Percival's particular brand of dignified chaos turning up there. It can feature any kind of adventure, any kind of trouble, any kind of local character. It can be funny or touching or both. It can be a short vignette or a longer tale.

 

The only rules are these:

 

Use Percival. He's the star. The episode should be told from his perspective, in his voice—dignified, slightly pompous, utterly endearing.

 

Include the goats. Percival has goats now. They don't have to be central to the plot, but they should appear. They are part of his life.

 

Keep Emily in the background. Percival's adventures are framed as recollections written for Miss Emily Fairbourne. Her memory steadies him. She doesn't need to appear, but she should be present in spirit.

 

Give Percival a problem. Something goes wrong. Something baffles him. Something requires his particular combination of good intentions and poor execution. He tries to solve it. Hilarity and/or tenderness ensues.

 

Keep it age-appropriate. This competition is open to ages 5-16, so your episode should work for readers in that range. Gentle humour is the goal.

 

Make it yours. Use your imagination. Send Percival somewhere new. Give him a new challenge. Surprise us.

 

Who Can Enter

This competition is open to anyone aged 5 to 16.

 

If you're 5-8, you might dictate your story to a parent or older sibling. If you're 9-12, you might write it yourself. If you're 13-16, you might write something longer and more complex. All ages are welcome.

 

You can enter individually, or you can work as a team. Siblings can write together. Friends can collaborate. Classes can submit group entries. We just need to know who wrote it so we can credit you properly.

 

The Prize

If we use your idea—whether as a full episode, a partial episode, or inspiration for a future story—you'll receive:

 

£50 (or equivalent in your local currency)

 

A credit line in the published episode

 

A contributor's copy of the episode when it's published

 

Our everlasting gratitude for helping build the Hocksbox universe

 

If we receive multiple brilliant entries, we may choose more than one. If we don't receive anything that quite fits, we'll hold the competition again another time. But we're hoping to be overwhelmed with wonderful ideas.

 

How to Enter

Send your episode to: storymailliterarypost@gmail.com

 

Include:

 

Your name

 

Your age

 

Your parent or guardian's name and email (if you're under 18)

 

Your episode, written in the body of the email or as an attachment

 

Deadline: 31st October 2026 (Halloween—because even Percival deserves a little spookiness now and then)

 

We'll read every single entry. We'll respond to as many as we can. And we'll announce the winner(s) here on the blog and on the Hocksbox website.

 

Meet Percival Again

Before you write, let's remind ourselves who Percival is.

 

His full name: Percival Featherstonehaugh. Pronounced "Fanshaw." He will correct you on this. It will not help.

 

His backstory: He courted Emily Fairbourne, daughter of a Lord who expressed his opposition "with a firearm." An armed footman chased him down Pall Mall. Percival fled. Sensibly.

 

His current situation: He embarked upon a Grand Tour of the Caribbean. He now finds himself on a sun-drenched island, accompanied by goats, writing letters to Emily, and trying to make sense of a world where the coconuts seem to judge him.

 

His voice: Dignified. Pompous. Earnest. Utterly convinced of his own sophistication, even as life repeatedly proves otherwise.

 

His companions: Goats. Several of them now. They have opinions.

 

His motto: He bears up. He carries on. He fails beautifully and tries again.

 

The Percival Formula

Every Percival episode follows a similar structure. You can use it as a template.

 

The Opening:

 

Percival addresses the reader directly, in his characteristic voice. He sets the scene. He explains, with great dignity, the situation in which he finds himself.

 

"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."

 

The Situation:

 

Something has happened. Percival has been drawn into a new adventure, usually against his will and always beyond his comprehension.

 

"Having grown somewhat weary of the dreary golf clubs and tepid weather of England, I took it upon myself to embark upon a Grand Tour of the Caribbean—a region so often described as 'paradise,' and yet, as I have 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 I was rather unwillingly conscripted."

 

The Complication:

 

Things go wrong. Percival misunderstands. He tries to help and makes everything worse. He faces challenges that would defeat a lesser man—or at least a man with better information.

 

The Goats:

 

The goats appear. They comment, in their way. They may help. They may hinder. They are definitely judging him.

 

The Attempt:

 

Percival tries to solve the problem. He does so with great dignity and very little skill. The attempt is noble. The execution is flawed. The result is somewhere between disaster and triumph.

 

The Reflection:

 

At the end, Percival reflects on what has happened. He may have learned something. He may have failed entirely. Either way, he writes it down for Emily, "whose memory steadies every unsteady step."

 

The Closing:

 

He signs off with his characteristic blend of dignity and goat-related circumstances.

 

"I remain, as ever, with great ardour, steadfast hope, and a faint aroma of goat, Percival Featherstonehaugh."

 

Story Ideas to Get You Started

Not sure what to write about? Here are some prompts.

 

The Festival Prompt:

 

Percival wanders into a local festival. Carnival. A village fair. A goat race. He does not understand what is happening. He becomes involved against his will. Chaos ensues.

 

The Culinary Prompt:

 

Someone offers Percival local food. Pepper sauce. Roasted breadfruit. Something that looks innocent but is definitely not. Percival's dignified reaction to extreme spice writes itself.

 

The Transportation Prompt:

 

Percival must travel somewhere. A bus. A boat. A donkey. Public transportation in the Caribbean is not what he expected. His attempts to maintain dignity while completely out of his depth are pure comedy.

 

The Goat Prompt:

 

One of the goats goes missing. Or gives birth. Or develops an unexpected talent. Percival must deal with goat-related drama while maintaining his aristocratic composure.

 

The Letter Prompt:

 

Percival receives a letter. From Emily? From someone claiming to be Emily? From someone who knows Emily? His reaction drives the story.

 

The Misunderstanding Prompt:

 

Percival misinterprets something completely. A local expression. A cultural tradition. A simple request. His attempt to do the right thing based on his misunderstanding creates the adventure.

 

The Cross-Over Prompt:

 

What if Percival met another Hocksbox character? What would he make of Sherlock Lockwood? How would he react to June Holloway? What would happen if he wandered into one of their stories?

 

Tips from the Story Catcher Herself

Joules Young, the creator of Percival, offered these tips for young writers:

 

"Get inside his voice." Percival's voice is everything. He's dignified even when covered in goat hair. He's proper even when completely out of his depth. He corrects people on the pronunciation of his name even when no one cares. Practice writing in his voice. Read it aloud. Does it sound like him?

 

"Remember the goats." The goats are characters too. They don't speak, but they have personalities. They judge. They comment. They have their own agendas. Give them moments.

 

"Keep Emily nearby." She's not in the story, but she's in the story. Percival is writing to her. Everything he does, he does with her in mind. Let that shape his actions, his reflections, his hopes.

 

"Mistakes are the point." Percival fails. That's what makes him lovable. Don't be afraid to let him mess up. The messing up is where the comedy and the heart come from.

 

"End with hope." However badly things go, Percival remains hopeful. He bears up. He carries on. He writes another letter. Your episode should leave readers feeling that, whatever happened, Percival will be okay—and probably get into more trouble tomorrow.

 

Example: A Mini-Episode to Show You How

Here's a very short episode written in the Percival style. Use it as inspiration.

 

Percival: Lost in Paradise

 

Episode: The Incident of the Overly Enthusiastic Donkey

 

From the published journals of Percival Featherstonehaugh

 

Good day to you. It is I, Percival Featherstonehaugh—pronounced Fanshaw, though I have long since abandoned hope of the local populace mastering this simple linguistic detail—writing to you from what I can only describe as a situation of moderate indignity.

 

It began, as so many of my Caribbean misadventures do, with a goat.

 

Not the usual goat, you understand. This was a new goat. A goat I had not previously encountered. A goat that appeared, as if by magic, outside Aunt Gertrude's gate at precisely the moment I was attempting to enjoy a quiet cup of tea and a digestive biscuit.

 

The goat looked at me.

 

I looked at the goat.

 

The goat bleated in a manner that suggested it had opinions about my tea-drinking technique.

 

"Go away," I said, with the firmness one learns at Eton. "I am not to be disturbed during the elevenses hour."

 

The goat did not go away. The goat came closer. The goat was joined by a donkey.

 

Now, I have nothing against donkeys in principle. They are, I understand, valuable agricultural assets. But this particular donkey had something in its eye—a gleam, a spark, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief that should have warned me to retreat immediately.

 

I did not retreat. I am Percival Featherstonehaugh. I do not retreat from donkeys.

 

"Nice donkey," I said, in what I hoped was a soothing tone. "There's a good fellow. Off you go, then."

 

The donkey brayed. It was not a friendly bray. It was the sort of bray that, in England, would precede a strongly worded letter from one's solicitor.

 

Before I could react, the donkey had seized my teacup in its teeth and bolted down the road, the new goat following close behind, bleating what sounded suspiciously like encouragement.

 

I gave chase.

 

I am not built for chasing. My constitution, while adequate for golf and gentle promenades, is not designed for sprinting after livestock. But the teacup was a family heirloom—a Wedgwood, if you must know—and I was not about to let it become a donkey's plaything.

 

Through the village we ran. Past Mrs. Mootoo's bakery, where she paused in her pastry-making to shout what I believe were words of encouragement. Past the cricket pitch, where the players stopped mid-match to watch the spectacle. Past Mr. Basil's garden, where the donkey paused just long enough to eat three of his prize-winning roses before continuing its rampage.

 

The goat, I noticed, was now wearing my hat.

 

I do not know how it acquired my hat. I do not know when it acquired my hat. I only know that the goat was running alongside the donkey, my best pith helmet perched rakishly between its ears, looking for all the world like it had planned this whole affair.

 

Finally, at the edge of the village, the donkey stopped. It turned. It looked at me with what I can only describe as triumph. Then it placed my teacup gently on the ground, nudged it with its nose, and walked away.

 

The goat followed. It did not return my hat.

 

I retrieved the teacup. Miraculously, it was unbroken. I dusted myself off, straightened my cravat (the one the goat had not stolen), and walked back through the village with as much dignity as I could muster.

 

The cricketers applauded. Mrs. Mootoo offered me a bun. I accepted it with grace.

 

Later that evening, writing this account by lamplight, I found myself smiling. Emily would have laughed to see it—the dignified Englishman, chased through a tropical village by a donkey and a goat with designs on his headwear. She would have laughed, and then she would have kissed my forehead, and then she would have said something kind about how she loved me anyway.

 

I miss her. I miss her terribly.

 

But I have my teacup. I have a bun from Mrs. Mootoo. I have a story to tell.

 

And somewhere out there, a goat is wearing my hat.

 

I remain, as ever, with great ardour, steadfast hope, and a faint suspicion that the goats are organising against me,

 

Percival Featherstonehaugh

 

The Fine Print

This competition is open to individuals aged 5-16, or groups where all members are in that age range.

 

Entries must be received by 31st October 2026.

 

Entries must be original work created by the entrant(s).

 

Parents or guardians must provide permission for entrants under 18.

 

We reserve the right to edit, adapt, or use ideas in ways that work for publication.

 

If we use your idea, you'll be credited and we'll contact you to arrange the prize.

 

Multiple entries are welcome. Send as many ideas as you like.

 

There's no entry fee. This is just for fun.

 

A Final Word on Percival

There's a reason we love Percival. It's not because he's successful. It's not because he's competent. It's because he keeps going.

 

He lost Emily. He fled his home. He ended up on an island he never planned to visit, surrounded by animals he never asked for, writing letters to a woman who may never read them. And yet he carries on. He bears up. He faces each new disaster with dignity and hope and that faint aroma of goat.

 

He is, in his own way, a hero. Not the hero who wins. The hero who tries.

 

When you write your episode, remember that. Percival doesn't need to succeed. He just needs to try. He needs to get back up, dust himself off, and write another letter.

 

That's enough. That's everything.

 

We can't wait to read what you create.

 

Next  in Blog 11: Something Final This Way Comes — Write Your Own Sherlock Lockwood Episode

 

Until then: keep your teacup close and your hat away from goats.

 

Look, Listen, Linger, Laugh, and Love.

 

— Sophia Salazar, Editor-in-Chief