Hi, my name is Andy.
This is my friend Terry.
We live in the world’s most amazing treehouse.
It’s got a bowling alley,
a tank full of man-eating sharks,
a chocolate waterfall,
the world’s scariest rollercoaster,
a pet-grooming salon (run by our neighbour, Jill),
a secret underground laboratory,
and a whole bunch of other really cool stuff that I haven’t got time to tell you about now because our publisher, Mr Big Nose, is in a big hurry for this book and if we don’t finish it in time he will get so angry that his nose will explode.
You see, as well as being our home, the treehouse is also where we make books together. I write the words and Terry draws the pictures.
‘It’s not fair,’ says Terry. ‘How come you always get to tell the story?’
‘Because I’m the narrator,’I say. ‘And you’re the illustrator.’
‘I can narrate too, you know,’ says Terry.
‘No, you can’t,’ I say.
‘Yes,I can!’ says Terry.
I’m just about to yell ‘CAN’T’ even bigger when Jill comes along.
‘What are you two arguing about now?’ she says.
‘Terry says he can narrate and I say he
CAN’T!’
‘There’s a better way to settle this than by shouting at each other,’ says Jill.
‘Really?’I say. ‘How?’
‘Let Terry do some narration and see how it goes,’ says Jill.
‘But he’s an illustrator! Illustrators can’t narrate—everybody knows that!’
‘That’s not true,’ says Jill. ‘What about Dr Moose? He wrote and illustrated The Splat in the Hat.’
‘And Boris Bentback wrote and illustrated Where the Filed Things Are, one of the most famous and best-loved children’s books about office management ever!’
‘And who could forget Beatnik Potty?’ says Jill. ‘I love her animal stories!’
Jill has a point,I guess. ‘All right,’I say. ‘You can tell a story, Terry.’
‘Of course he can,’ says Jill. ‘I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like the Story Police are going to come and arrest him for crimes against storytelling.’
‘Story Police?’ says Terry. ‘There’s no such thing. And, even if there were, they wouldn’t arrest me, they’d probably give me an award for telling the greatest story ever told! Okay, here goes …’
‘What’s going on, Terry?’ says Jill. ‘Why has the story stopped?’
‘Don’t you mean, why hasn’t it started?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ says Terry. ‘I’m not sure how to start. Can you help me, Andy?’
‘Why don’t you try starting with Once upon a time,’ I say. ‘That’s good for beginners.’
‘Thanks, Pal!’ says Terry. ‘You’re a real pal, Pal.’
‘All right, just get on with it,’ I say. ‘The readers will be getting impatient.’
Okay, readers.
Here goes.
Once upon a time there was a … dot!
And the dot was all alone …
but then along came another dot …
so then there were TWO dots!
And then along came some more dots and soon there were LOTS OF DOTS!
LOTS AND LOTS OF DOTS!
LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF DOTS!
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Action-packed—or should I say dot-packed?’
‘Shh, Andy,’ says Jill. ‘Give him a chance. I like dots!’
‘But there’s no story!’ I say. ‘He’s just filling up the pages with dots.’
‘I know,’ says Jill, ‘but it’s strangely compelling. I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen next.’
And then, one day, some of the dots started joining up … and turning into lines!
And then some of the lines started curving and bending …
and joining up to make simple shapes!
And then those simple shapes started joining up and becoming more complicated shapes, like this …
and this …
and even this!
But the trouble was the dots and lines and shapes just kept multiplying …
and multiplying …
and multiplying …
until they all exploded—
And after that things weren’t quite the same …
‘Terry,’ says Jill, ‘what’s happened to the story?’
‘Well, after the explosion, the shapes started turning into all sorts of weird and crazy new shapes, sort of like what’s happening to us right now.’
‘Oh no!’I say, looking down at my body. ‘What have you done?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ says Terry. ‘You already were a collection of shapes that joined together to form the shape of a human being! You’re still you, just in a different shape—well, lots of different shapes.’
‘Well I don’t like it!’ I say. ‘I knew I should never have let you narrate!’
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Andy,’ says Jill. ‘The story isn’t over yet. What happens next, Terry?’
‘Well … um … er … ah … um … um,’ says Terry, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, that’s just great!’I say.
Jill turns to me. ‘What do you think should happen, Andy?’
‘How should I know?’I say. ‘It’s Terry’s dumb dot story, not mine. I’ve got no idea what happens next.’
‘Gee,’ says Terry, ‘narrating is definitely not as easy as it looks. I should never have started a story that didn’t know how to finish.’
‘I’ve got it!’ says Jill. ‘Why don’t we call Professor Stupido? He’s the world’s greatest un-inventor. He could come and un-invent Terry’s story!’
‘Great idea, Jill,’ I say, ‘but Professor Stupido doesn’t exist any more. We tricked him into un-inventing himself, remember?’
‘Of course!’ says Jill. ‘I completely forgot. Why don’t we get your Once-upon-a-time writing and drawing machine to finish the story? I bet that would know how to fix it!’
‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘but we don’t have it any more—the Birthday Card Bandits stole it and blew it up.’
‘Oh yeah …’ says Jill, ‘that’s right. Well, what about I call my animals? Perhaps they will be able to help.’
‘I hate to break it to you, Jill,’ I say, ‘but the same thing that is happening to us is happening to them too. Look!’
‘Oh, no!’ says Jill. ‘My poor animals! This is like a bad dream—a really bad dream!’
‘That’s it, Jill!’ I say. ‘It’s a dream!’
‘What?’ says Jill.
‘The key to ending this story,’I say. ‘It’s not the best way to end a story, but sometimes—if you’re really stuck—it’s the only thing you can do, and this is an emergency.’
I clear my throat and start narrating as fast as I can.
And then, suddenly, we all woke up and realised it was all just a DREAM—a really DUMB dream!
‘You did it!’ says Jill. ‘Our bodies are back to normal!’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I couldn’t have done it without you. You gave me the idea.’
‘And you couldn’t have done it without me, either!’ says Terry. ‘It was my dots that started it.’
‘Yes, but it was my ending that finished it and saved us all.’
‘Actually, I’m not so sure about that,’ says Jill.
‘Why not?’ I say.
‘Look!’ she says, pointing to the ground below. ‘The Story Police are here. They are real!’
‘I know!’ I say. ‘I told you!’
‘Yikes!’ says Terry.
‘Open up!’ calls a loud voice from below. ‘It’s the Story Police here. We’ve had reports of a dumb dot story with a terrible it-was-all-just-a-dream ending coming from this treehouse and you are our chief suspects. There is no use resisting. We have your tree surrounded!’
‘What do we do now?’ says Terry.
‘Open the door and let them in,’ says Jill. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand if you just explain what happened.’
‘No,’I say. ‘That’s not going to work. This isn’t the normal police. This is the Story Police—they are really strict. We have to come up with a different ending … or else!’
‘Any ideas?’ says Terry.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘RUN!’
We run up.
We run down.
We run around …
and around …
and around …
and around.
We run high.
We run low.
We run fast.
We run slow.
We go and we go and we go and we go.
‘STOP!’ says Jill, puffing. ‘All this running isn’t solving anything. It’s not an ending—it’s just more action.’
‘Well, do you have any better ideas?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Jill, sighing. ‘I guess we’ll just have to keep on running.’
‘I think I might have an idea,’ says Terry. ‘How about this?’
But just when it looked like all hope was lost, along came another dot.
‘Oh, no,’ I groan. ‘Not more dots!’
‘Give him a chance,’ whispers Jill. ‘It’s our last hope.’
And the dot got bigger …
and bigger …
and bigger …
And then it stretched out and got wider …
and wider …
and wider …
and became a really big, really wide, really deep hole …
and the Story Police all fell in …
and we all lived happily ever after—
THE END!
