Invisible Inkling

The Bandapat in the Laundry Basket

Hi, you.

I have a reminder.

You probably don’t need a reminder. But Inkling is making me write one.

He says I should remind you, and he also says I have to use capital letters so it looks especially bossy.

Here goes:

WHEN YOU’RE DONE READING, PLEASE DO NOT TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE INVISIBLE BANDAPAT LIVING IN MY LAUNDRY BASKET.

Inkling is breathing down my neck right now.

He has pizza breath.

Oh, bleh.

He says I need to say it again. For serious, and more bossy, even.

Okay, already.

Do not tell! About the invisible bandapat!

Oops. Forgot the capitals.

DO NOT TELL! ABOUT THE INVISIBLE BANDAPAT!

Inkling has to stay hush-hush because bandapats are nearly extinct. Evil scientists want to capture the few that are left in the world. The scientists snatch the bandapats and lock them in secret labs full of mirrors so they can observe them. They want to find out what makes the bandapats invisible.

Meanwhile those poor trapped bandapats—it’s depressing. Though I don’t for-serious know that it’s true. After all, one day Inkling claims he’s from the redwood forests of Cameroon, and the next day he says he’s from the Peruvian Woods of Mystery.

Also, when I look those places up on Google Maps with Dad, it turns out they don’t exist.

Inkling says they do too.

I say, “Cameroon exists. Peru exists. But the redwood forests and the Woods of Mystery? Not so much.”

“When you’ve been to Cameroon yourself,” says Inkling, “then you can tell me how it has no redwood forests. Until then, talk about stuff you actually know.”

“What about when you said you lived off pumpkins that grew in the glaciers of Antarctica?”

“What about it?”

“Well, I looked that up, too. There are no Antarctic pumpkins!”

Inkling snorts. “Google Maps, Schmoogle Maps,” he says.

He never does get his stories straight, but he likes me to write about him. He likes the story you’re about to read especially, because it has quite a lot of jack-o’-lanterns. And Inkling eats them.

You’ll see.

But be warned.

It isn’t pretty.

From

Hank Wolowitz