Later that evening, long after Grayson and the kids had gone to bed, Dallas Jean Lee stormed up and down the veranda. Her blond curls, stuffed in a messy French Twist, bounced as she stomped her pink kitten heels. Ignoring the alarming groans from the metal railing, she draped herself over it and glared at the manicured grounds below. Pulling her feather trimmed magenta dressing ground around her, she pursed her lips and frowned.

By all accounts, the petting zoo protest had been a success. Tonight’s news casters had jauntily recalled the fundraising aspects of the junior league, showed footage of Billy chasing Dallas down and even gave Adelaide and her psychics, who claimed the place was now evil-free, a clip. Gobs of money had been raised, Billy had been arrested and a new caretaker was being arranged until the legislative lawyers could figure out a way to turn the petting zoo into a protected area. There was still work of course–paperwork and logistics and all–but nothing Dallas Jean was interested in. All she wanted was for the animals to have a good home, and that was happening. As long as no one forgot, she was ready to move on. And if they did move on, well, she’d get their attention pretty quick.

But all Dallas could see in her mind was her husband standing in the bed of the truck, beaming as he bellowed, “Saving this petting zoo will be part of my top priorities as mayor!”

Even now, she could still see Norman’s smirking face. Snarling, she kicked the railing, ignoring the pain that shot up her manicured toe.

“Mom?” She turned to see her son clutching one of the piglets she had brought home, along with a llama, two goats and the baby chicks. Larry, Curly and Mo, her three dachshunds, trailed behind him, their toenails clicking as they scurried down the veranda and bouncing onto their favorite cushion. Their tails thumped against the ground as Dallas Jean pulled out a bag of treats and handed them each one.

“What’s up, sugar?” she asked, smiling at her quiet son, Beau. How the poor boy survived in this family she would never know.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.” Dallas Jean reached out and stroked her hair. He let her, and her eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong, sugar? Something bothering you?”

He shrugged. Burying his nose in the piglet, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

“You want me to fix you something?” Dallas Jean asked. “How about some cookies?”

Just like his father, his face remained carefully neutral. “I was thinking a pizza.”

“Well sure, darling. I can heat you one up.” Dallas Jean was mildly disappointed. She loved baking cookies.

“Do you want to go out and eat one?” Beau asked. “At Roma’s?”

Dallas Jean fumbled for her crystal-covered watch. “It’s 11. Are they still open?”

He nodded. “They stay open until one for karoke night on Thursdays and Fridays.”

“And how would you know that?” Dallas Jean teased.

“Billy’s mom goes,” he replied, his expression perfectly serious.

“Well, let’s go,” Dallas Jean declared, flipping off the patio light and ushering Larry, Curly and Mo inside along with her son and the piglet. If her almost teenage son wanted to go out in public with her, she wasn’t going to argue about it.

“Are you going to change?” He looked at her feather-lined satin dressing gown. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Of course not,” Dallas Jean chortled. She pulled off her dressing gown to reveal a pair of yellow duckie covered pajamas, the edges nearly covering her hot pink kitten heels. “Just let me grab my purse. Come along, dumplings!”

Larry, Curly and Mo followed eagerly, their tounges wagging as hard as their tails. Smothering a grin, her son put the pig on the couch and trailed after his mother.

At 11:15, Roma’s Pizza was bustling with people. Bad karoke poured out of every crevice as the smell of hot cheese and warm garlic bread filled the parking lot. Dallas Jean’s mouth watered immediately.

“This was a brilliant idea, darling,” she declared, steering her son inside, her kitten heels tapping against the sidewalk as Larry, Curly and Mo raced alongside. “Brilliant! What do you want, sugar?”

“Pepparoni,” Beau shouted over the warbling of the junior league’s president’s version of Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.”

“Well, I had no idea Sherry could sing,” his mother murmured, flinging her hands in the air and bellowing, “Sherry! Marvelous job, darling!”

The tipsy junior league president beamed and Dallas Jean Lee turned her attention to the confused clerk. “Yes, he’ll have a medium pepperoni pizza with garlic bread and I’ll have a small house salad with a large super deluxe pizza. Diet coke, please. And do you have any canneolis?”

“Some chocolate ones, fresh out of the oven,” the clerk replied.

“Are you going to eat that whole pizza by yourself?” Beau hissed, his eyes wide.

“Of course not,” Dallas Jean asked, looking aghast. “A few slices are for them.” She pointed to Larry, Curly and Mo, who whined in excitment. “And never comment on how much a woman eats, dear. It’s rude.” She stared at the menu, pursing her lips. “Perhaps we should get some cheesecake…”

“Mother….” Beau hissed. “There’s a line!”

“Before he cheeeeeatttttttsssssss,” warbled the junior league president, swirling her ample hips. As the crowd broke into cheers, she curtsied and tumbled off the stage. Beau hid his eyes and shook his head.

“”We’ll have four chocolates and three vanilla cannoli, please,” Dallas Jean decided, handing over her card. After signing the reciept, she eyed the empty microphone and grinned. “Come along, darling. We’ll sing before our food arrives.”

“Mom, no. Mom….MOMMMMMM,” Beau hissed as Dallas Jean Lee dragged him through the tables and up to the stage.

“Hello, Corsicana!” Dallas Jean bellowed, flicking on the microphone and beaming. A metallic screech ripped through the air and the crowd groaned. “My son and I would like to treat you to our rendition of….”

She looked at Beau.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Dallas Jean Lee’s eyes glittered. “His favorite song as a boy,” she declared, throwing an arm around her squirming son. “George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning!”

“Oh no,” her son groaned, burying his face in his hands as his mother warbled happily, with Larry, Curly and Mo howling along:

“Amarillo by morning,

Up from San Antone

Everything that I got

Is just what I’ve got on.

When that sun is high in that Texas sky,

I’ll be buckin’ at the county fair.

Amarillo by morning,

Amarillo I’ll be there.”

The crowd laughed and cheered. Peeking through his fingers, her son relaxed and peeled his fingers off his face. Taking the microphone from his mom, he sang in a clear, high tenor accompanied by the dachshunds’ howls;

“They took my saddle in Houston,

Broke my leg in Santa Fe.

Lost my wife and a girlfriend,

Somewhere along the way.

I’ll be lookin’ for eight

When they pull that gate

And I hope that judge ain’t blind.

Amarillo by morning,

Amarillo’s on my mind.”

Wrapping her arms around her son, Dallas Jean leaned over and sang with him in the microphone, as Larry, Curly and Mo brayed into the night air;

“Amarillo by morning,

Up from San Antone

Everything that I got

Is just what I’ve got on.

I ain’t got a dime,

But what I got is mine.

I ain’t rich, but Lord I’m free.

Amarillo by morning,

Amarillo’s Where I’ll be.

Amarillo by morning,

Amarillo’s Where I’ll be.”

The crowd leaped to its feet, cheering and applauding. Bowing, Dallas Jean planted a kiss on her son’s head and he blushed. Handing the microphone to the sheriff, she bounded off the stage in her duckie pajamas and scurried over to their table. A clerk brought over their pizzas and Dallas Jean promptly put three pieces on a plate and placed them on the ground for Larry, Curly and Mo.

“So darling,” she said, picking up a piece of steaming pizza, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“How do you know something’s on my mind?” Beau asked, biting into his pizza.

Dallas Jean raised a manicured eyebrow. “I doubt you’d get pizza and sing karaoke with your mama if something wasn’t really bothering you.”

He gave her a little smile. “Yea.”

“Spill,” she ordered, stabbing her salad.

“Well,” he began, “It’s something I think you might be able to help me with…”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! We have a new creative woman tomorrow and a new week of whimsical fun!! Stay tuned!

Once upon a Christmas, my wonderful mother-in-law gave me this cookbook as a gift.

Little did she know I’d make a lot of fabulous dishes out of it.

The most recent of these dishes is this fabulous chicken and gravy.

What makes this chicken and gravy so fabulous is it’s not fried–it’s slow cooked in a dutch oven in it’s own gravy, perfect for mashed potatoes or biscuits.

And we know how much I love biscuits.

As does Ben.

And Queen Bitty.

And Bear.

But not the Cookie Stealing Bunny, I’m afraid. He’s simply not a biscuit guy.

So whether it’s a cold night or after a long day at work, this chicken and gravy is the perfect way to comfort tummies and hearts. It’s such a simple, tasty, good, home-cooking recipe. These are the kind of recipes that are hard to go on and on and on about, because the real truth is this:

It’s good. It’s tasty. It’s tender and juicy.

It’s gravy.

Eat it.

Just don’t forget the biscuits.

Or the mashed potatoes.

Did I mention the biscuits?

I did? Oh good.

Chicken and Gravy

From Serving Louisiana

2 tblspn flour

1/2 tsp each garlic powder and salt

1/4 tsp pepper

1/2 tsp cajun seasoned salt

1-3-4 lb. chicken cut up (I used 4-5 large chicken breasts, pounded flat. They shrunk a lot with so much cooking time, so if you’re feeding a lot, I’d do the whole chicken.)

2 tblspn veg. oil

1 onion, chopped

1 1/2 cup water

1/8 tsp Worcestershire sauce

8 ounces fresh mushroms, sliced (I didn’t use b/c Ben’s allergic)

Mix flour, garlic powder, salt, pepper and Cajun seasoned salt in sealable plastic bag. Add the chicken, seal tightly and shake until chicken coated.

Heat oil in Dutch oven. Brown chicken on all sides in hot oil. Stir in onion. Add the water, Worcestershire sauce, mushrooms and mix well. Cook on low heat for 1 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally. Serve with mashed potatoes.

And biscuits.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! Tomorrow we have a new Dallas Jean Lee and then Saturday, a new creative woman of the Pond! Stay tuned!!

For previous editions of this spooky tale of our heroine Isadora, who has found herself in a haunted house with her voice stolen by a spell go wrong, visit here!

Her face squished against Poe’s warm chest, Isadora held her breath as she stared at Raven. Her stomach was curled in knots, her hands dripping with sweat. She had never been this close to a boy before, not even at school dances. She could feel every move, every breath, every beat of his heart.

She had never seen eyes like Raven’s before.

The woman was tall and skeletally thin, with scraggly black greasy hair matted to the sides of her skull. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles, her toothless lips curled into a snarl.

But her eyes are what churned Isadora’s stomach and sent ice through her veins. She could even feel Poe trembling, his heartbeat pounding into the side of her head pressed against his chest.

For her eyes were a crazed, blood red. And they were staring straight at her and Poe.

Then they moved, searching the room.

“Where is it?” she hissed, hurrying towards the glass cage that held Mrs. Watkins’ body. “Where is it, Hester?”

The cat yowled, it’s six heads bobbing and single tail curling.

“Hester, you fool!” Raven snarled, whirling around as her bony hands tore at the air. “Don’t you understand? I’m missing the crucial ingrediant to my spell. The one for Halloween night.” A hideous smile crept over her gaunt face. “And if all goes well, the town shall be mine by midnight Halloween.” She cackled, throwing her head back.

“Can you imagine? The entire town in my service, doing my bidding. For years, they’ve stared at me. They’ve ridiculed me, taunted me. And until now, I was never strong enough to punish them the way they deserved. But now”– her voice grew raspy, her red eyes blazing. “But now, they will serve me, just as they should. And once I have the town under my power, I’ll take the next town, and the town after that. Imagine Hester–our web of darkness spreading out, creeping over the land like a dark shadow…” She sucked in her breath between the gaps of her rotten teeth, hissing with pleasure. “And all I need is a black dahlia.”

Looking down, she grinned and plucked an object by her feet. “That’s what I was looking for. My compass, designed by the devil himself.” She eyed the cat. “Your first master.”

The cat hissed, all six heads baring teeth.

Cackling, Raven climbed up on the edge of the window. With a jagged fingernail, she threw the glass panes open. “I’ll be back in an hour. Watch the place for me.” Leaping out the window, she streamed through the clouds and toward the moon.

Poe waited a moment before whispering. “You ok?”

Isadora nodded, her head bumping his chin.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Poe whispered. “We scoot over to the glass container holding the body. If we both push it, we can get by Hester.”

Isadora shook her head. She began to mouth words, but Poe shrugged. “I can’t understand you.” Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he handed it to her. “Write in the air,” he said. “It’s an enchanted pen.”

Raising an eyebrow, Isadora raised the pen in the small space of the huddled cloak. Flicking it in the air, golden letters appeared with each stroke.

“If the cat was owned by the devil and guards the door, it’s likely it can shape-shift or alert Raven. We need to distract it, then get the body downstairs as quickly as possible. Otherwise, Raven will come back sooner than later.”

“Good point,” Poe said glumly, glancing at the stairs. “I forgot about the stairs. That would take forever to roll that down, then get it down to Mrs. Watkins’ gazebo.”

Tugging on Poe’s arm, Isadora shuffled her way toward the wall. With one eye on the six headed cat, she knocked carefully on the wood. Then she moved over a few feet and knocked again.

“What are you doing?” Poe hissed, stretching out the cloak as far as it would go. “Hanging a picture?”

Isadora stuck her tongue out at him. Moving down a few feet, they slowly shuffled down the book covered walls, tapping the few spaces between books. Wrinkling her brow, Isadora reached for the cover of a large book and pulled it open.

Inside, instead of note-scrawled pages, lay a control panel.

Triumphantly, Isadora pumped her fist in the air. Grinning at Poe’s confused look, she wrote, “It’s for a dumbwaiter. We can use it to get Mrs. Watkins’ body downstairs and to avoid the cat.”

“You know, you’re pretty smart,” Poe said admiringly. Isadora’s cheeks burned, and she was suddenly very aware of how close his chin was to her head. Whirling around so her dark curls brushed his chest, she pointed to a small door behind Mrs. Watkins’ body. Creeping to the side of the room, Poe reached around the cloak and pulled the door open.

A tall and skinny dumbwaiter greeted them.

Poe looked at Isadora and raised one finger, then two, then three. On the third finger, they rushed towards the trapped body and shoved it into the dumb waiter. Squeezing around it, they slammed the door shut just as the six headed cat launched itself at the door. Slamming his hand against a rusted button, Poe breathed a sigh of relief as the old dumbwaiter screeched to life, the rusted chains shuddering as they lowered the flimsy box down the ancient shaft.

“Let’s just hope that cat doesn’t send out a bat signal to Raven, or whatever,” Poe said, leaning against the glass container. “We’ve got less than an hour as it is.”

Isadora looked at the headless body inches from her and tried to keep the bile from her throat. Turning away, she focused on the rusty grey walls.

Several minutes later, the ancient doors screeched open. Poe peered out the doors and whopped. “It’s the Great Hall!” he cried, pointing to the long hallway in front of him. “We’ll be at Mrs. Watkins in seconds.”

Sliding around him, Isadora hurried down the hall, ignoring the curious eyes and waggling ears as Poe rushed behind her, pushing Mrs. Watkins’ body. They cut through the dance floor, where curious onlookers cheered and offered punch as they did the Transylvania Twist and Monster Mash. After a few more twists and turns, they rushed across the stone path and into the gazebo.

Samora waved her arms and gasped. “You did it! Oh you did it!”

Mrs. Watkins’ head, still floating in the crystal globe over the bubbling caldren, started. Her eyes flew open and her mouth dropped. “My body! My blessed body!”

“Raven had it up in her room,” Poe replied. “If Isadora hadn’t found the dumbwaiter, we would have never gotten it down here in time.” Isadora dug her elbow into his side, pointing to the clock. “Oh, right. We saw Raven.”

“You saw her?” Mrs. Watkins’ gasped. “Did she see you?”

Poe shook his head. “She was ranting to her cat about doing some spell with to take over the town by Halloween night. She said she needed a…” he trailed off, looking at Isadora helplessly.

Pulling out the enchanted pen, she wrote, “Black dahlia.”

“What a clever device!” Samora murmured, eyeing the pin. “That would be perfect for my kids…”

“Black dahlia?” Mrs. Watkins’ color drained out of her cheeks. “My God, she’s trying it. She’s really trying it.”

“Trying what?” Poe asked.

“It’s one of the most evil spells imaginable,” Mrs. Watkins’ replied, her head spinning in its globe. “It will suck the soul out of everyone in this town and feed her for years to come. She’ll control everyone, and everything–then want more.”

Samora grimaced. “I really hate her.”

“If she wasn’t so beautiful, it’d be easier to hate her,” Poe replied. “But she’s just stunning.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Samora pouted.

Isadora wrinkled her forehead. Pulling out the pen, she wrote, “What are you talking about? Raven is ugly.”

Samora patted her with three hands. “I know you’re trying to be nice dear, but it’s ok. I know she’s gorgeous.” She scowled. “Witch.”

Isadora shook her head, her curls bouncing. “She’s hideous. She’s revolting. She looks like an old wrinkled skeleton, with her teeth falling out and her hair all patchy. She looked like a homeless person.”

Poe stared at her. “What are you talking about? She’s gorgeous!”

Mrs. Watkins’ sucked in her breath. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” Samora demanded.

Mrs. Watkins’ smiled, her gray eyes fixed on Isadora. “Isadora is the only one who can see the truth. She’s the only one who can save us all.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! Tomorrow we have a brand new recipe and Friday, a new Dallas Jean! Then we’ve got a more whimsy and fun on the way!

If you liked this, check out my new books:

The Land of the Flowered Bed

Miss Pickles

And my Christmas classic, The Twelve Tales of Christmas!

If I were the Queen of Hippos,

I would be teach them to dance all day.

We would twirl and leap,

Bound and jete,

And spin across the muddy ponds, tails wiggling and jaws swinging with glee.

If I was the Queen of Hippos,

I would start a protest,

Against all those who think hippos are dirty and smelly,

mean and murdurous,

Cranky and oderous.

Instead, I would strive to show,

that hippos are just like the ordinary joe–they’re just simple, plain, ordinary folk!

They love to swim, love to eat,

and have ginourmous knobby feet.

Rather than be swevlte like those dratted zebras,

they keep it real with large bellies and ample ‘tocks.

And since hippos love to sleep,

They’re usually quite sweet.

If I were the Queen of Hippos,

I would be an instructor in hippo water aerobics.

We would roll and twirl,

wallow and waller,

wearing pink swimming caps and yellow booties,

And do grand belly flops as finales.

If I was Queen of the Hippos,

We would have a baby Hippo parade.

All the adorable little babies would waddle up and down the road,

their little fat rolls thick, their tiny tails twitching, their little ears wiggling;

Singing at the top of their lungs,

“I want a hippopotamus for Christmas, only a hippopotomus would do,”

As everyone clapped and cooed.

There’s nothing cuter than a baby hippo.

Don’t you agree, Queen Bitty?

I’ll take that as a no.

If I was Queen of the Hippos,

my final act would be to declare,

A day to celebrate hippo ‘tocks*.

Large and floppy,

Grey and droopy,

With a tiny tail and a grand mass,

Hippo ‘tocks are not just any ‘tocks–

They are spec’tockular!

In what other creature can you find,

‘tocks that size and span?

Elephants may be large,

but their ‘tocks droop in folds,

And rhinos might be wide,

But their ‘tocks are dusty and dull.

It is truly the hippo ‘tocks,

That deserve a celebration.

A party worthy of grand ‘tocks,

with plenty of cheer and jubilation.

If I were the Queen of Hippos,

Life would be grand for these beasts.

Twirling and dancing,

rolling and wallering,

aerobics and bellyflops,

With parades and great feasts.

I suppose,

one can dream…

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! We have a new Isadora tomorrow and a delicious recipe Thursday, followed by a new Dallas Jean Lee and a whimsical Saturday! Stay tuned!

*= The Pond recognizes the origin of ‘tocks from Cuteoverload.com.

If you liked this, check out my book of short Christmas tales perfect for reading during holiday shopping breaks or your nephew’s five hour Christmas symphony…available at Amazon.com or here.

Hoot….

And Who here.

We’re back! From now until December, we’ll be reigning supreme as the Fall Wreath Owls.

There’s only one problem.

We’re hungry.

With the cool weather (for the Pond, summer for the rest of ya’ll), we’re craving all sorts of delectable things.

Pumpkin Bars.

Pecan Pie (Booger the Lobster not included. Lobsters don’t appreciate fall foods the way we owls do.)

Pumpkin Pie…..

Cinnamon rolls….

Oh dear.

We’re drooling.

It’s obvious we need something to distract us from our culinary cravings, and a big dose ofThe Return of Miss Pickles should do just fine.

The first tale in the Miss Pickles saga (which would help make a lot of sense and is fabulous whimsical fun, perfect for both adults and children and short enough to keep them entertained while you cook dinner, go to the gym or take a bubble bath) is available here.Perfect for Christmas stocking stuffers!

Queen Bitty even likes it.

It’s a big deal, ya’ll.

So let’s tuck into some more Miss Pickles…

Hand me a pumpkin bar, would you?

To read the previous editions of Miss Pickles, go here.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

It was like a bad dream. The ground was racing toward them, the sky and Zip’s horrified face growing farther and farther away every second. The cold air whistled by them, slicing through Mason’s thin raincoat. All the teacakes and tins rolled around on the floor of the balloon with the large metal tubes of helium for the balloon. As the giant pink silks twisted and flapped, tilting the basket from one extreme to the other, the children and the balloon’s contents slid from one end to the other, like a giant rocking ship.

“This is completely unacceptable,” the cat yowled, his claws dug into the armchair cushion as the chair slid across the basket. “Do something, won’t you?”

“What are we supposed to do?” Beatrice yelled back. “We’re falling through the air at a million miles per minute. We’re all going to die anyway.”

Ralph burst into tears and scrambled for the cookie tins. Don glared at Beatrice. “This is all your fault,” he snarled. “If you hadn’t aggravated Zip, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

“He’s an oversized bug,” Beatrice shrieked. “Why should I listen to an oversized bug?”‘

Staring worriedly at the rapidly approaching ground, Mason threw his hands out. “Shut up, all of you!” he cried. “We’ve got to do something.”

“What do you suggest, ducky?” Miss Pickles asked, cheerfully tumbling about the basket in the midst of cookie tins and boxes of sweets.

Mason bit his tongue as he thought, glancing around the basket. The silks above them were shredded by Zip’s lightening, so the helium tanks would be of no use. Only Ralph was taking pleasure from the tins of cookies, and he doubted the cat glaring from the armchair could do much. The only thing left was the….

Umbrellas.

Mason grinned and whirled around, grabbing his umbrella. “Everyone get their umbrellas and open them!” he shouted. “Hurry! Hurry!”

The balloon had sliced through the final layer of clouds and was plummeting toward the choppy waves of a dark ocean below. His heart in his throat, Mason kept one eye on the ocean and one eye on his classmates as they scrambled for their umbrellas. “Hurry, hurry!” he cried. “Hurry up!”

“I’m coming, ducky,” Miss Pickles’ muffled voice replied as she dug in her tiny pink purse. “It’s in here somewhere, I’m sure of it…”

He could smell the salty air and hear seagulls cry. His hands shook as he tightened them around the base of his umbrella.

Finally, all of his classmates had their umbrellas in hand. “Ready?” Mason cried. “On the count of three, open them and hold them as high as you can. Ready?”

“Ready!” they all shouted.

“Almost!” Miss Pickles bellowed, her voice muffled as she dug about in her purse. Taking a deep breath, she dove into the tiny bag so only her kicking pink rainboots were visible.

Ralph shoved another cookie in his mouth. “Ready!” he cried through a mouthful of crumbs.

“One, two, three!” Mason shouted, hoisting his open umbrella into the air. “Go!”

With a loud snap, several umbrellas popped open and were thrust in the air by small hands. Surprisingly, the balloon slowed.

“We’re slowing down!” Don shouted, cheering with his free arm. “We may not slam into the earth after all!”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Beatrice sniped.

“If we don’t die, we can have a celebratory lunch,” Ralph mused dreamily.

Mason glanced over the edge and bit his lip. They were still going too fast. “Raise them higher!” he shouted.

Every child stood on his tiptoes, thrusting their umbrellas further in the air. The balloon slowed a tiny bit. But not enough.

“Higher!” Mason cried, glancing at the dark waves below. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw dark shapes circling.

The children stretched with all their might, their fingers and toes aching from the strain. Even the cat used his book as an umbrella, standing in the armchair.

“It’s not enough,” Mason muttered, glancing around. “We may have to start throwing stuff out.”

“Not the cookies,” Ralph whispered, his face white with horror. “Please, don’t say the cookies.”

Mason looked at his friend and grimaced. “Ralph, I don’t know what to tell you, but…”

“Here we go, duckies!” Miss Pickles cried, jumping up from the depths of her tiny purse and waving a large parasol. “This should help, don’t you think?” With a cackle, she thrust it into the air and pushed a tiny pink button on the side.

With a sound like an elephant’s ears flapping, the parasol flew open, stretching from one end of the balloon to the other. Immediately, the balloon’s desent went from a controlled freefall to gently floating.

Mason whooped and pumped his fist into the air. “Way to go, Miss Pickles!”

“Yes,” Ralph sighed with relief, clutching a tin to his chest. “Now we don’t have to get rid of the cookies!”

Peering over the side under the safety of Miss Pickles’ giant umbrella, Mason spotted a tiny golden speck. “Hey Miss Pickles, is that what I think it is?” he cried.

Miss Pickles leaned over the side and grinned. “Why, it’s the answer to our prayers, duckies,” she replied, grinning as she tilted her giant parasol. “A slight tilt to the left, and we should land there in no time.”

“Land where?” Don asked suspiciously.

“Is there food?” Ralph asked hopefully.

“What is the island?” Mason asked.

Miss Pickles grinned, her bright eyes sparkling under the shade of the parasol. “Ladybug Island, of course.”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! Tomorrow we have more whimsical fun, Wednesday a new Isadora and Thursday, a delicious recipe! Friday a new Dallas Jean and Saturday, a new creative woman! Stay tuned!

Need some gifts for Christmas? Check out my other books!

The Twelve Tales of Christmas–12 short stories ranging from romance to comedy to children’s tales, the whole family can enjoy this whimsical holiday delight. Available here or at amazon.com. It was revised just this weekend, with a brand new story and a whole new look inside!! So check it out!

Land of the Flowered Bed- When a enchanted toy from a magic toy shop is abandoned Christmas morning by a spoiled child, he finds himself in the Land of the Flowered Bed, a haven of lost toys searching adventure or loving children located in a little girl’s bedroom. Three short illustrated stories are perfect for reading aloud to little ones or for children 5-12 to read by themselves. The first in a trilogy of magic and wonder.Available here.