What if the world just flipped around?
Our feet were up and our hair was down?
What if we walked on the earth above
And the sky wheeled beneath our heads?

What if we hung, dangling into space?
If nothing but air held us in our place?
What if our smiles all looked like frowns
And we slept underneath our beds?

They do say the earth spins every day
But it makes me dizzy to think that way
If it’s true, as I’m told, that the world is round,
I’m glad I’m on the up side and not on the down

Once upon a time a strong and healthy young man went off to a war.  He went because he felt it was his duty, leaving behind the farm that he loved and the orchards of trees he had cultivated with care since he was a little boy.  He was gone a very long time.  Very, very long.  Many things happened in the war, stories of terror and courage, stories of boredom and cowardice, stories of pain and loss and love, but those stories, though lived, were never told, at least not in full.  After many, many stories, the man came home, but he was no longer strong, no longer healthy, no longer young.  Now his legs were crooked so that walking was difficult, his back was bent so that pain was a constant companion, and his face was scarred so that friends and family alike looked upon him as a stranger.  Only his hands were still whole and unblemished, so he left the farm he still loved but could no longer care for and moved into a little house in the village, where he set about making toys to sell for his supper.

—–

Once upon a time four dolls sat on a wooden shelf in a shabby little toy shop.  Each one had a lovely face, for they had been carefully carved by the toymaker; and each one had a colorful dress, created from the toymaker’s memories of the fashionable gowns of far off cities; and each one had beautiful golden curls, lovingly glued into place by the toymaker’s own hand.

Each one also had two crooked legs that wouldn’t allow them to stand up properly, but they did not realize this yet as they had been sitting on the same wooden shelf their entire lives.

Life was comfortable inside the toy shop.  A fire on the hearth kept things cozy in winter, and breezes through the open windows brought cool air in summer.  The roof never leaked on the dolls’ heads and the sun never shone too brightly in their beautiful painted eyes.  Often there were lovely smells of cooking foods and pleasant sounds of laughter and chat from visiting children.  Indeed, the only unpleasant thing in the entire shop was the toymaker himself.

The four beautiful dolls were all quite afraid of the toymaker.  He was old and hunchbacked and made a dreadful amount of noise shuffling around on his malformed legs.  His voice was rough and his face was horribly ugly.  Anytime he came near their shelf, the dolls shuddered, hoping that he would not take them down.  Being held by the toymaker was too terrifying to think about.  But he did not take them down.  Indeed he hardly looked at them at all.

The day came, of course, when the dolls were sold.  It was, after all, a toy shop, and dolls were not made to stay on a shelf forever.

The first doll was purchased by a fancy Buyer from the big city.  He thought the doll’s face was exquisite and her dress simply charming, and though he noticed her crooked legs, he thought they could easily be overlooked since she had such lovely golden hair.  He bought the doll at a bargain price and put her into his bag, dreaming of the large profit she would bring.

In the big city, however, though her face was still lovely and her hair was still golden and her dress was still glittering bright, her crooked legs seemed much harder to overlook.  The Buyer placed the doll on a new shelf, made of glass this time, and hoped she would sell, if not for the price he originally planned.  Many days went by and many girls came into the shop looking for dolls.  Each one looked at the golden-haired doll and exclaimed at her beauty, but each one recoiled from her two crooked legs.  They bought other dolls, less beautiful but more perfect, and the first doll was left sitting on her glass shelf gathering dust.

Over time the doll became quite cynical.  Each time a new child came into the shop, she would roll her eyes and watch them pick out shiny new things without any flaws.  “Of course they wouldn’t buy a toy that is broken,” she said, and her face, which had been lovely enough to distract from her legs became set in a smirk of disgust that made it quite unappealing.  In her heart she was angry, angry at the children for not wanting her, angry at the Buyer for bringing her here, but most of all, angry at the toymaker for making her with crooked legs.  “Surely someone who could carve such a lovely face and design such a beautiful dress could have made two straight legs,” she said to herself.  “He was just a cruel old man to make me like this.”

Meanwhile, the second doll had been bought by a father to give to his little girl who was sick at home.  He noticed her crooked legs and thought perhaps his daughter would like a sick dolly to nurse, as she herself was so often nursed by her mother.  So he bought her and carried her home in his arms, thinking of the smile she would bring to his daughter’s face.

The little girl did smile when she saw the lovely doll, and though her smile faded upon seeing her poor crooked legs, she cradled her closer and promised to care for her each and every day.  From then on, the second doll was waited on hand and foot.  She was brought tea and toast.  She was bathed every evening, and her lovely dress was washed and hung out to dry.  She was wrapped tightly in blankets and placed on a soft pillow and given hugs and kisses beyond count.

At first, of course, all this was very wonderful for the doll.  She loved the little girl with all her toy heart, and she felt so much love in return.  After a while, however, the little girl got better, and though she still kept her doll wrapped tightly, she came less and less often to play with her “poor darling.”  Once a friend asked to hold her, and the little girl answered that her doll was too crippled for ordinary play.  The doll watched sadly as the two girls ran off, wishing with all her heart that she had two whole legs.  She sighed to herself, thinking what a lonely lot it was to be a cripple, doomed forever to wait until the little girl returned to bed each night.  “If only the toymaker had a little more skill and could have made my legs straight, how different my life would be!” she thought.

Meanwhile, the third doll was sold to a careless young girl with a great deal of money who saw her golden hair through the window and bought her instantly.  She was delighted by the doll’s beautiful face and her shimmering dress, and she never even noticed her two crooked legs.  She threw down her money, tucked the doll under her arm, and flounced out of the store as proud as could be of her new possession.

The girl and her doll were only halfway home when some other girls met them in the street.  The girl showed off her doll, bragging of her painted face and hand-sewn gown, until the other girls, driven by jealousy, pointed out her crooked legs.  They laughed unkindly and ran away, and the girl was filled with petulant rage.  “What good are you?” she said, and she threw the doll into the gutter at the side of the road.  The doll lay, with her face half in the mud and her dress torn and stained, day after day.  The rain came and soaked her, turning her once golden hair into a matted brown mess.  The cold came and froze her, and the paint on her face began to crack.

The third doll’s misery was complete.  No one seemed to notice her there, half-buried in the mud, and there was no hope of her ever escaping the horrible weather as it changed day by day.  She knew she belonged here.  Where else should a crippled doll be but in the gutter?  But still it was hard to bear the endless days.  She wished the toymaker had never made her, for he must have known she was destined for this horrible life.  “He made an awful mistake with me,” she said, “but I’m the only one who has to pay for it.  It really isn’t fair.”

Meanwhile, the fourth doll was bought by a fresh-faced young nurse who worked in the hospital with children who had been injured.  She saw the doll’s beauty and her two crooked legs and thought what a perfect friend she would be for her patients.  The nurse quickly paid, put the doll in her bag, and hurried to the hospital with her new prize.

The doll proved to be wonderful medicine.  Children who had broken their legs could trace the bend of the doll’s crookedness and take courage from her beautiful smile.  Children who needed to have shots of medicine could bury their faces in her colorful dress while the needle went in.  Children who awoke in the night from the pain of their injuries could whisper in her tiny ear all of their fears and be comforted by her loveliness.

The doll was as happy as she could be.  The children came and went.  She loved them all, and each one loved her in their way.  Her days were long and she saw much pain and sadness, but she knew she was useful, and that filled up her heart.  “I am so glad the toymaker gave me crooked legs,” she thought often, “for otherwise I would not have ended up here in this place where I clearly belong.”

——

One day the toymaker went to the door of his shop.  “It’s time, I think,” he said.  He put on his hat and his coat and he locked the door behind him.

Down the street he went without hesitation and around the corner to just the spot where something purple gleamed in the mud.  He reached into the gutter and pulled out a doll.  He put her in his pocket and went on down the road.

When he reached a house with a young woman working in the kitchen, he stepped up to the door and knocked politely.  He exchanged a few words with the woman, who nodded and disappeared into the back. A moment later, she appeared and handed him an old doll wrapped tightly in a handkerchief.  He thanked her and put the doll in another pocket.

It was a long journey to the big city, but the toymaker arrived just as the sun was setting.  He went straight to the brightly lit store full of toys and bought one dusty doll from the highest glass shelf.  The store owner gave him an excellent deal, and the toymaker put the doll into yet another pocket and turned toward home.

He was nearly at home when he passed by the hospital.  For a few moments he paused and looked in the window at where a young boy was hugging a well-worn doll as the nurses lifted his crippled legs.  “Not yet,” said the toymaker.  “Not just yet.”

Back at the toy shop, the toymaker set the first doll on a wooden shelf where she sat glaring down at him.  She was very, very angry, too angry to be afraid of him anymore.  The toymaker smiled.

He unwrapped the second doll and put her on a table,where she stood leaning against the wall.  She looked quite relieved to be free of her kerchief, but she sighed as she looked at her legs.  “Soon,” said the toymaker.

Then he carried the third doll over to his workbench and set her in the circle of light cast by his lamp.  Her poor chipped paint and torn dress and dirty hair and crooked legs brought tears to his eyes.  So he sat on his bench and brought out his best tools, and the toymaker set to work.

 

Joey woke up with the wonderful feeling that his dream had just changed everything.

The funny part was that he couldn’t even remember most of it. All he could hang on to was the sensation that his heart was so full it would pop and the image of a pair of big brown eyes. Those eyes were dancing in his head as he got dressed for school. They seemed to look at him as if they knew his every thought and considered each one wonderful. Even without knowing whose eyes they were, Joey walked taller knowing that they were watching him.

Down in the kitchen, Joey’s mother handed him his lunch, her green eyes smiling but filled with sadness. Joey gave her his bravest smile in return. It was easier today.

Out the front door and down the walk, Joey turned left toward the school. All the other days of this long week, he had walked with his heart thudding in his chest, paying close attention to turns so he wouldn’t get lost, dreading arriving at the strange building at the end. Today, though, he walked eagerly, glancing side to side, wondering at each turn if he would look over and see those brown eyes looking back at him.

Halfway there, Joey heard a cry from up ahead. Sprinting up the sidewalk, he saw a little boy, no more than two years old, who had fallen off his tricycle in a driveway. Joey helped the boy up and checked his hands. No blood. Looking at the boy’s tousled brown hair, Joey remembered when he had fallen off his bike last year. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the rock he found yesterday, the one with the flecks of gold in it. Handing it to the boy, Joey explained its magical properties. With this rock, anyone could ride a tricycle and never fall off. The little boy’s tears stopped and he looked up at Joey with wonder in his swimming blue eyes. Joey felt just a bit disappointed. For some reason he had been sure those eyes would be brown. Then a hand touched his shoulder and the boy’s mother smiled down on him. She handed him a little bag with her thanks. Joey could smell fresh baked peanut butter cookies from inside. His disappointment melted away.

Joey had to run the rest of the way to school, but he made it on time. A few kids laughed at his flushed, sweaty face, but Joey didn’t notice. He was too busy scanning the room for those eyes. He saw a few pairs that were brown, but they weren’t THE brown eyes. Heart sinking, Joey flopped onto his seat. A whole school day ahead and no brown eyes to help him. Joey felt his confidence seeping away. The morning was bad. He tripped on the way to the pencil sharpener and everyone laughed. He made extra mistakes in his math worksheet. The boy next to him spilled water on his homework folder, and the teacher had to hang the papers all over the room to dry them out. By lunchtime, Joey was ready to be done.

At lunch, Joey sat next to a group of kids he had never talked to before. Most weren’t even in his class. Joey ate silently as always, looking down at his own food until a groan caught his attention. He looked up. The girl next to him was shaking her red curls. Thinking of big brown eyes, Joey gathered his confidence and asked what was wrong. The girl said in a quavering voice that her mother had given her a tuna fish sandwich. Nothing was worse than a tuna fish sandwich. She was so hungry, but she would never be able to eat a tuna fish sandwich. Joey knew how she felt. Fortunately, he had that little bag with the delicious smell coming from it. When Joey offered to trade two homemade peanut butter cookies for the tuna fish sandwich, the little girl looked at him with such gratitude in her sparkling hazel eyes that Joey forgot all about brown eyes for just a few minutes. The tuna fish sandwich went quietly in Joey’s lunch box while the two kids ate peanut butter cookies and talked all about the first week of school.

The afternoon was much better. Though he hadn’t yet found the big brown eyes, just looking for them had made Joey’s day something special. When the last bell rang, Joey headed out the door with a sense of anticipation. The brown eyes were still out there somewhere, and the peanut butter cookies had taught him that brown eyes were not the only discoveries to be made.

At home, Joey told his mother the story of the peanut butter cookies, both earning them and eating them, and saw her looking happier than she had looked in a long time. He did not mention the brown eyes. Some things were not meant to be told to mothers, not until the right time, at least. Leaving his mother humming as she cooked dinner, Joey went out to work on his tree fort.

In the woods, Joey searched for sticks of just the right length. He had to go a bit further than usual to find them. Just as he was about to take his armload back to his own yard, he heard a whimpering noise from the bramble thicket under the trees. Carefully pulling about the thorny branches, Joey saw a little tuft of tan fur. His mother had always told him not to bother animals in the woods, but whatever this was had gotten caught in the prickly tangles. Joey couldn’t just leave it there.

His arm got quite scratched reaching so far into the brambles, but at last, Joey had a good firm grip on the furry bundle. It was hard work to pull it out without hurting it any more. He felt the tiny body trembling in his hand, but slowly and surely, he kept up his work. At last he had it free. It was a tiny puppy, all tan fluff. Joey could not believe his luck. A puppy, right here in the woods. As soon as it was free of the brambles, though, it nipped his hand, and dashed away, trembling, to hide under another, less thorny bush. Joey sat thinking for a moment. Then he smiled and ran back to his house.

In a matter of minutes, Joey was back, crouched in front of the book, tuna fish sandwich in had. Holding it out, he spoke gently to the puppy. Its whimpers subsided as it began to sniff with its little nose. In a matter of moments, it darted out and began to gobble the tuna hungrily. Joey stroked its soft fur, wondering where the puppy came from and who it belonged to, feeling it relax as its tummmy was filled and its fear subsided. When finally the sandwich was gone, the little puppy looked up at Joey. Big brown eyes met his, full of adoration, just as Joey had seen in his dream. All questions of who the puppy belonged to fled. The puppy belonged to Joey.

Later that night, Joey watched the big brown eyes close contentedly as the puppy curled up on the end of his bed. One look from those eyes had been enough to convince Joey’s mother. She might not know all about his dream, but she knew all about Joey, and that was enough. Joey snuggled down into his blankets, feeling the warm lump next to his feet.

He couldn’t wait to see what he would dream next.

Gerald had been walking for a long time.  The pain that had begun in his feet had now spread all the way up his legs, and the tiredness that had started in his eyes had spread through his brain and into his soul.  He wasn’t even sure why he was still walking.  There was no where to go.  Nothing in this valley was worth getting to, and there was no way out of this valley.

The dark trees pressed close on every side, shadows hung beneath their branches, tangled vines breathed out decay.  Gerald shuddered at one brushed his shoulder.  This was why he kept walking.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he stopped, those vines would wrap him up tight, and he would disappear forever.

Eventually, of course, he would have to stop, would have to sleep, as he had for nights past counting in this dreadful valley.  When he could walk no more, he would find a spot, something not too close to any one tree, make a small pile of leaves and sleep where he dropped.  He would wake with the first dim light from his dark dreams, and he would walk again.  There was nothing else to do.

Just as Gerald was about to face the beginning of another such horrible night, he heard a noise.  Not the eternal droning of the stinging insects, not the rustle of the creeping things among the leaves.  A sharp noise.  THWAP!  And again.  THWAP!  It was the sound of something different.  Something that didn’t belong among these trees.  Gerald loved that sound.

He walked faster on legs that didn’t know how, so the last few steps were a stumble out through clutching vines.  The first thing he notices on the other side was the sky.  He was standing under a sky he hadn’t seen for days past remembering.  He had grown used to the constant overhang of branches, so the vastness up above stopped him cold, as he breathed and breathed and breathed air that hadn’t been trapped under leaves until it was dead.  This air was coming from up there, up by those stars, Gerald imagined, because it had the tang of far away places, cleaner places.

With his head thrown back to drink in the sky, it was a few moments before Gerald even saw the giant balloon in front of him.  When he did, he thought it the most wonderful and terrifying thing he had ever seen.  A whole rainbow of the brightest colors stretched across it’s rounded surface, so brilliant after a lifetime of faded greens and browns that Gerald almost felt that he needed to shield his eyes.  Had anything ever been more alien than this globe of beauty in this hideous place?

“Oh yes,” said a voice, the first words Gerald had heard in so long, and a hand was placed on Gerald’s shoulder, the first touch Gerald had felt in so long.  “She really is amazing.”

Gerald turned to see who this mind-reader could be and saw a man in the second half of his life, strongly built and browned from a sun Gerald had forgotten.  The man was smiling as he studied his miraculous balloon, and Gerald thought him even more alien than the contraption.

“Come, friend, you have walked far.  You need rest and real food.  And I need to get back to work.”

Gerald saw then that the man was holding an ax in one hand, and he saw the branches strewn along was appeared to be the bank of a dried out river.  The man led him down across this choked stream bed and over to where his balloon rested.  A large basket was hung beneath that impossible ball, a basket big enough for a man to stand in, and from here the man produced bread and fruit and a jar of clear, cold water.  Gerald forgot everything else in the taste of something clean, something filling.  His legs gave way beneath him as he ate, and he slumped back against the basket, feeling something he couldn’t name, something warm and covered, like a rabbit deep in its hole.

While Gerald ate, he watched the man at his strange work.  All along the river bank he went, swinging his ax at the branches overhanging the dry river, attacking the trees with an energy that Gerald could not comprehend.  When he had gone several paces up the bank, he crossed over and resumed his attack on the other side.  When nothing but sky showed above the stretch of rocks and weeds, the man came and sat by Gerald, wiping his ax carefully and taking long drinks from the water jar.

Gerald’s questions pushed insistently out, “Who…?  What…?”  His voice, so long unused, resisted.

The man did not seem to notice any lack.  He answered the questions as if they had been whole, but his answers were as foreign as he was.  The balloon was one of a kind, made by his father.  It could float up off the ground and fly through the sky.  That was how the man came here, to this horrible forest, which he had seen from up above.  He had seen right away what needed to be done, and now he was doing it.

With that confusing information ringing in Gerald’s head, the man stood up and set back to work, this time with a shovel, digging out the brush along the bottom of the river, clearing a path for water that didn’t exist.  Gerald stared at this useless effort until his own exhaustion sent him off to sleep.

For two days Gerald watched the strange man work and thought about a balloon that could fly up over the tree tops.  The man had said that when he was finished with his work, he would get into that basket and let the balloon take him up and over the distant mountains to his home on the other side.  Gerald wasn’t sure if he believed the stories the man told about the other side of the mountains.  Open fields?  Wild flowers?  Clear, clean water?  Trees that gave fruit to eat?  That last part Gerald was sure was an invention.  Trees didn’t give.  Trees took.  They gobbled up sunlight and choked off space and consumed hope.

He did love to hear the man’s stories about flying, though.  The feel of wind on your face, the open air all around, the trees shrunken into insignificance below.  He even believed the stories.  After all, this man had come from somewhere, and it was certainly not this forest.

The man had said he would take Gerald with him when he left, when he finished his work.  All the third night, Gerald stayed awake and thought about this.  He thought about leaving, imagined himself in that small basket.  The man had shown him how the simple controls lifted the balloon up and brought it down.  Gerald pictured himself flying.  Then he thought about the man’s work.  He sweated from dawn until dark every day, and what was he accomplishing?  Clearing a river that had no water, gouging out part of a forest that would only grow back to cover it.  When would he ever be finished?

Just before daybreak, Gerald made up his mind.  Stepping over the sleeping man, he carefully untied the ropes that bound the balloon.  As he climbed into the basket, he could feel it beginning to rise just a little.  Gerald’s heart thumped wildly.  He reached for pull that would take him higher, trying not to look at the still-sleeping man below him.  Up he went, up, up, up.  The feeling was even better than the man had described.

Gerald rose above the trees.  The freedom was exhilarating.  He rose higher, felt a breeze, cold and sharp, that he had never felt before.  Higher and higher the balloon went, into air that smelled clean and fresh.  Gerald felt his head clearing.  He was more awake than he had ever been.

The sun peaked over the horizon, and the world opened up to Gerald’s eyes.  He saw the mountains, seeming so much closer from this height, thrust majestically toward the skies, their blue and purple sides emanating power, their frosted tops pointing up in challenge.  He saw the pale haze of the land on the other side, saw a twist of river and a sparkle of lake, a patchwork quilt of fields and orchards, where plants grew under the order of men and provided food for their masters.  It was a paradise.

Then Gerald looked down.  Below him stretched the dark forest, looking from here like a shadow upon the land.  The tangle of green was uninterrupted as far as the eye could see, bounded only by the impossible height of the mountains in the distance.  Gerald knew there were men under that dense carpet.  He had heard them, had seen traces of their passing, but they were all hidden, hidden from his eyes as from the sun’s rays which now played over the treetops, seeking a way through the branches and finding no entrance.

No entrance but one.  At last Gerald saw directly below, and he clutched the side of the basket with fingers that didn’t even feel the fibers.  For there was the river, cleared now for a quarter mile in either direction, a single line of pale brown cutting through that impossible green.  And Gerald saw it for what it was: a sign, a path, an arrow pointing straight at the mountains and freedom.

For a long time Gerald hung suspend in the air, dividing his longing looks between the beautiful haze in the distance and that one pitiful slash below.  He thought of life in a the clear air under the shining sun.  He thought of his life of wandering in the gloom, of the screams he had heard in the distance.

Gerald slowly brought the balloon back down through the treetops.  He was just tying off the last rope when the man woke up with his usual morning smile.  Gerald couldn’t quite smile back.  But after he handed the man his ax, he swung the shovel onto his own shoulder, and the two men set off along the riverbed together.

Once upon a time there was a teeny, tiny worm who lived in the house of a nice young family in this very town.  No one in the family knew he was there, because he lived quietly among the books on the tall shelves in the family room.  He was, of course, a book worm, and he took his job very seriously.

During the day, he wove his way in and out of the books, checking for problems and trying to help.  Some problems were simple, like bent pages and cracked spines which could be taken care of with some smoothing and a little binding glue.  Other problems were a bit more…challenging.  Like the time when someone scribbled all over Alice’s face in Through the Looking Glass.  Try as he might, the book worm could not get those stubborn marks washed off, and he didn’t dare break all the mirrors, for that would ruin the story.  He was able comfort her, however, with a special visit from the shy little kitten and a hot cup of tea, provided by the lovely sisters over in Pride and Prejudice.   Worse was the time when a corner got ripped off of Jack and the Bean Stalk and Jack climbed all the way out and into the science fiction books on the shelf above.  He was nearly swallowed by a giant sand worm before the book worm showed up with a thumper and dragged him home.  There was no way to repair the torn illustration, but you can be sure that Jack was much more careful after that.

These sorts of adventures and misadventures kept the book worm very busy, and he was happy to feel that he was successful in his work.  He had a knack for calming the wild things (as he really never needed to blink) and he knew exactly where the Jaberwocky liked his back scratched.  The family had no idea of the many catastrophes he prevented each week, and that was just the way he liked it.  After a long day of work, he would choose a nice book to curl up in (He used to favor fantasy  for the fascinating dreams, but he got so tired of being woken up by dragons and giant wolves that he switched over to basic travel books with their lovely beaches peaceful forests.) and hum softly to himself as he fell asleep.

The young family grew.  The children learned not to rip pages and scribble on illustrations.  The book worm was relieved.  The parents took the chapter books off the higher shelves and the white witch learned all over again that Aslan always wins, which made her much easier to live with.  Then, the children began to read for themselves.  At first, that was a happy time.  The poky little puppy got lots of exercise and Junie B. Jones got to let off some of that excess energy.

Then the disaster happened.

When he thought about it later, the worm thought that he should have known.  Children who would mark their spot by turning down page corners were bound to be careless from time to time.  Was it really such a surprise, then, when they went to bed one night leaving a pile of books scattered across the floor?  And really, that might not have been so bad if so many of them had not been…shudder…OPEN.

The first one he noticed was Little House on the Prairie, which would have been a disaster if the Indians had gotten out, but fortunately, only Jack the brindle bull dog burst from the pages, chasing a rabbit.  He was a very obedient dog, so a few stern words and he went straight home.  The book worm was just trying to locate the rabbit when he saw the other books.  Chapter books and picture books, fiction and non-fiction, at least a dozen books in all, lying open on the floor.  In moments it was pandemonium.  Goblins poured out of The Hobbit, the atlas emptied kangaroos and koalas onto the carpet, George Washington barked orders at everyone, and hippos went berserk.  There was no hope of sorting it all out.  It was all the book worm could do not to get trampled.

He scrambled up onto the shelves and looked around at the chaos.  The Sisters Grimm were fighting off Count Olaf, while the very hungry caterpillar ate his way through the Sesame Street cookbook.  What to do?  What to do?!?  The book worm knew he needed help, so he eyed the shelves, thinking through his options.  This would be tricky.  If he got the wrong pages, it would end in disaster.

He started with Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, making sure to catch Harry alone with Ron and Hermione.  They agreed to help at once, so he tipped their book, ever so carefully, and they leaped out, slamming the pages shut on Voldemort and drawing their wands.  Mother Goose was next, and even harder.  There was only one page, right in the middle of Snow White’s tale, that showed a bubbling cauldron standing all alone.  If the page turned even a little, the witch would be there, too.  The book worm braced himself in the exact spot and gave a final wiggle.  The book toppled over with a mighty thud.  The book worm waited, barely breathing.  Deep inside, the three billy goats gruff were making a lot of racket, but no witch’s cackle could be heard, only the soft bubbling of the potion above his head.  The book worm smiled.

It took the young wizards and the little worm most of an hour to douse everyone with the sleeping potion.  The very hungry caterpillar ate a dipped apple right away, of course, but the goblins were darting about everywhere, using their shields to keep the potion from hitting them, and the hippos each needed several doses to finally settle down.  Finally the book worm used himself as bait to lure the great goblin right into the cauldron itself.  After he went, the others were rounded up quickly.  At last, all the escapees were caught, and the floor was littered with slumbering children and snoring kangaroos.  The book worm began the long task of dragging everyone back into their books.  He just lugged the last hippo into place when the sun came up and he heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh, those kids,” someone said, as large hands began gathering up books, shutting them tight and placing them on the shelves.  The book worm breathed a sigh of relief, inching slowly off toward the Lonely Planet books, while the voice loudly explained to someone that books are never, EVER to be left on the floor.  He knew of a nice little hammock in Jamaica that would make the perfect place to take a nap.

For those of you few and faithful who come here and read the little things I eke out week after week, I give you an exclusive treat, an excerpt from The Book of Sight, my first novel which came out on Kindle yesterday.  Not much in the way of a thank you, I suppose, but there’s an even better one at the end.

Left alone on the bank of a rushing river in a giant underground cavern, sick with worry about her friends, and feeling the dark press in around her as if it would extinguish her little flashlight, it was easily the worst moment of Alex’s life.

She saw Logan and Dominic dive into the water and disappear from sight, and a panic rose up in her throat, almost choking her.  In that moment, it was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into the water as well.  But Dominic’s last words to her were still ringing in her ears.  Find something to use as a rope.  Her panic took a new direction.

She began to rummage, snatching up each backpack and dumping its contents on the ground.  A few items caught her eye but were rejected nearly as quickly as they were seized upon.  Some rubber bands.  A necklace.  Dental floss.  At that last one, Alex screamed in frustration.  This was useless.  There was nothing.  Then her eye fell on the ace bandage from her first aid kit.  But, no, it was only about two feet long.  Unless…

With sudden inspiration, Alex whirled around and seized the pile of discarded clothes.  It was perfect.  Starting with the socks, she tied everything together, carefully double and triple knotting, praying that getting wet would make the knot stronger.  Unsure how long a rope would be needed, she stripped off her own socks and shoes, adding the laces to the very end.  That was it.  The best she could do.

Gathering up the whole hodgepodge pile in her hand and balancing her flashlight on top, she began to make her way downstream as quickly as possible.  She had only gone about four feet when she slipped and, unable to catch her balance with her hands so full, sprawled face first on the rocky ground.  The soft rope cushioned her fall, and she was unhurt, but her flashlight rolled off with a thunk and went out.

By this time she could hear yelling very faintly from up ahead.  There was no time to lose.  She felt frantically around for the flashlight with no luck.  She knew she had no chance of feeling her way along in the dark.  Another yell reached her.  There was no choice.

Alex stood up and began slowly creeping along, praying she wouldn’t misstep and fall into the water.  Two steps, three, four.  She tried unsuccessfully to remember how far away the end of the cavern was.  More yelling.  Five steps, six steps.  She bashed her bare toe on a rock and cried out in pain.  Seven steps, eight.

With no warning, her right foot came down in about a foot of water.  She fell sideways this time, into the river.  Flinging out her hands to catch herself, Alex let go of the rope.  The water wasn’t deep, and Alex was able to get back up on the bank in no time, but the rope was gone, carried away by the rapid water.

Alex collapsed in despair.  She sat huddled alone on the bank in the dark, sobbing and dripping and shivering uncontrollably, listening as the shouting from downstream continued.  She didn’t know if she could bear to hear the last drowning cries of her friends.  Alex covered her ears and cried harder.  She had no idea how long she sat there, but at some point she heard something that caused her to raise her head.  It was quiet.

Was that it then?  Were they all dead?

A sudden sense of horror at being alone in the dark with all her dead friends spurred Alex into action.  She crawled back upstream, feeling carefully around for her lost flashlight.  When she arrived at the pile of junk that was the emptied out backpacks and realized that she had missed the flashlight, she had to stifle another sob.  She turned back, this time walking and trying to count the steps she had taken before falling.  A few steps in, she stepped on it, falling for the third time and skinning both knees.  Clutching the precious plastic tube to her chest, she felt for the switch.  A few frantic flips of the switch and a tightening of the battery cover later, the light came on.  Alex cried out in hysterical relief.

Now that she had the light, she had to decide what to do.  Should she just head out of the cave and go get help?  Or should she attempt to look for her friends?  Was there any chance that anyone was still alive?  The thought of hunting by herself in the dark and maybe finding someone’s body washed up on the bank was almost more than she could bear.  But in the end, she knew she couldn’t just leave without knowing for sure that no one still needed her help.  With only a short pause to put her shoes back on, Alex headed downstream again.

Now that she had the light to guide her and her shoes to protect her feet, it didn’t really take that long before she could see the wall of the cavern looming up ahead of her.  The roaring sound of the river was getting louder as she approached the place where the water crashed against the rock face, but she began to imagine that she could hear something else over the rushing sound.  Was that laughter?

Heart pounding, Alex moved forward even quicker.  Suddenly she heard shouting from the other side of the river.  She couldn’t make out all the words, but she definitely heard her own name.

“I’m here!” she yelled.  “Are you okay?”  Alex leaned forward with her flashlight, but the river was just too wide.

There was some response, but she couldn’t understand it.

“I can’t hear you!”

More indistinguishable shouting followed this and then a pause.  Finally several voices in unison reached her, “Go upstream!”

Alex did, moving slowly, aware that the others would be walking without the aid of a flashlight.  From time to time she shined her light out across the water.  Even though she couldn’t see the other side, she hoped they could see her light and that maybe it would help them walk.

When she arrived back at the pile of discarded belongings, Alex stopped to wait, leaving her light trained on the river.  It was several minutes before she heard the yelling again.   The water was a little quieter here, and this time she could hear Dominic’s voice, faint but clear.

“We’re all okay.  We made it.”

That’s from Chapter 19 of The Book of Sight.  You can get the whole book for Kindle on Amazon for only $.99.  And here’s the gift part, if you wait until April 1, you can get the book for free.  The free offer will only last for five days, so be sure to take advantage of it right away.  If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download the Kindle reader app for your computer, phone, or tablet and read it that way. 

And there’s already a sequel!  The next book in the Book of Sight series, The Broken Circle, is also available on Amazon, so you won’t be left hanging when you get to the end.

These two books are the first in what I plan to be a five book series about five friends who are given a book that changes their lives. Once they’ve read it, they are able to see things that have always been there but couldn’t be seen before. They meet wonderful creatures (and some terrible ones, too). They see beautiful, amazing things (and some hideous ones, too). Their lives which used to be flat and predictable are now rich and full and exciting, but they soon learn that they are going to have to fight hard to keep it that way. There is someone out there who will stop at nothing to keep the book a secret and stifle its power, and the kids will have to work together if they are going to survive.

There will be real paperback books available soon, too.  They will be coming in just a few weeks, and I expect to have a place to pre-order those on the Madison House Publishing website later this week.

Want to know what’s in that bottom frame?  Go here and then click and drag through to see how far you can go.

Once upon a time, Joey was six and he just wanted to be left alone.  He had to go to school every day, and the teacher talked and talked and made Joey talk too, and the other kids laughed and pushed and played and teased.  When he got home, his hound dog was excited to see him and barked and jumped up on Joey’s legs and stole his toys and ran around the house with them.  His sisters fought and his mom asked too many questions and the tea kettle whistled and the garbage disposal rumbles and his dad turned on the news.  Joey would go to his own room and close the door, but his baby sister followed him everywhere, and when he finally yelled, “Leave me alone!” she cried so loud it hurt his ears, and his mom made him say he was sorry.

One day, Joey decided it was enough.  He went to bed at five o’clock and wouldn’t get up, even to eat dinner.  When his mom came to ask what was wrong, he put his pillow over his head.  Whenever he heard or noise or someone came into his room, he didn’t answer or move.  He just lay there repeating, “Go away, go away, go away, go away” in his head.  (He knew better than to say it out loud.)  Finally, the house got quiet as everyone went to sleep.  Joey took the pillow off his head and rolled onto his side.  It was so quiet and still.  His last thought before he fell asleep was “I wish it could always be just like this.”

In the morning, when Joey woke up, it was still quiet.  He looked at his clock.  It said 7:00,  just like always.  Usually his mom was making breakfast by now and calling to them all to get out of bed.  This peaceful morning was a nice change.  He got up and got dressed and brushed his teeth.  Usually his big sister was fighting for room by the sink.  This morning he was happy to have the bathroom all to himself.  He wondered if everyone had slept in.  He checked his sisters’ room.  The beds were empty.  Joey went downstairs and got out some cereal.  Normally they all crowded around the table and ate quickly while Joey’s mom rushed them along to get to school on time.  This morning, he was the only one and got to pick his favorite seat and take his time.  When he finished, he wondered what time it was.  He went to his mom and dad’s room.  Their bed was empty, too.  Where was everyone?

Then Joey remembered that his big sister had a special breakfast before school that week.  “It must be today,” he thought.  “They must have all gone before I woke up.”  Joey felt a little sad that they would leave without telling him.  He felt left out as the only one who didn’t get to go the breakfast.  Still, the quiet was awfully nice.  He put on his coat and boots and started off down the path they always walked to school.  Usually, his big sister would jabber away the whole time and hurry him along and boss him about staying out of the mud.  Today, he got to stomp right in a puddle and dawdle and daydream all he wanted, but he couldn’t help feeling just a little scared when he had to walk past the creepy hollow tree all by himself.

When he got to school, Joey noticed that it was very quiet there, too.  Usually, the sidewalks were crowded with kids and parents saying goodbye and calling out to their friends and pushing each other to get in the door first.  Today, Joey walked right through the doors without anyone bothering him.  There was no one around at all.  Walking down the silent halls, Joey began to feel worried.  Something wasn’t right.  Where was everyone?  Quiet at home had been warm and soft.  Quiet in the big echoing school building was cold and unfriendly.  Joey went to his class room.  The door was open.  All the desks and shelves and books and papers were exactly the same as always.  But there were no people.  No teacher with her cheerful smile and pleasant voice.  No friends waiting to tell him about the new comic book they had gotten last night or the way their cat had looked  when it climbed up the curtains.  No Joey was really afraid.  What was he supposed to do if no one was there?

For more than hour, Joey looked in every room in the school.  They were all empty.  Sometimes he thought he heard voices in the next room, but always when he opened the door, there was no one.  Finally, Joey couldn’t stand being all alone in that big school.  He ran all the way home.  It was quiet on the path, but he didn’t take time to enjoy it at all.  When he got home, no one was waiting for him.  Not even his hound dog greeted him at the door.  He called everyone’s names, but no one said anything.  Joey thought about going outside and walking around to see if he could find someone, but he felt too afraid to leave the house again.  Here at least he knew he was safe, even if he didn’t know what was happening.

That was a very long day.  Joey tried to watch TV.  He tried to read some books.  He tried to draw pictures or play with his toys.  Nothing seemed like much fun.  No one laughed at the cartoons with him.  No one helped him with the words he couldn’t understand.  No one admired his pictures or the ship he made out of Legos.  Time went by very slowly.  Joey felt very lonely as he poured some more cereal for his dinner.  When it was dark outside, Joey locked all the doors and crawled into bed trying not to think about tomorrow.  He put his pillow over his head, but this time it was to shut out the quiet.  It was a long time before he fell asleep.

A hard jab in the ribs woke Joey up at 7 the next morning.  His baby sister was sitting on his bed poking him with a Barbie.  She was the best thing he had ever seen.

“You see me!  I see me!” she yelled over and over.  Joey raced down the hall.  His big sister darted past and slammed the bathroom door in his face.  Joey laughed.  He went to the kitchen, where his mom was cooking pancakes.

“Feeling better?” she asked with a smile.

“Much better,” Joey said.

I haven’t died, and I haven’t given up on this blog. I’m sure I’ve lost all five people who were reading before, but my life got a little overwhelming there for a while, so I decided to give myself a small break. Then the small break turned into a big break. But I’m hoping to make a return to Tell Me a Story, Mommy. I’ll probably just keep it to one story and one poem a week for now, at least until our South American summer ends and the kids get back to school, but I’m thinking this is a year of small steps and being happy with them.

Now, having left this short message that half-implies I’m battling a life-threatening disease (when in reality I’m just battling normal life with three small human beings and some really hot weather and a few water outages) I’m going to go see if I can hunt up my creativity so I can leave a real post tomorrow.