Zelda’s Midnight Spare Ride — Every evening, Zelda rolled one careful loop around the twig woods, keeping her vine wheels out of puddles and her pumpkin grin polished enough to flash at passing owls. Read the full story →
Every evening, Zelda rolled one careful loop around the twig woods, keeping her vine wheels out of puddles and her pumpkin grin polished enough to flash at passing owls. She wanted to reach the bell arch with no mud freckles, no leaf crumbs, and definitely no passengers. Then one night, a kazoo-sized sneeze burst from the ditch. A beetle in a crooked hat popped up beside three tiny drums, all stuck in sap that smelled like pine candy.
“Need a lift, fancy wheels?” he squeaked. Zelda almost said no. Because of that sneeze, she opened her little door just a crack; because of that crack, six beetles hauled in drums, cymbals, and one tuba no bigger than an acorn. They clattered over every bump, leaving sticky footprints under the window.
At the bell arch, the beetles tumbled out and started a secret midnight tune for the sleeping seed pots. Zelda backed away before anyone could cheer. Finally, she noticed her once-clean wheels flicking sap into perfect golden dots. Next time you spot those swirls and stars, you might catch the beetles’ tiny tuba going oom-pah under Zelda’s polished pumpkin grin.
