Tag: Serial Fiction

I leap over fallen trees and across rushing streams, running as fast as I can through the woods, and for some reason unknown to me I’m running on all fours, but instead of it being awkward, I’m faster than I’ve ever been. Then I see that my hands aren’t hands but paws–paws covered in chocolate brown fur–and come to a skidding halt on the forest floor.

I’m entirely covered in the same fur and I’ve the body of a Labrador. I glance at my reflection in a puddle and my human face looks back at me with a Labrador crew cut, but that’s the least of my worries. My reflection is off of a puddle of liquid chocolate which can mean only one thing. I’m in Fleegle World again.

As I gaze about me at the trees made of chocolate, Fleegle ambles up the creek bank, chewing on a stick. My guess is that it’s a chocolate stick. He reads my mind when he sees me. “Mint chocolate, keeps my breath fresh, not that I care but I’ve picked up a few things from People World,” he says. “I almost didn’t recognize you, but then you turned your head and I saw your face. You’ve got more than just a tail this time. I wonder why that is?”

“What happened to that syrupy ocean and the Chocolate Rockies?”

“In Fleegle World, that’s like asking what happens to the light when it turns night. Come on, let’s go.”

I follow Fleegle on a path that runs along the bank of the stream. “Where are we headed?”

“Fleegleville. You’ll be able to see it soon.”

When we clear the woods the trail opens onto a vast manicured lawn of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. It’s so perfect I paw at it to make sure it’s not Astroturf.

“You never need to mow that,” Fleegle says, nodding at the grass as I rub my paw over it. It’s as soft as felt.

In the distance sits a large house. The ranch style shape and blue-grey color is familiar. Then I realize it’s our house, the house Fleegle and I live in back in People World, but supersized as if you were to build an exact replica of it but make it the size of the Rose Bowl. “Fleegleville is our house?”

“It’s the capitol of the world, the funnest place in Fleegle World, maybe even in the whole Fleegleverse, full of cookies and fun.”

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Career Day

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Writer’s Block

I’m sitting at my desk, glaring at the blank page in my spiral notebook and pulling at my hair with both hands, when Fleegle flip-flaps through his dog door. “Ooo-ooo, do that to my fur. I love scalp massages.” He comes over and leans against my leg. “Please.”

I continue pulling at my hair with my left hand, but use my right hand to scratch Fleegle’s head. “Oh, boy, you deserve a biscuit for this,” he says.

Normally I would respond by commenting that he wants me to have a biscuit because he knows I would share, but when I remain quiet, he looks up at my sour expression and sees my grumpy demeanor and asks, “What’s wrong, Raud?”

“I’ve got writer’s block.”

“Oh, can I have one. You know how I like to chew on wood. It is wood isn’t it?”

“Very dense wood.”

“Good. Where is it?”

“Inside my head.”

“Umm… It might hurt getting it out. How’d you get it inside there? Did you swallow it?”

I shake my head. “No, I imagined it.”

“Like the imaginary friend you swear at in the car when the lights turn red?”

“Something like that.”

“You need to get a green light for your desk. Click it on and I bet it would make your block go away. It works on your imaginary friend.”

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegleville

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Timid Timmy

The light turns red. I hit the brakes. It’s the zillionth red light in what seems to be a day of red lights. I must have done something to upset the traffic gods. I let out a few choice swear words as repentance.

Fleegle glances at me from the passenger seat, ears back, a worried look on his face.

He thinks I’m swearing at him. “Oh, not you. The light. It’s red.” It turns green and we go.

The next light, where I want to take a right, turns red too. There’s a car in front of us in the right turn lane and their right turn signal is flashing. I relax. There’s no traffic coming and they’ll turn soon. We won’t have to wait pointlessly. But they don’t turn. Instead they sit there waiting for the light to change to green.

I stare at the back of the driver’s head, gritting my teeth. It’s timid Timmy driving who’s afraid to take a right on a red.

“@#$%&!,” I say.

Fleegle gives me that worried look again.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not you.”

“If it’s not me, then who is it? I’m the only other one in this car and I’ve done nothing but sit here and smile at you.”

“I’m swearing at my imaginary friend, Timmy.”

“Oh? What’s Timmy done this time?”

“Timmy thinks he’s at home on his living room couch when he’s actually in his car asleep at the wheel with a string of people waiting behind him to turn right.”

Fleegle stares nonplussed out the windshield at the offending taillights in front of us. “Instead of swearing at your supposed friend, maybe you should imagine him to be less timid.”

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Writer’s Block

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle the Mommy