Crafteria was a land of colour, of shimmer and pop and sparkle. So it was particularly troubling when Boxy stepped out of the Whispering Woods and into a valley that looked… drained.
The sky was still blue, technically — but the kind of blue you get when you wash your jeans too many times. The grass was a forgetful shade of green. Even the butterflies looked like they’d had all the joy ironed out of them.
Boxy tilted his head. “This feels… wrong.”
The birdhouse compass gave a small nervous chirp and spun in a circle like it couldn’t decide which way to be worried.
Boxy reached into his backpack, pulled out the magic flower Gluebert had given him, and held it up like a torch.
The flower gave a little fwoosh, lit up like a strawberry-scented lantern… and then promptly sneezed out a petal.
Boxy blinked. “Bless you?”
The petal floated gently down, landed on a dull grey rock, and—POOF!—the rock burst into full-blown rainbow glitter, then sneezed too.
“Oh!” Boxy gasped. “You’re contagious!”
He began tiptoeing through the valley, waving the flower gently, lighting up little pockets of colour — a patch of giggling mushrooms here, a blushing toadstool there.
But the deeper he went, the more the colour seemed to resist him.
The valley was sick.
And someone, or something, didn’t want it cured.
That became very clear when the ground started mumbling.
“Grumble… mmmf… sparkle thief… mmffle…”
Boxy froze. “Sorry — did the ground just insult me?”
“No,” said a voice directly behind him. “That was me!”
Boxy turned. Slowly.
Standing there, glaring with all seven of its beady eyes, was a creature that looked like a walking pompom disaster. It had too many legs, no clear front or back, and a tiny pair of glasses balanced on a head that might also have been its bottom.
“I am a Grumblegrunt,” it said grandly. “And you are trespassing on the land of faded dreams and forgotten crayons.”
Boxy opened his mouth to apologise, but the creature gasped before he could.
“Is that… is that a flower?!”
“Uh, yes,” said Boxy.
“DISGUSTING,” the Grumblegrunt moaned. “Too bright. Too hopeful. Far too jam-scented.”
Boxy cleared his throat. “Sorry. It’s magical.”
“Ugh. Even worse.”
The creature waddled closer, making the unmistakable sound of a beanbag full of jelly.
“I suppose you’re here to bring back the colours. Fix the valley. Sprinkle joy and positivity everywhere like a glittery plague.”
Boxy nodded, slowly.
“Well!” the Grumblegrunt sighed. “At least warn someone next time. My complaints list is already three scrolls long.”
It handed Boxy a scroll that read:
Butterflies too cheerful
Morning dew too smug
That one tree that waves at me (stop it)
Boxy tried not to laugh.
“Fine,” grumbled the Grumblegrunt. “You want colours? You’ll have to pass the trials. There are three. Each more annoying than the last.”
“Trials?” Boxy squeaked.
“Yes,” said the creature, now enjoying itself far too much. “First: cross the Rainbow Slump. Second: defeat the Beige Beast. Third: survive the Colour Drain Parade.”
Boxy blinked. “That last one sounds… festive?”
“Oh it is,” the Grumblegrunt snorted. “If your idea of fun is watching tap-dancing shadows tell sad jokes for thirty minutes.”
Before Boxy could protest, the ground beneath him gave a woomp, and a tunnel opened up — slurping him downward like a noodle.
Down, down, down he slid, past posters that read “YOU’LL NEVER BRIGHTEN US” and “NEUTRAL TONES 4EVER” until he plopped onto a bouncy lilac cushion.
And found himself…
In the middle of the Rainbow Slump.
Where every colour tried, but couldn’t quite commit.
The sky was a washed-out tie-dye. The trees looked like half-finished paintings. A squirrel trotted by wearing grey sunglasses and whispered, “Don’t bother, mate. It’s all downhill.”
Boxy sighed — then jumped as a trumpet blared behind him and a cloud exploded into sequins.
“HELLO AGAIN!” shouted a voice.
Boxy turned to find Gluebert Scrapulous descending gently from the air… on a unicycle… suspended by helium balloons… holding a tray of biscuits.
“Gluebert?!”
“I was nearby,” said Gluebert cheerfully, offering a biscuit. “Was teaching a goat how to knit fog, but she got distracted.”
Boxy stared. “I’m supposed to be facing trials.”
“Oh yes! That old nonsense. Don’t worry — most of the creatures here just need a nudge. Or a biscuit. Or a very enthusiastic kazoo.”
From one sleeve, Gluebert pulled out a kazoo the size of a traffic cone.
Boxy tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “Is this really the way to bring colour back?”
Gluebert raised a gluey eyebrow. “Boxy, my boy — colour is hope. Hope is ridiculous. And ridiculousness is always the answer.”
He tooted the kazoo once, and suddenly, the entire sky rippled like someone had painted it with jelly.
Then came a voice.
It was deep. Bored. And very beige.
“WHO DARES DISTURB MY UNINTERESTING SLUMBER?”
Boxy gulped.
From behind the hills came a creature the size of a cottage — all rounded curves, tan fuzz, and sleepy eyes. The Beige Beast.
And it was headed straight for him.
Boxy backed away as the Beige Beast rumbled forward, every plodding step leaving a trail of grey behind it. The trees wilted. The sky yawned.
“Oh no oh no oh no—” Boxy started to say, but stopped as the flower in his backpack gave a violent sneeze.
KER-CHOFF!
A soft whump landed beside him. He looked down… and gasped.
It was an ocean creature — but not just any creature. This one was made of soft felt, with neatly sewn edges and the kind of fluff-stuffed roundness that said: someone cared when they made me.
Its stitched smile beamed. It blinked once with its button eyes, gave a squeaky bleep, and then puffed up proudly like a pufferfish in a job interview.
The Beige Beast paused.
“What is… that?” it rumbled, blinking in suspicion.
The little felt creature flopped forward bravely, squeaked again, and began to spin.
Around and around it twirled, faster and faster, until it unleashed a shockwave of shimmering bubbles — each one filled with flickering memories of beach days, giggles, and sticky-fingered crafts at the kitchen table.
The colour around them trembled.
The Beast growled. “I don’t like feelings!”
It stomped, and the tremor knocked Boxy flat.
That’s when the next thing appeared.
From above — floating down like a gift from the clouds — came a perfectly framed fish. Painted in careful strokes, its colours shimmered with pride. Sea blues, coral pinks, a little splash of neon yellow just because. It hovered in the air, spinning slowly.
“Is that…” Boxy whispered, “framed?”
Gluebert (still floating upside down with his kazoo) shouted, “It’s a Masterpiece of the Sea! A legendary art-form known to render even the most boring beasts slightly impressed!”
Sure enough, the Beige Beast stopped. Squinted.
“Hmph,” it said. “That… that’s quite tasteful.”
The fish responded by flipping upside down and blowing an artistic raspberry.
Which, apparently, was too much.
“BLASPHEMY!” bellowed the Beast.
It lunged — and just before it could reach Boxy, something glittered in the corner of his eye.
From the trees, swinging down like a carnival chandelier gone rogue, came a jellyfish.
Not the stingy kind. This one was made of a small cardboard bowl, decorated with swirls of tissue paper, jangly tassels, and a pair of googly eyes that were slightly off-centre in the most charming way possible.
The jellyfish boinged into action, bouncing between the trees, leaving trails of neon light and soft farting sounds with every bounce.
The Beige Beast, distracted mid-lunge, skidded to a halt. “What is that sound?!”
“Joy,” Gluebert said, solemnly. “That is the sound of unfiltered, unapproved silliness.”
The jellyfish flopped onto the Beast’s nose, blinked twice… and honked.
The Beast froze.
Its eyes crossed.
Then — impossibly — it began to giggle.
Tiny, beige giggles at first. Then louder. And louder. Until it was rolling on the ground, shaking with full-on, belly-jiggling, snort-filled laughter.
The sky blushed pink.
The trees straightened.
The grass perked up and did a small shuffle dance.
And just like that, colour flooded the Rainbow Slump.
Boxy stared as light and life poured back in — rich reds, buzzy blues, colours that had never been named and probably shouldn't be.
Gluebert landed beside him with a soft boing. “Well done.”
Boxy blinked. “I didn’t really do anything.”
Gluebert gave him a look. “You carried the magic. That’s no small thing. Especially when it's been handcrafted with squiggly scissors and sticky fingers.”
A glowing PING filled the air.
Boxy looked at the map.
Three more stickers floated down, each landing with a satisfying sparkle:
One shaped like a giggling jellyfish
One like a stitched sea creature with heart-shaped eyes
And one like a tiny framed fish wearing sunglasses
He smiled.
But then the wind changed.
A ripple moved across the ground — not of colour, but of absence.
The light dimmed.
Boxy turned slowly.
From beyond the hills, a sound echoed.
Low. Hollow. Whispering.
And on the breeze came a phrase, spoken in a voice that felt like forgotten birthdays and crumpled dreams:
“Bring us the sparkle… or lose the light.”
Boxy looked at Gluebert, suddenly pale. “What was that?”
The wizard frowned. “That, dear Boxy… was the Parade.”
The hills fell silent.
The Parade was coming.
Boxy crouched behind a particularly nervous-looking mushroom and peeked over the ridge. What he saw made his pipe-cleaner arms twitch.
Marching slowly into the valley was a procession of shadows — long and thin and swaying out of sync. Each one held a trumpet made of dull metal, or a tambourine that made no sound. Their faces were blank. Empty. Like the outlines of forgotten ideas.
Above them floated grey balloons that didn’t bob, just hovered gloomily like they disapproved of everything.
“This is it, isn’t it?” Boxy whispered. “The third trial.”
Gluebert, now holding a sandwich made entirely of bookmarks, nodded. “The Colour Drain Parade. Once it passes through, everything dims. They steal the sparkle. The brightness. The belief.”
Boxy clutched the magic flower in his backpack — but it had wilted. The felt creature was hiding under his arm. Even the jellyfish had deflated slightly.
And then, from the corner of his bag… clunk.
Boxy reached in and pulled out a small wooden chest.
The lid creaked open… revealing a treasure trove of painted pebbles.
Some were spotted. Some were striped. One had a star. Another had the letter “P” scribbled in glitter glue. All of them shone with the kind of childlike joy that couldn’t be faked.
“Where did this come from?” Boxy breathed.
“The children made it,” Gluebert whispered. “They always send help, even when they don’t know how important it is.”
The shadows were getting closer.
Boxy picked up a pebble. It was warm. Humming.
Without thinking, he threw it.
It arced through the air and landed with a tiny plink at the feet of the Parade.
The nearest shadow stopped.
Blinked.
And then, to Boxy’s astonishment, reached down… and picked it up.
A beat.
Then another.
And then the shadow’s shape shifted.
Colour seeped in around the edges — soft at first, then stronger. Its blank face sprouted a surprised smile. It looked at the pebble like it was the first present it had ever received.
The other shadows paused. They turned.
Boxy didn’t hesitate. He opened the chest and tossed another pebble. And another.
Each one lit up something different. A stripe. A swirl. A sparkle.
And then, with a POP and a whoosh of shimmering confetti, the Parade erupted into colour.
The tambourines jingled. The trumpets tooted jazzy, wobbly notes. One shadow did a backflip and accidentally launched its shoe into the sky. Even the gloomy balloons sighed, inflated with hope, and floated upward in cheerful spirals.
Boxy laughed — and it felt like the sound re-coloured the sky.
But just when he thought it was over…
A low rumble shook the ground.
From the horizon came one last shadow.
Twice as tall.
Ten times darker.
Its cloak dragged behind it, sucking the colour from the grass, the clouds — even the Parade itself began to flicker.
Boxy stepped back.
Even Gluebert, who had been enthusiastically kazooing the Parade’s new theme song, lowered his instrument.
“That,” he said solemnly, “is the Final Dullard.”
Boxy’s heart raced. “Do we throw pebbles at it?”
Gluebert frowned. “That one’s harder. It feeds on doubt.”
Suddenly, the colours around Boxy dimmed. The sky paled. His hands drooped.
What if I can’t do this? What if I’m just a silly cardboard box with googly eyes?
The Dullard grew stronger.
And then — sparkle.
A flash of light blinked into existence beside him.
A seahorse.
But not from the sea — from imagination.
Crafted with care. Its tiny body curved in elegance. Its tail coiled perfectly. Someone had believed it was magical when they made it.
The seahorse floated, shimmered — then darted toward Boxy and pressed gently against his chest.
And with it came something unexpected.
A memory.
Not Boxy's own. Someone else's.
Sticky fingers. A kitchen table. A child saying, "Look! It's for Boxy!"
The seahorse pulsed with belief.
Boxy stood taller. Firmer. He clutched the treasure chest and the seahorse and marched toward the Final Dullard.
“You’re not real,” the Dullard hissed.
“I don’t have to be,” Boxy said.
He held up the chest. The seahorse. The memory.
And all around them, the crafts began to glow. The jellyfish. The framed fish. The stitched sea creature. Each one floating, twirling, pulsing with creativity.
“You don’t belong here,” Boxy said.
And with that — he squonked.
Loud and proud.
The Final Dullard recoiled.
Light burst outward. The shadow cracked — and with a final shriek that sounded suspiciously like “Nooo, not the googly eyes!” — it shattered into confetti.
The Parade cheered.
The colours roared back.
And the Valley of Faded Colours…
...wasn’t faded anymore.
Later, as Boxy sat under a newly-bloomed rainbow tree eating a biscuit that smelled like hope, Gluebert plopped down beside him.
“You did it,” the wizard said.
Boxy nodded, quietly.
“What's next?”
Gluebert handed him the map. A new trail had appeared.
At the top, in shimmering letters, were the words:
Chapter 4: The Clockwork Caves
Beneath it, a small scrawl:
“Stickers can show you who you are…
But time might tell you why.”
Boxy stared at the map.
The compass in the birdhouse clicked.
And far away — in a dozen homes, bedrooms, and garden tables — children finished their crafts and whispered:
“Go, Boxy.”
And so he did.
Squonking into the unknown, one sticker at a time.