By #ClementineAshe

When a genteel tea party at Thistlewood Grange descends into mayhem, the blame can (as usual) be traced to Arabella and Georgina Worthington. A misjudged jug of lemonade, a toppled cake stand, and an ill-timed flirtation send the nieces headfirst into the ornamental fountain—and directly into a rather damp reckoning. With wet bloomers, rattled china, and one deeply conflicted vicar, Fountain of Misfortune is a spirited tale of toppled decorum, toasty buns, and traditional discipline, applied with rhythm, conviction, and more than a few droplets of moral clarity.

Act 1: Tea, Bickering, and the Baptism of Battenbergs

The garden terrace at Thistlewood Grange had long been a battleground and the scene of countless skirmishes. Most of these campaigns were launched by Lady Worthington's nieces, Arabella and Georgina, whose antics ranged from mere border raids on the biscuit tin, to full-scale sabotage of afternoon tea.

While these forays occasionally yielded temporary gains, Lady Worthington maintained the upper hand with her fearsome arsenal — of which the hairbrush was both first resort, and final recourse. It was said to have quelled more uprisings than the Home Guard, and even had its own campaign medal.”

By #HerbieHind

A Fête Worse Than Death is a tale of bunting, buttercream, and one girl's spectacular miscalculation at the Little Dithering summer fête. When debutante Clementine Beaufort-Smythe crosses paths with the formidable Mrs. Poppet (and her prize-winning sponge), tradition and impropriety collide behind the WI tent, with results neither the bishop nor the cake stand will soon forget.

It was the sort of summer afternoon on which nothing dreadful was ever supposed to happen. Sunlight danced on bunting, bees hovered near sponge cakes and, in the parish of Little Dithering, the annual fête was in full swing.

Elderly gentlemen, with silver hair and weathered faces, wore panama hats with the sort of conviction that could only come from a lifetime of public school tradition. Ladies in floral summer frocks carried parasols like they were royal sceptres, ready to fend off both sun and scandal. The air was filled with the hum of cheerful chatter and the thock of coconuts tumbling in the shy.

By #VeraRanscombe

When Sasha Penrose strides into St. Winifred’s School to protest her younger sister’s punishment, she expects her family name to open doors — or at the very least, close disciplinary files. But Headmistress Fairholme is not so easily swayed. What begins as a bold bluff quickly turns into a reckoning, and Sasha soon finds herself learning a most personal lesson in humility — delivered with quiet authority and a decidedly traditional touch. Calling Bluffs is a tale of overconfidence, old-school discipline, and the uncomfortable discovery that some lessons must be learned the hard way.

Chapter 1: Enter Miss Penrose

For many years, St Winifred’s School for Young Ladies used its sandstone grandeur as a barrier to the whims of modern society. The entrance hall, with its soaring vaulted ceiling, the stately ticking of a longcase clock, and a grand portrait of Queen Mary in all her regal finery, seemed to whisper that time itself had taken a polite sabbatical.

If these walls could talk, they’d do so in impeccable elocution — and not without a touch of warning. One thought of the generations of young ladies who had walked these halls with measured steps and demure demeanour. The conversations, and the fun. The pranks played, and the consequences felt.

By #HerbieHind

When Prudence Featherstone campaigns to muffle the village church bells, she finds herself face to face with a most unexpected form of pastoral resistance. A Sound Correction is a riotous tale of muffled decorum, ecclesiastical determination, and the redemptive power of olivewood. Expect scripture, scandal, and a peal of thoroughly instructive consequences.

There were only a few things in life that Miss Prudence Featherstone disliked more than noise—though she was, in due course, to discover another.

This included, but was not limited to: the over-exuberance of the handbell choir, the thwack of cricket bats on summer afternoons, the gramophone at The Hare and Barrel—especially when it played jazz—and, above all, the joyous clanging of the bells of St Mildred’s, which she had once likened to “a brass band being mugged in a stairwell.”

By #ClementineAshe

When Miss Fenella Devenish checks into a country inn with swan-towel expectations and impeccable standards, she’s not prepared to encounter a chambermaid whose idea of turndown service resembles a laundry accident. But after a frank discussion involving chocolates, apron strings, and a well-handled shoehorn, standards are restored in style. Turn-Down Service is a tale of poise, presentation, and the curiously instructive charm of a properly folded towel.

There was a quiet perfection about The Brindlecombe Arms. The hydrangeas beside the entrance bloomed in a manner that exuded class. Dappled afternoon light filtered through antique lace curtains. And somewhere, from speakers carefully hidden among the cornices, the strains of harp music completed the regal ambience.

Miss Fenella Devenish arrived shortly after three, precisely on time. She was the sort of woman who travelled with her own pillow mist and noticed when a doily had been rotated ninety degrees off-centre. Her reservation was for a junior suite—the “Elysium Suite.” The poetic reference to Greek mythology had appealed to her, although she privately suspected the motif of heavenly tranquillity would not extend beyond the door plaque. Still, it would do.

By #ClementineAshe

When Lady Octavia Berridge steps onto the stage at the annual Pageant of Virtue, she expects to deliver a rousing speech on modesty—not to find herself embroiled in a scandalous mishap orchestrated by her own niece. What follows is a tale of moral outrage, theatrical missteps, and one very public brush with discipline—literally. The Velvet Curtain Scandal is a cheeky lesson in artistic excess, familial correction, and why one should never mix Greco-Roman studies with a morality play.

Lady Octavia Berridge would sooner be caught reading a scandalous paperback novel—in public—than allow the annual Pageant of Virtue to descend into chaos.

For forty-three years, the event had proceeded without scandal, disruption, or so much as an improperly positioned petticoat. Which is why, on a bright Thursday in spring, as she mounted the village hall stage to deliver her customary speech on the perils of modern behaviour, she had every reason to expect yet another triumph.

By #HerbieHind

When Laura ignores a “No Cold Callers” sign to pitch her premium cleaning products, she’s in for a surprise regarding what’s about to get a dusting down. Let’s just say — Patrick has a very hands-on approach to customer service, and he’s about to give her a lesson in why you should never knock on a door without reading the signs — literally.

There were several signs along Victoria Avenue that Laura felt she could quite happily live without: Mind the Step, Please Close the Gate, No Junk Mail. They were all, in her view, exercises in stating the obvious. Even the electricity distribution box nearby, with its dramatic KEEP OUT – DANGER OF DEATH, seemed a bit over-the-top—though she grudgingly admitted that one might be justified.

At number 42, a brass plaque reading No Cold Callers briefly caught her eye. She dismissed it with breezy indifference and pressed the doorbell.

In hindsight, she would come to regard this moment with a shade more caution. Her thoughts on household signage would never be quite the same again.

SpankLit is a collection of short stories for the discerning reader who appreciates a certain je ne sais quoi in tales of genteel discipline. If you find joy in neatly turned ankles, a well-placed hairbrush, and the occasional instructive mishap, then you’ve come to the right place.

We celebrate the charm of bygone settings, mischievous moments, and the noble tradition of correction and redemption. Our stories are cheeky, sometimes naughty, but always handled with taste, wit, and a deep respect for vintage upholstery.

And impeccable decorum? Well — naturally!