Jello Stories

Jello Stories is an independent writing studio specializing in novellas, short stories, and essays for children and Christians. We write because it makes us smile, and we want you to smile, too!

Meet our team:

Tanner S. Wilson (@radicalrocko234) — writing, publishing, creative direction, editing

P. Graft — beta-reading, creative consultation

Sammy Moretti (@sammym332) — artwork

Cosette the Electro Cat — mascot, writing coach

See also:

To my mom

Diana Thiessen let out a huge yawn as she sat down on the mahogany bench at the bus stop. This wasn’t the place she normally got on the bus at — her usual stop was down another block — but she was tired from a long day of college classes and working at the CD store, so she’d decided to try the stop adjacent to her workplace. After all, who knew? Maybe this route was quicker!

The bus wouldn’t come for another 20 minutes, so Diana killed time by playing games on her Wanton PGS. In between her kicking butt at Dragon Fighter, Diana noticed some strange people beginning to gather at the bus stop, including a man with heavy black gloves and a ski mask, a woman with a prosthetic nose, and a man with slime-covered bracelets pushing a cone-hatted kid in a stroller. Their quirks were subtle enough not to be distracting, but still pronounced enough to be noticeable.

The bus was even more striking once it finally pulled up to the stop. It didn’t sport the same white and blue color scheme as the other city buses, opting instead for a bright orange and purple theme. Moreover, instead of a marquee on the front and side of the bus announcing its destination, there was a single wooden sign taped to the front of the bus that said “ELSEWHERE”.

Unsettled, Diana tried to leave the bus stop, but she got swept up in the throng of people and was forced onto the bus against her will. Diana tried running for the door, but the driver shut it and drove off almost immediately. Then, she tried pulling the cord, only to find that there wasn’t one.

Diana’s jaw dropped in shock. 

“What in the actual name of—” she said.

But the bus driver cut her off.

“Good evening, folks!” the driver said over the intercom. “This is Route 00, en route to The Fruit Basket Creamery in Hurricane with no stops in between. I’m Gary, and I’ll be your driver for the evening. I hope you enjoy!”

Diana’s shock and horror went off the charts as she registered this. Instead of hitching a ride home, she’d accidentally hitched a ride to some creamery she’d never heard of. She had to do something… but what?

She tried opening the windows to crawl out of them, but they were all locked.

She tried approaching the driver to ask if he could let her off, but he was going so fast that she kept sliding back to her seat.

Finally, Diana gave up and decided she’d just wait until the bus got to the creamery to explain her situation to the driver. She leaned back in her seat, shut her eyes, and fell asleep.

 A few minutes later (or so it felt), Diana was awakened by the bus’ skidding brakes. 

SCREEEECH!

Diana groaned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. What time was it? Her watch said 11:06. Man, she really needed to hit the sack…

After everyone else had exited the bus, Diana approached the driver and explained her situation to him. The driver was genuinely sympathetic and offered to call a taxi for her, which she gladly accepted. Diana went outside to wait for the taxi, falling back asleep as she did so.

Meanwhile, the tourists were being tortured by the staff of Fruit Basket Creamery.

“$15 for a creamsicle!?” the woman with the prosthetic nose said incredulously.

One member of the staff slowly nodded his head.

The tourists glanced at each other, then they pulled out torches and pitchforks and began rioting.

They tipped over milk vending machines, smashed freezers, and ripped up the cardboard cows. 

“Eat the rich, feed the poor!” they chanted. “We won’t pay 15 bucks anymore!”

The creamery staff did what any group of sensible, underpaid employees would do: they screamed and ran.

Back outside, Diana stirred in her sleep.

Today, the Holloways and the Arquettes were going to the Clark County Fair, and, as usual, it blew AJ away. There were carnival rides; vendors selling toys, food, jewelry, and Snazzy Quills™; tractor pulls; monster trucks; and a partridge in a pear tree.

“Ooh, la-la~!” AJ said, grabbing Twist by the shoulders and shaking her. “Isn’t this place magnifique, Twisty?”

Twist chuckled and pulled her friend’s hands off of her. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

The twins were the only ones who weren’t smiling.

“Where are the — hick! — apple bobs?” Pepsy demanded.

Everyone looked at her with question marks in their eyes.

“The what-now?” said the father Holloway, Frank.

“The apple bobs!” Pizza said. “Prancer told us there are magical people named Bob who pull apples out of water here!”

“Yeah,” said Prancer, Pizza’s pink reindeer puppet. “I read it on the flyer!”

The mother Holloway, McKenzie, sighed and face-palmed. Blaze hastily hid a giggle behind her tattooed hand.

“That’s not how it works, girls,” McKenzie said in her soft Scottish accent. “You ‘bob’ for apples by dunking your head in water and catching them with your teeth. There aren’t any magical people named Bob involved.”

“But, Mom, Prancer said—”

“Pizza,” said McKenzie, her rise in tone signalling the end of her patience. “Don’t make me get The Angry Puppet out.”

Pizza pouted, but kept her and Prancer’s mouths shut as she followed her family through the fair.

“Mommy’s girlfriend has an angry puppet, too,” AJ said to no one in particular. “She’s a sockpuppet who’s always socking it to me.”

“Could you please not make any more puns for the rest of the day?” Twist groaned.

AJ giggled meekly. “Je suis desolee*,” she said with a curtsy.

Most of the County Fair went by fairly normally**, even by Neila standards: the Holloways and the Arquettes ate sweets, petted dust bunnies and horses, and toured the various vendor booths.

But little did anyone know that the twins were still thinking about the “apple bobs” and how to find them.

“You wanna — hick! — look for the bobs over by the — hick! — monster trucks?” Pepsy suggested to Pizza while Blaze was gushing over some hand-stitched aprons a vendor was selling.

Pizza immediately nodded in agreement.

“To the bobs!” Prancer whisper-shouted.

The twins snuck towards the monster truck arena by the hotdog booth, unseen by everyone but Twist and AJ.

Twist sighed and turned to her friend.

“Feel like rescuing my sisters from doing something stupid, AJ?” she asked.

“Oooh, can I wear a cape?” AJ said excitedly.

“Only if you’re good.”

“D’accord***!” AJ said with a giggle and a playful salute.

Meanwhile…

Pepsy and Pizza had snuck under the bleachers at the Crumple Zone Stadium, where they were currently searching for any sign of the apple bobs.

“Are you sure the apple bobs are around here, Pepsy?” asked Pizza dubiously. “All I’m seeing is dirt, trash, and empty soda cans.”

Pepsy turned towards her twin, looking offended.

“For — hick — Pete’s sake, Pizza!” she said. “I’m a — hick — six-year-old girl with a — hick — bad case of the hiccups. Of course I’m not — hick — sure if the bobs are here or not. I’m just — hick — guessing.”

“Well, guess again,” said Twist, who’d just shown up with AJ in tow.

The twins glared at their older sister. 

“What are you (hick) doing here, Twisty?” they demanded in unison.

“Making sure you girls don’t do anything stupid,” Twist answered with a small smirk and a dash of smugness in her voice.

“Oui!” AJ chirped with an energetic nod. “We’re your heroes for the day—only we don’t have our capes on yet.”

The twins’ expressions made it abundantly clear they’d rather eat their own boogers than be “saved”, but they knew better than to say this out loud.

“All we want is to find the apple bobs,” said Prancer.

Twist face-palmed.

“For the last time, girls,” she sighed, “there are not any magical people named Bob who pull apples out of—” She looked over her sisters’ heads and to the right, and her brown eyes grew to golfball size. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

AJ and the twins followed Twist’s gaze and found, much to their collective astonishment, a small booth on the edge of the bleachers with a colorful sign above it that read: “APPLE BOBS”. Two men were manning the booth: one was holding the tip jar, while the other was seated in front of a metal tub full of water and apples.

Now, it was the twins’ turn to look smug.

“Ha!” Prancer said to Twist. “I told you so!”

Twist looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her hole.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Pizza cheered, grabbing Pepsy’s hand. “Let’s go meet the Bobs!”

The twins scrambled out from under the bleachers, leaving Twist to drag her hand down her face in utter disbelief. AJ, on the other hand, was bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Mon dieu, Twisty! The folklore is real!” AJ gasped, practically vibrating with excitement. “We must witness the magic!”

Before Twist could stop her, AJ dashed after the twins. Twist groaned, muttering a quick prayer for her own sanity, and followed.

As they approached the booth, the sign became clearer. In smaller, hand-painted letters underneath “APPLE BOBS,” it read: “Watch Bob and Bob, the Amazing Toothless Wonders, catch apples or your money back!”

The two men behind the counter looked like identical twins who had spent the last forty years working on a fishing boat. They wore matching flannel shirts, suspenders, and trucker hats. The one holding the tip jar had a nametag that read BOB #1. The one sitting in front of the giant metal tub of water had a nametag that read BOB #2.

“Step right up, folks!” Bob #1 hollered in a gravelly voice. “See the legendary Apple Bobs of Clark County! No hands, no teeth, just pure, unadulterated suction power!”

Pepsy and Pizza stopped at the edge of the booth, their eyes wide with reverence.

“Are you... the magical apple wizards?” Pizza whispered, holding Prancer up like an offering.

Bob #1 looked down at the six-year-olds, then at the pink reindeer puppet, and didn't blink an eye. Fair folk were used to weird kids. “We sure are, little lady. I’m Bob, he’s Bob. We bob for apples. Hence: the Apple Bobs.”

“See?!” Prancer squeaked, turning to glare triumphantly at Twist as she and AJ finally caught up. “I am a puppet of science and truth!”

“This is madness,” Twist muttered, crossing her arms and staring at the booth. “Mom said it was just a metaphor.”

“Everything is madness at the county fair, sis,” Pepsy said, her hiccups momentarily cured by the sheer awe of the situation.

AJ leaned over the counter, inspecting the tub of water. “And how does the magic work, Monsieur Bob? Do you use the levitation?”

“Nah, mostly just jaw strength and a lack of dignity,” Bob #1 said cheerfully. He slapped a dollar bill into the tip jar. “Alright, Bob #2! Show 'em the magic!”

Bob #2 gave a toothless, gummy grin, took a deep breath, and plunged his entire face into the tub of water. The water splashed over the sides as he aggressively nudged a massive red Gala apple against the side of the metal tub. With a dramatic splash, he emerged, his face dripping wet, pinning the giant apple securely between his chin and his collarbone. He raised his arms in victory.

The twins erupted into wild applause.

“Magnifique! Bravo!” AJ cheered, tossing a handful of loose change into the tip jar.

“He didn't even use hands!” Pizza gasped. “Prancer, this is the best day of my life.”

Twist just stood there, looking between the dripping-wet elderly man celebrating an apple-chin-pin, and her ecstatic younger sisters. A slow, defeated smile crept onto her face.

“Alright, fine,” Twist admitted, raising her hands in defeat. “You guys were right. The Apple Bobs are real.”

“And they are — hick — glorious,” Pepsy declared.

Just then, a familiar voice called out over the crowd. “There you girls are!”

McKenzie and Blaze came walking up, holding a giant cloud of blue cotton candy. McKenzie looked ready to scold them for running off, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the sign above the booth, and then looked down at Bob #2, who was still proudly holding the apple under his chin.

Blaze burst out laughing, clapping her tattooed hands together. “Oh, McKenzie, look! You’ve been corrected by ze universe.”

McKenzie stared at the booth, face-palmed for the second time that day, and let out a long, heavy Scottish sigh. “I am never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Never!” Pizza, Pepsy, and Prancer cheered in unison.

AJ wrapped an arm around Twist’s shoulders, beaming. “Well, what do you know, Twisty? No capes needed. The day has been saved by the power of... the Bobs.”

Twist chuckled, nudging her friend away. “Come on, let’s go get some cotton candy before the Bobs decide to do an encore.”

Footnotes

*: “I’m sorry.”

**: For once, I didn’t mean to make that pun; it just happened. ~TSW

Eight-year-old AJ is convinced that a man who watches you while you sleep and breaks into your house isn't a hero—he’s a world-class burglar.

Armed with a can of air freshener and her best friend Twist (who is mostly just in it for the potential snacks), AJ sets off on a top-secret mission to the North Pole to stop the "Big Jolly Guy" before he strikes again.

When 13-year-old Holiday O’Haire is snatched from the woods by a bizarre, transparent-skinned demon, she finds herself thrust into the heart of 6/13, Inc., an organization manipulating the digital world for sinister ends.

Trapped in a realm of corporate absurdity and surreal dangers, Holiday must rely on an eccentric, ragtag rescue team to survive. Armed with nothing but their own unique quirks and a very unconventional arsenal, they have to navigate a landscape where online traps are deadly and the line between humor and horror is razor-thin.

AJ squinted at the word scrambles on the blackboard, all of which had been turned to alphabet soup by her dyslexia. The teacher, Mrs. Purple, was having them do this as practice for the upcoming 23rd Annual Neila Elementary School Spelling Bee, but, to AJ at least, it seemed pretty pointless. How the heck was she supposed to unscramble something as (relatively) nonsensical as “lcsimawhi”?

AJ blew air out of her mouth and began doodling fashion designs in her notebook. She wished Mrs. Purple had given them a sewing or drawing lesson, or something easy like that…

AJ yawned and laid her head on top of her desk. The next thing she knew, she was standing in a dimly lit room with fragments of her word scramble homework floating in front of her like a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

AJ instantly knew what to do. She grabbed a needle and thread out of her sweatshirt pocket and began sewing her homework into a paper sock. A few times, the homework cried out in protest, but AJ was too focused on her needlework to notice.

When AJ was finished, she barely had enough time to admire her work before a giant, plastic crocodile sprang out of nowhere and gobbled up her homework sock.

“AJ?” a voice whispered.

Enraged, AJ pulled an oar out from behind her back and swung it at the plastic crocodile. SMACK! She was right on target—

“AJ!” said the same voice from earlier, louder and more insistent this time.

“Huh? What?” AJ blinked for several seconds until her classroom came back into focus.

The sight could only be described as a “daydream embarrassment”. AJ was holding the yardstick Mrs. Purple used to point at things on the blackboard like a sword, her notebook was on the floor, Twist and Mrs. Purple were standing behind her with their arms outstretched, and the rest of the class was staring at her awkwardly.

AJ’s face burned beet-red, clashing horribly with her pink sweatshirt.

She meekly turned toward Mrs. Purple and mumbled, “If you give me a minute, Madame Teacher, I’m sure I can find some way to blame this all on the President or the author.”

One day, AJ was out playing hopscotch when she was suddenly approached by an orange-eyed ghost.

"Hello, AJ," said the ghost.

"Sacrebleu!" AJ gasped, jumping back. "Who are you? And how the heck do you know my name?"

AJ spoke with a high-pitched, chipper voice coated in a French accent. Her H’s were silent, and her TH’s sounded like Z’s. 

"Oh, I know more than that, cher," the ghost said with a chuckle. "Like, for example, I know that this morning you asked your mother what the hangy-downy thing at the back of the throat was."

AJ shuffled her feet. "Yeah, she wouldn't tell me, though..."  

"Well, I can help you find the answer you seek. All you have to do is—"

But AJ's eyes had grown glassy. "Can I call you 'Daisy'? You look like a 'Daisy'."

"What!?" the ghost sputtered. "No! I'm a guy, and besides, that's completely—"

"I know someone from school named Daisy," AJ said, oblivious to the ghost's dismay. "She goes by Flower, though, and she's pretty good at the cello."

"Daisy" was completely rattled. "Oh, for crying out loud, girl, could we please just focus on—"

But AJ had already gone back to playing hopscotch, humming "Need Somebody to Love" by Jefferson Airplane.

Daisy sighed. "Now I know how The Boogeyman feels..."

After about half an hour of trying to get AJ to focus, Daisy finally convinced her to stick a popsicle stick down her mom's throat to find out what the hangy-downy thing was.

Later that night...

AJ, in her pink turtle pajamas, waited until her mother was asleep. Then, she snuck down to the TV room where Blaze was conked out on the couch.

Trembling, AJ slowly moved her Popsicle stick toward her mother's mouth. But just four inches away, she burst into tears.

Daisy materialized in front of AJ, exasperated. 

"Good gravy, girl!" he exclaimed. "Even Jason the Werewolf has more brains and guts than you!"

"Wh-Wh-Who's—hick—th-th-that?" AJ choked out between sobs.

"Oh, come on!" Daisy said, his patience wearing thin. "Surely you must have heard about werewolves at school!"

"My name's—hick—AJ, not—hick—Shirley."

Daisy yelled angrily, his orange eyes flashing. "That's it! That's the last straw, little girl! I'm taking you to where the sun don't shine!"

"Seattle?" AJ hiccuped.

"Shut up!" Daisy yelled.

The ghost made a quick movement and nicked AJ's leg, making her cry out. Then, he picked her up and raised her to his mouth.

"Goodbye, Angel K. Arquette, Jr.!"

Just as Daisy was about to attack AJ, Surly shell-spun into the room and threw a bucket of Anti-Spirit Oranges™ at the ghost. Daisy howled in agony and dropped AJ, who picked up her turtle and ran into the bathroom, screaming.

This proved futile, of course, as Daisy just phased right through the door.

“You idiots! Why in the world would you think a locked door could stop a ghost!? Use your brains, if you even have any!”

AJ and Surly screamed as AJ ran into the storage closet. Blaze stirred slightly. "No, not that one, Ollie, the blue is my favorite..." she moaned.

Eventually, Daisy cornered AJ and Surly. 

"You have irked me for the last time, AJ," he growled. "Now it is time for you to die."

"Ok, but could I at least kiss a boy first?" AJ requested.

"Oh, for crying out loud, shut up!" yelled Daisy.

The ghost sliced at the air and accidentally cut open a crate of oranges, spraying himself with juice.

"AAAHHHHH!!! MOMMY!!!!" he screamed as he melted into a pool of ectoplasm.

The screams woke up AJ's mother, who, upon seeing the mess, took her straight to bed.

The next morning...

AJ woke up and entered the kitchen where her mom was eating waffles.

"Bon matin, AJ," she said.

AJ, still half-asleep, muttered, "Mmm, bon matin, Mommy."

AJ went to the cupboard, and Blaze looked up and noticed a huge, frayed tear down the side of her pajama bottoms.

“Angel Kallie Arquette, Jr.!” Blaze gasped.

AJ flinched.

“Ou-Oui, Mommy?” she squeaked.

“You are a young lady! Why are you wearing pajamas that belong in a rag pile!?”

AJ ran her hands down the side of her pajama bottoms and turned bright red as her fingers slipped right through the giant, gaping rip. Squeaking in embarrassment, she poured her cereal quickly and slid straight into her chair to hide her messy pants under the table.

Hysterical, Blaze began to sob. “This is all my fault! I am a failure as a mother! My daughter has yet to climb the ladder of ladyhood thanks to me! AJ, God, Ollie—s’il vous plaît, forgive me!”

Blaze stormed out of the kitchen, revealing a hole in her tank top that exposed a hideous pimple on her back.

Normally, AJ was a sweet and silly girl, but like many kids her age, she could also be pretty stubborn. When she really, really wanted something, she would ask for it over and over and over again until she got it. Usually, it was a new toy or a fun game, but today, AJ wanted something a little… unusual. She wanted a wedgie!

Her mommy, Blaze, thought AJ was just being silly. AJ often said funny and imaginative things, like the time she claimed to be a princess from another planet who loved to eat escargots and rain boots! But when Blaze heard AJ asking a bully at school to give her a wedgie, she knew it was time to have a serious talk with her little girl.

Blaze was worried. She took AJ out of school early and they rode home on Blaze's motorcycle. When they got home, Blaze gently placed AJ on the sofa.

"AJ, ma cherie, I don't understand why you want a wedgie," Blaze said gently. "But it's not a good idea, and I don't want you to ask for one again."

AJ giggled. "A game? Is that what you think this is, Mommy?" she said. "Non, non, it's not a game. Jimmy from reading class told me about wedgies, and I think they sound like fun!"

Blaze was shocked. "Oh, Crumpet," she said, hugging AJ tightly. "I don't want you to get hurt. Wedgies can be uncomfortable and even painful."

AJ looked at her mommy with a puzzled expression. "So, does that mean I can get a wedgie?" she asked hopefully.

Blaze looked at AJ with surprise. "Non, cherie," she said calmly. "Wedgies are not a good idea."

"Why not?" AJ asked, confused. 

Blaze didn't answer. She took AJ upstairs to her room and asked her to stay there for a little while.

"Mommy, why can't I come out?" AJ asked, knocking on the door. "I just want a wedgie!"

"Non, AJ," Blaze said firmly. "You can't have a wedgie. It's not safe, and it's not something we do to others."

AJ was sad and confused. She didn't understand why her mommy wouldn't let her have a wedgie. Blaze felt bad that AJ was upset, but she knew she was doing the right thing. She wanted to protect AJ from The Wedgie Curse, a silly superstition that said if you got a wedgie, the word "NERD" would appear on your forehead!

AJ sat in her room, feeling frustrated. It just wasn't fair! How come Mommy's ex-girlfriend got to threaten her with wedgies and swirlies all the time (before Mommy broke up with her because of this), but now that AJ actually WANTED one, things had gotten more difficult? Suddenly, AJ heard a knock on the door. It was Twist's twin sisters, Pepsy and Pizza! They were smiling and waving at AJ.

AJ was so happy to see Pepsy and Pizza! She loved playing with them, even though Twist said they were sometimes mischievous. AJ jumped up and wanted to give Pepsy and Pizza a big hug. But Pepsy handed her a squeaky toy instead.

"Aw, come on!" AJ said, feeling a little disappointed. "I just want to give you a hug!"

The twins giggled and told AJ they’d overheard her talking with her mother and could help her get a wedgie. AJ was so excited!

"Of course!" Pepsy said with a mischievous grin. "We're friends, and friends help each other out, right?"

AJ was so happy she could barely contain herself. 

"Merci, merci!" she exclaimed, reaching out to hug the twins.

“Anytime!” the twins said with identical smirks. 

AJ followed them to their backyard, but she stopped when they started climbing up to their treehouse.

"What's wrong, AJ?" asked Prancer, Pizza’s reindeer puppet. "Aren't you coming up?"

AJ shook her head. 

"I don't like heights," she said.

Pepsy helped Pizza climb onto her shoulders so she could reach down to grab AJ's waistband. AJ was so excited, she could barely stand still! "I can't wait to give them a big hug later!" she thought.

AJ held her breath as Pizza reached out…

"Where's my little girl!?" Blaze exclaimed. She had climbed over the fence and looked a little out of breath.

AJ jumped, and Pizza tumbled off Pepsy's shoulders. They were all startled by the sound of AJ's mom's voice. AJ felt a little nervous. She knew her mom wouldn't be happy if she found out what they were doing.

AJ quickly turned to the twins. "You have to help me!" she whispered. "My mommy can't know about this!"

"There you are, AJ!" Blaze exclaimed. "What are you doing out here?"

AJ's heart pounded. The twins looked worried. AJ tried to smile at her mom. 

"B-Bonjour, Mommy!" she said. "I was just playing with Pepsy and Pizza."

AJ looked at the twins, but they were too scared to say anything. Blaze could be pretty scary when she was angry.

Blaze took AJ's hand to lead her back home, but AJ didn't move. 

"I have to get a wedgie, Mommy!" AJ pleaded. "I just have to know what it feels like!"

Before Blaze could say anything, AJ quickly pulled up her underpants.

"AJ, non!" Blaze cried.

AJ giggled. "Oh, that's what it feels like!" she said. She let go of her underpants, and they snapped back into place.

Blaze quickly picked up AJ and started to carry her home. But then something strange happened!

Blaze looked at AJ and gasped. The word "NERD" had magically appeared on AJ's forehead!

"What's wrong, Mommy?" AJ asked.

Blaze was shocked and upset. The twins started giggling.

Edited & based on an idea by an anonymous co-author

One fateful day at Dirt Valley Elementary School in Mesquite, Nevada, the following elements snowballed together to form one great, big, short story:

A girl

A boy

A fight over a glass slipper found lying underneath a pine tree on their school’s soccer field

The girl, Noel McGrogan by name, was a quirky kid who lived next to a graveyard. She wanted the slipper so she could write a poem about it.

The boy, Charlie Todd by name, was an intermediate-level* prankster. He wanted the slipper so he could make a “fake princess dress” for his little sister as a joke.

The fight for the slipper was epic(ally bizarre): 

Charlie gave Noel a wedgie, 

Noel poured dirt down Charlie’s shirt, 

Charlie threw his dirty socks at Noel,

Noel gave Charlie a face-ful of mud,

Etc., etc., etc.

The kids fought all recess long, smacking left and kicking right. They didn’t stop until their teacher, Mr. Mickelson, found them a few minutes after the bell rang and gave them both lunch detention for trying to ditch class.

As Mr. Mickelson dragged them to the classroom by their collars, the two friends exchanged a look that spoke volumes: “THIS CONTINUES AFTER SCHOOL.” 

***

Later, after school…

Charlie and Noel nearly mowed each other down as they ran out the door and onto the soccer field where, miraculously, the slipper still lay like a glittery rock.

Once again, the kids shoved, pulled, tripped, and Wet Willy’d each other, literally playing dirty. Unbeknownst to them, as they did so, they accidentally hit the base of the pine tree, making one of the pinecones loose. 

Ultimately, however, Noel was the one who ended up grabbing the slipper…and smooshing it in her hands, splattering silvery, sweet-smelling foam all over her front.

The kids’ jaws dropped six inches as Noel licked her finger, trying to find out what the foam was.

“It’s cake,” the girl finally said in a brittle, shock-filled voice.

Eyes heavy with disbelief, Charlie swiped some foam off of his friend’s blouse and tasted it. Indeed, it was vanilla cake with blueberry frosting -- the first kind the boy had tasted that made him feel angry instead of happy.

“We spent our whole recess fighting over cake!?” he exclaimed, pulling on his blonde hair in shame and outrage.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Noel shrugged and began licking the frosting off of her hands with a look of cheerful carefreeness on her face. “’Least it’s vanilla, though.”

Charlie groaned and fell to the ground in shame. “I have never felt so humiliated in my entire life! I should change my name to Charlie ‘Loser’ Todd!”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a middle name?” Noel remarked, still licking her hands.

Charlie groaned as he fell flat on his face in the grass and turned to the left, scowling.

“Spare me the ditzy comments, Noel,” he snapped, “I’m not about to made fun of by a harebrain who writes weird poems and wears dinosaur panties even though she’s in third grade.”

Noel immediately stopped licking herself. Her face burned beet-red with anger, and you could almost see the steam blowing out of her ears.

The girl scooped a glob of frosting off of her skirt, stormed over to Charlie, and shoved the frosting down his pants.

Charlie shot to his feet, screaming as he tried desperately to force the gooey frosting out of his unmentionables.

“First of all,” Noel seethed, staring daggers at her friend, “I take great pride in my poetry, and don’t you forget it! And, secondly, dinosaurs are cool, and don’t. YOU. FORGET IT!”

As she said these last two words, Noel smacked the base of the pine tree for emphasis. Unfortunately, this caused the loose pinecone to fall and smack the girl on the head, making her dazed and confused.

“Hey, Charlie?” Noel slurred. “Why are there suddenly two of you? And why are you both surrounded by stars?”

Normally, Charlie would’ve laughed at this, but he was too busy digging cake frosting out of his rear.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, his mom showed up and started dragging him to her car by his ear.

“You are in so much trouble, Charlie Todd!” said the mother, purposefully ignoring her son’s repeated yells of “ow ow ow ow ow ow”. “I’ve told you a bajillion times you can’t have your cake and eat it, too, and now here you are getting it shoved down your pants by that weird McGrogan girl! Why didn’t you just listen to me, Charlie!?”

Mrs. Todd threw her son into the back seat of her car and slammed the door before he could answer.

Meanwhile, Noel’s big sister showed up to take her home, swinging her car keys around her finger like a miniature hula hoop while she answered a text message on her Otaka 3GS Flip-Phone™.

When the older McGrogan looked up and saw the state her little sister was in, however, her phone, keys, and jaws were all dropped with shock.

“Noel!” her big sister said, crouching down and examining the little girl carefully. “What on Earth happened to you!?”

Noel turned her glassy, unfocused eyes towards her sister with a lazy smile. 

“Oh, bfff,” the little girl slurred, “Heya, Kenzie! Don’t mind the cake on me; I’m getting arrested ‘cause Charlie has the pinecone which is the key to the secrets of the universe. He stole it from me, that little dirt-eater! Also, you should prob’ly activate Code Yellow, ’cause I really have to pee.”

And with that, Noel fainted in her very confused sister’s arms.

~The end!~            

Footnotes

Lucy gaped at King Gerald like he’d just said he fed his boogers to his royal pet schnauzer. Lucy had thought she’d’ve gotten used to the King’s silly quests after having served as his Royal Knight for six months, but he’d proved her dead wrong with his latest request.

"So, let me get this straight," Lucy said. "You want us, three kids, to draw you a bubble bath?"

King Gerald nodded. Miles shuddered and gagged a little, but Alexa's brown eyes lit up.

"Wow!" she said. "I've never drawn a bath before. My daddy has, though. He's an interior designer."

Miles rolled his eyes at his comrade’s naivete. “No, Alexa. To ‘draw’ a bath means to prepare it.”

Alexa blinked. “Ohhh.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said, folding her arms and frowning at King Gerald, “and I really don’t think it’s appropriate for kids our age to prepare a bath for a 52-year-old man, even if he happens to be our King. Sorry, Your Majesty, but you can count us out of this one.”

Lucy turned on her heel to leave, but stopped when she saw that King Gerald had pulled three $20 bills and three candy bars out of his robe pockets. She mentally cursed herself for drooling.

Alexa saw the gifts, too, and the sparkle in her eyes reignited.

Miles, however, raised an eyebrow at the King.

“Are you trying to bribe us, Your Majesty?” he said.

King Gerald looked involuntarily to the right.

“...maybe,” he said.

And before Miles could respond, the King shoved the might-have-been-bribes into his Knights’ hands and dashed out of his royal bedroom, his bathrobe flapping behind him like a cape as he did so.

The kids exchanged awkward glances.

“Oh, well,” Lucy said, shrugging and slipping her bribes in her pockets. “I guess we’d better head into the royal bathroom and start drawing the King’s bath for him.”

“WOOHOO!” Alexa cheered excitedly, following her commander into King Gerald’s large, silver-tiled bathroom. “Bubble bath, here we come!”

Miles opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. “Hold on, are we really letting the King bribe us into bathing him? That’s disgusting!”

***

A few minutes later, the preparations for King Gerald’s bubble bath were almost complete. The tub was half full of “hot-but-not-too-hot” water (in King Gerald’s own words), the King’s favorite bath towel had been laundered and hung up, the rug in front of the tub had been very carefully vacuumed, and Lucy had even gone the extra mile and sprayed air freshener so the entire bathroom didn’t smell like royal poop. 

Now, the only thing left was to add—

“—the bubbles! Yaaay!” Alexa cheered, hopping up and down excitedly.

Miles looked at his comrade with a concerned expression on his face.

“Are you sure Alexa’s the same age as us?” the brainiac whispered to Lucy. “She acts more seven than 10 sometimes.”

Lucy smirked. “Says the guy who cried like a baby when he thought someone had stolen his favorite action figure.”

Miles blushed crimson and smacked Lucy in the back of the head while she snickered like a class clown.

Meanwhile, Alexa hummed cheerfully to herself as she rummaged through King Gerald’s bathroom cupboard for the bubble bath soap. She eventually happened upon a container filled with purple goop.

Grinning, Alexa picked up the container, carried it over to the bathtub, and poured it in the water. 

The water immediately began to churn and bubble, and bubble and churn, and churn and bubble, until finally… KA-BOOM! The bathtub erupted like a geyser, drenching every inch of the bathroom with H2O.

Miles spat out some of the water that’d gotten in his mouth and glared at Alexa.

“Ok, two things,” he said. “1) Alexa, you should’ve known better than to pour a bottle of explosive gel in a bathtub; and 2) Why the crap would the King have a bottle of explosive gel in his bathroom closet in the first place?”

“So he can make a boom-boom?” Alexa suggested with a shrug, making Lucy chuckle.

The throne room of Needham Castle was a grand and dusty affair, all gilded carvings and faded velvet. But the most prominent fixture was King Gerald III, with his magnificent purple cloak and well-groomed white beard. Seated on a throne carved to look like a startled dragon, he wrung his hands and stared at a small, empty silver platter.

“Knights!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the vast space. “To me!”

Three small figures in the center of the room, who had been racing toy cars across the polished marble floor, immediately snapped to attention. There was Lucy, her green dress perfectly starched despite the afternoon's dust, and her two loyal lieutenants: Miles, a lanky boy in tweed breeches with a perpetually thoughtful expression, and Alexa, whose gray frock was smudged with dirt from an earlier skirmish with a particularly stubborn molehill that the King had sworn was a mountain. These children were the Royal Knights of Fossilwood, an office bestowed upon them by King Gerald himself after they had successfully retrieved his favorite sock from a well. It was, as far as they knew, the only standing knighthood in the entire kingdom (mostly because no one else could tolerate the king’s absurd quests).

“Knights,” the King said again, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “A great calamity has befallen our kingdom! My royal pudding… it has vanished!”

Lucy, Miles, and Alexa exchanged a look. 

"Vanished, Your Majesty?" Miles asked, adjusting the paper helmet on his head.

"Yes! I left it right here, on this platter! It was a magnificent cup of pudding, mind you. Butterscotch, my favorite! I suspect foul play! A rival kingdom, perhaps? Or… a very hungry ghost?” The king shuddered dramatically.

“We’ll find it, Your Majesty,” Lucy said, giving the king a brave, determined smile. “And it better not be in the cupboard like last time,” she thought to herself.

With a bow, the three knights set off for their locker room to put on their quest attire, namely a leather pouch for holding trinkets, a polished stick for poking things, knightly nametags, and their best manners. There was no chainmail to be found in their size, and no one wanted to see a 10-year-old trying to wear a breastplate anyway. 

After they’d finished “suiting up”, the knights began their not-so-epic quest.

They started their search in the royal kitchens, where the head chef, a stern-looking woman named Petunia, pointed them to the pantry. “The last time I saw the King, he was in there, muttering about his pudding being ‘too wobbly’.”

Inside the vast pantry, stacks of flour sacks and preserves towered over them like mountains. Alexa spotted a trail of brown goo leading towards a large wooden barrel. 

“Oooh, look, guys!” she declared, pointing. “A pudding trail! At least, I hope it’s pudding…”

Looking rather uneasy, Miles gingerly stepped around a spilled sack of flour. "We must consider all possibilities, girls. Maybe the pudding was… turned into a dangerous weapon of some sort?"

Reluctantly, he followed the trail, which led them not to the barrel, but behind it, to a small, discarded tea set. The goo was actually spilled caramel. 

“A dead end,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “So much for my pudding weapon theory…”

“At least it’s not c—” Lucy started, only for a crow to interrupt her: “CAWWW!”

The knights’ search continued through the royal gardens, where the trail of goo reappeared underneath the stone bench. They followed it across a manicured lawn, through a hedge maze, and into the stables.

“It leads to Reggie’s stall!” Alexa cried, patting the King’s prized white horse, who was lazily chewing on hay. “Maybe Reggie ate it?”

Reggie whinnied at the kids. 

Miles peered at the horse's muzzle, which had a suspicious brown smear on it. "Reggie, did you steal the royal pudding?"

The horse blinked slowly. Miles nodded his head. “I understand. The King’s pudding is butterscotch. Reggie has very refined tastes; he’d never eat butterscotch.”

“Wait,” Lucy said, a glimmer of an idea in her eye. She held up her stick, which she had been dragging in the goo. “The goo is on everything, but it’s not pudding. It’s caramel.”

The three knights looked at each other, their brains whirring.

The kids rushed back to the throne room, where the king was now humming a happy tune and petting his footman’s head.

“Your Majesty!” Lucy announced, standing at attention with her two friends. “We have solved the mystery of the missing pudding!”

The King jumped up. “Aha! Did you catch the ghost?”

“No,” Miles said. “The trail led us in circles, but we realized the 'pudding trail' was actually a caramel trail. No butterscotch.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the King grumbled, looking disappointed.

“Your Majesty,” Alexa said, pointing a finger at a small, dark object poking out from under the king’s seat cushion. “You didn’t eat the pudding.”

King Gerald looked down, his eyes widening in confusion and then shrinking down to normal size as realization hit him. 

“Oh, that’s right!” he laughed. “I remember now! The royal pudding was a bit wobbly, so I slid it on a separate tray and got a caramel scone from the pantry. Then, I went on a walk around the castle grounds and came back here.” 

He reached down and triumphantly pulled out the silver tray on which sat his royal pudding, a small cup of butterscotch perfectly preserved.

“Huzzah!” the King cheered. “My royal pudding is safe! You have saved the kingdom from a great injustice, knights! For your bravery, I shall bestow upon you... an extra-large scoop of ice cream each!”

AJ had stars in her emerald-colored eyes as she stared at the castle-themed headquarters of the illustrious Willy Wonderwall Pictures. She was going to be working at the studio as a costume designer for her Girl Scouts program, and her excitement was beyond expression.

AJ hummed a song to herself as she rang a buzzer on the side of the front gate.

“Who is it!?” barked a gruff voice on the other side of the speakerphone.

“Angel K. Arquette, Jr. from Firefly Girls Troop 124B,” AJ answered. “I’m here for the summer program.”

“‘Summer program’?” the gruff voice echoed. “What are you — ohhh, you must mean the summer sweatshop! Er, I mean, uh—oh, crap…”

AJ cocked her head in confusion.

“What’s a ‘sweatshop’?” she asked.

“N-Nevermind. Just… come in.”

The buzzer sounded again, and the gate opened with a rusty creeeak.

AJ smiled and skipped inside the courtyard.

Meanwhile, inside Wonderwall Pictures’ boardroom…

Wonderwall Pictures’ CEO, Peter Wonderwall, stood in front of a whiteboard with a yardstick in his hand. His fellow board members sat around a table with open notebooks in front of them.

“Alright, people,” Mr. Wonderwall said, pointing his yardstick at a pie chart he’d drawn on the whiteboard. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, there are six major film studios in the world: us, Lasser Bros., Worldwide Studios, Limelight Legacy, Vidi Pictures, and Summit-Vortex Media.”

“And Wonderwall Pictures has been on top for the past 20 years!” interjected studio President Stacey Fox, garnering a triumphant “YEAH!” from the rest of the board.

“Oh, for sure, Stacey,” Mr. Wonderwall said with a hollow smile. “But, these past few years, Lasser Bros. has been creeping up on us. Just last year, they made almost a gazillion dollars in DVD sales alone, and almost double that at the box office.”

The board gasped, and studio chairman Rex Burr puffed on his rescue inhaler.

“Yeah, I know,” Mr. Wonderwall said, nodding almost wearily. “And that’s exactly why we’re commencing Operation: Film Frenzy.”

The CEO flipped his whiteboard over to reveal a list:

Operation: Film Frenzy

Have robots write scripts for us

Hire Girl Scouts to design costumes for us during the summer season

Eat cheeseburgers

PROFIT!!! 

One of the board members raised his hand. “I’m a vegetarian. Can I skip Step Three?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Mr. Wonderwall answered with an airy wave of his hand. “Any other questions?”

Mr. Burr raised his hand. “Are you sure this plan is a good idea, Mr. Wonderwall? It sounds kind of, you know… unethical.”

Mr. Wonderwall scowled. “Do you want Lasser Bros. to pass us in the film market, Mr. Burr!?”

“Um, no?” Mr. Burr answered meekly.

“Good. Then, be quiet.”

Mr. Burr looked like Mr. Wonderwall had just slapped him in the face. Several of the other board members snickered.

Suddenly, the door to the boardroom burst open, and in flew a girly whirlwind of pink and blue, followed by a breathless security guard. The board gaped at the intruders in shock, and several of them dropped their pens.

“Bonjour et good day, filmmakers!” the little girl said, seemingly oblivious to the openmouthed stares. “Angel K. Arquette, Jr. is here to fulfill her passion for fashion for the summer!”

Mr. Wonderwall’s expression displayed a mixture of emotions as he registered this: panic, frustration, and a pinch of smugness.

“Oh, look, people,” the CEO said as he kicked his whiteboard out of sight. “One of our summer program girls decided to show up early, and nobody thought to let us know beforehand…”

At the word “nobody”, Mr. Wonderwall shot a glare at the security guard panting like a dog in heat behind AJ. The guard’s cheeks, already flushed red from chasing AJ, burned scarlet, and he smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

Mr. Wonderwall waved away the security guard’s apology and beckoned AJ to follow him out of the boardroom, down the hall, and into a room labelled “TOTALLY NOT A SWEATSHOP”.

Two robots were in there, one doing budget-tallying on a laptop and the other clacking away on an electronic typewriter. There was also a sewing machine, tons of fabric, and a TV on a cart with several DVDs. 

“So, here’s the deal,” Mr. Wonderwall said to AJ, “We’re open from 7:00A.M. — 6:00P.M., Monday — Saturday. You can come in anytime between those hours and work on your designs for no more than three hours (so we don’t get sued). If you get bored, you can use the TV to put one of our old movies on for background noise. Any questions?”

“Why do they call it a ‘flea market’ if they don’t sell fleas?” AJ asked ditzily.

Mr. Wonderwall face-palmed and rubbed his temples in irritation.

“Just get to work,” he said, pushing AJ towards the sewing machine. “And don’t touch the robots, ok?”

AJ saluted Mr. Wonderwall.

“Aye-aye, monsieur!” she chirped.

Mr. Wonderwall rolled his eyes and shook his head as he exited the workroom and slid the door shut.

“Weird kid,” he muttered. “Cute, but weird nonetheless.”

As the summer wore on, AJ created more and more designs for Wonderwall Pictures’ productions, most of which were variations of outfits she herself owned. Occasionally, if she got really bored, she’d put one of the DVDs in the TV-on-wheels, but, for the most part, she was happy…

…or, at least, she was until Twist came to visit her one day in late June.

To put it simply, Twist found Wonderwall Pictures’ whole “summer program” deal fishier than the fishing magazines her dad edited for a living.

“So, let me get this straight,” the scar-cheeked girl said for probably the fifth time in a row, “This company’s leaders are shutting you and two robots in a ‘not-a-sweatshop’ six days a week, and they’re not even paying you for it?”

“I mean,” AJ said rather defensively, “I’m getting my Fashionista badge for Firefly Girls, and the robots are getting their ‘data’ or whatever.”

“Confirmation,” said the budget-tallying robot, “data is gooood.”

The robot at the typewriter beeped in agreement.

Twist rolled her eyes and dragged AJ down the hallway.

“Wh-Where are we going, Twisty?” AJ asked, surprised.

“To give Mr. Wonderwall and his minions the ol’ what-for-five,” Twist answered ominously.

Meanwhile, in Wonderwall Pictures’ boardroom…

The studio’s Board of Directors were all looking at their CEO like he’d just grown a second head.

“You want us to buy Limelight Legacy?” said Stacey Fox. “One of our rivals in the film market?”

“Yep,” Mr. Wonderwall said, looking totally relaxed and composed, unlike his boardmates.

“But sir!” said studio treasurer Darren Wallet, holding out his open notebook for the CEO to see. “We’re already knee-deep in debt from buying Breakneck Comics and LucidPixel, and, frankly, filmmaking isn’t a game of Monopoly!”

“It is a business, though,” said Mr. Wonderwall, “and isn’t the end goal of any business to make as much money as possible?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“—but you’re supposed to be creative!” interrupted a bossy-sounding child’s voice.

The Board of Directors turned in their seats to see Twist and a flustered-looking AJ entering the room.

“Um,” Mr. Wonderwall said, “who are you? And why do all of our security guards suck at their jobs?”

“I am Twist Holloway, AJ’s best friend and neighbor. And I don’t know why your security team sucks; I just guessed the right password: ‘Ricky the Rat’.”

Mr. Wonderwall sighed and face-palmed.

“State your business,” he groaned, making a mental note to replace his security team with more intelligent people.

Twist cleared her throat, smoothed out her dress, and spoke: “I came here today to see how AJ’s summer design program was going, and I found out that you’re having her work six days a week at no pay. And, on top of that, you’re using robots to help you write scripts and manage your money?”

Mr. Wallet scoffed. “If you think that’s bad, wait’ll you hear what they did when I—”

Mr. Wonderwall cut his treasurer off by throwing a pinecone at his head.

“Shutting up,” Mr. Wallet said quickly.

Mr. Wonderwall turned back to Twist with a flushed scowl on his face.

“Wh-What are you getting at, little girl?” the CEO asked, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Exactly what I said earlier,” answered Twist. “You’re filmmakers, so you should be creative, and not use robots to cheat your way to a movie’s completion. You know what I’m saying?”

The board members looked at each other, then at Twist, and then they burst out laughing. The laughter echoed off the high-vaulted ceilings of the boardroom, a chorus of expensive suits and cynical scoffs. Mr. Wonderwall laughed so hard he actually had to wipe a tear from his eye with a silk pocket square.

“Creative? Oh, you sweet, naive child,” Mr. Wonderwall wheezed. “Creativity doesn’t pay for private jets. Efficiency does! Robots don’t take coffee breaks, and Firefly Girls don’t ask for stock options.”

Twist didn’t flinch. She just crossed her arms, her squiggly scar twitching with a focused intensity. “Efficiency is just a fancy word for ‘boring’. If you let robots write your scripts, every movie will be the same. And if you let AJ design based only on what she already wears, every hero is going to look like a walking glitter-bomb.”

“Hey!” AJ protested, though she secretly adjusted her sparkly headband.

“It’s true, AJ,” Twist said, turning back to the board. “You’re so worried about Lasser Bros. passing you that you’ve forgotten why people come to Wonderwall Pictures. They come for the magic. Can a robot make magic?”

Mr. Wonderwall stood up, his shadow looming large over the whiteboard. “A robot can calculate exactly what 18-to-24-year-olds want to see with 99% accuracy. That’s better than magic. That’s math. Now, security!”

“Wait!” AJ shouted, suddenly diving for the discarded whiteboard that Mr. Wonderwall had kicked aside earlier. She flipped it back over, ignoring the ‘Operation: Film Frenzy’ list, and began scribbling furiously with a stray marker.

“What is she doing?” Mr. Burr asked, hovering his inhaler near his mouth.

“I’m designing!” AJ chirped. “Twisty is right. I’ve been making the same things over and over because the robots told me to keep it ‘brand-consistent.’ But that’s not fashion! That’s... that’s a uniform!”

In a blur of green and pink, AJ sketched a costume that defied logic. It was a gown made of film reels, with a cape that looked like a velvet theater curtain, and a crown made of golden popcorn kernels. It was ridiculous. It was over-the-top. It was...

“It’s magnificent,” Mrs. Fox whispered, standing up to get a better look.

“It’s a budget nightmare!” Mr. Wallet countered, though he looked intrigued.

“It’s what a human thinks of!” Twist added triumphantly. “A robot would never suggest a popcorn crown because it’s not ‘statistically viable’. But every kid in the world is going to want one.”

Just then, the door opened again. This time, it wasn’t a security guard. It was a frantic-looking man in a rumpled suit holding a newspaper. “Mr. Wonderwall! Lasser Bros. just released their summer slate! It’s all... it’s all generated by The Script-O-Matic 5,000!”

The board went silent. Mr. Wonderwall snatched the paper. The headlines read: “LASSER BROS. TO RELEASE 400 IDENTICAL ROMANTIC COMEDIES BY AUGUST.”

The stock ticker on the wall suddenly turned red. The public was already revolting. They were tired of the "efficiency." They were hungry for something weird. Something human.

Mr. Wonderwall looked at the newspaper, then at AJ’s absurd popcorn-crown drawing, and finally at Twist’s defiant face. He sighed, the "hollow smile" finally vanishing to be replaced by something resembling a real thought.

“Mr. Burr,” Wonderwall said quietly.

“Yes, sir?”

“Throw the robots in the dumpster. And get the vegetarian some tofu burgers.” He turned to AJ. “Kid, you stay. But we’re paying you. In actual money, not just badges. And you...” he looked at Twist, “...you’re the new script consultant. Clearly, you’re the only one here who knows when someone is selling us a load of fish.”

Twist smirked. “My dad edits fishing magazines, remember? I know a bottom-feeder when I see one.”

AJ squealed and hugged Twist so hard they both nearly fell over. The summer "sweatshop" was officially closed, and Wonderwall’s “Wonder” was finally back in business.

As they walked back to the workroom to fetch AJ’s sewing machine, AJ leaned over to Twist.

“So, does this mean I can still get my badge?”

Quick Facts

Full name: Stephen McDannell Hillenburg

Nationality: American

Birthday: August 21, 1961

Died: November 26, 2018 (aged 57)

Cause of death: ALS

Occupation(s): Marine biologist, animator, voice actor

Years active: 1984-2018

Spouse: Karen Hillenburg

Children: 1

Fun Facts

Steve taught marine biology before he became an animator. Ocean life and animation fascinated him his entire life, hence his creation of SpongeBob SquarePants.

The first show Steve worked on was Rocko’s Modern Life, a few of whose crewmembers would go on to help out with SpongeBob, namely Tom Kenny, Mr. Lawrence, and Dan Povenmire.

Hans, SpongeBob’s French narrator, is based on Jacques Cousteau, who Steve idolized.

Steve’s hobbies included scuba-diving and surfing.

Steve’s favorite band was Ween, who performed the song “Loop-de-Loop” in the SpongeBob episode “Your Shoe’s Untied”.

SpongeBob was based partially on Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character. Steve wanted to make an innocent character who unintentionally “annoys people”.

Steve chose to draw SpongeBob as a kitchen sponge instead of a sea sponge because he thought the former would be “funnier”.

Quick Facts

Full name: John Ronald Reuel Tolkien

Nationality: English

Birthday: January 3, 1892

Died: September 2, 1973 (aged 81)

Cause of death: Stomach ulcer

Occupation(s): Writer, linguist, poet, professor

Years active: 1925-59

Spouse: Edith Bratt (1916-71; died)

Children: John Francis, Michael, Christopher, Priscilla

Fun Facts

Ronald was good friends with fellow fantasy writer C.S. Lewis, and even helped convert him to Christianity.

Ronald and his brother were originally homeschooled by their mother. Mabel Tolkien proved to be a good teacher, as Ronald was able to read and write by the age of four. Moreover, by the time his mother had sent him to public school, Ronald proved to be a gifted student, mastering whatever language his teachers threw at him. He even made up his own languages for fun.

Ronald was a devout Catholic.

Ronald’s father died of a fever when he was three, and his mother of diabetes complications when he was 12. Following the latter’s death, the Tolkien boys were raised by their priest, Father Francis Morgan.

Ronald met his future wife, Edith Bratt, at a boardinghouse when he was 16. The two fell in love, but, because Edith was a Protestant, Father Francis forbade Ronald from marrying her until he was 21. They got married on March 22, 1916, when Ronald was 24 and Edith had converted to Catholicism.

Ronald and Edith had four children together: John Francis, Michael, Christopher, and Priscilla.

Ronald worked as a linguist at The University of Leeds from 1925-59.

As of April 2025, The Lord of the Rings remains one of the bestselling fantasy book series of all time, with over 150 million copies sold worldwide.