Candy Corm Palace

Deep inside the shimmering orange halls ob the Camdy Corm Palace, the Camdy Corm Elf sat at his desk, surrounded by mountains ob sweet treasure. The pillars gleamed, the caramel floor sparkled underfoot, and the air smelled like pumpkin spice.

Before him stretched the List — a long scroll of names that curled and looped off the table and onto the floor. It was the annual list ob shoes, where every good critter, hooman, and helpful goblin who had left out their shoes (or tiny boots) was recorded. For on Camdy Corm Day, he will make sure each one is filled wiff sweet, crunchy corms — one for kindness, two for cheer, and a pawful for excellent behavior.

He squinted at the scroll. “Hmm… Meg, check. Molly, big check. Kebin, check. Oh, dear — someone forgot to clean their shoes again…” He made a note, then took a sip ob his pumpkin spice drink. “Deduction of one candy corm for excessive mud,” he muttered in his official elf boice.

All around him, the candy palace hummed softly, as though the sugar walls themselves were listening. When the list was done, Barry rolled it up, tied it wiff a licorice ribbon, and smiled proudly. “Almost time to fill the shoes!” he declared.

Outside, the harbest moon rose ober the fields ob glowing candy corm — and the Candy Corm Elf set out, ready to sprinkle sweetness whereber little shoes awaited. Only two weeks to go he thought to himself as he headed home…

Camdy Corm Elf Harbest

The Candy Corm Elf woke up bright and early, his tiny hat perfectly pointed and his truck freshly polished. It was the first day ob the Great Candy Corm Harbest, and the fields were aglow wiff rows upon rows of sweet, tri-colored treasures.

He approached his trusty truck, humming a harbest tune, and looked out ober the sugary landscape. “Ahhh,” he said proudly, “the corms are ripe this year — plump and shiny, just how the Halloweem fairies like ‘em!”

Behind him, the candy corm tractor rumbled along, scooping up the golden-orange treats. Barry superbised closely — quality control was no joke. He nibbled one (for science), nodded in satisfaction, and tossed it into the basket.

As the sun dipped low and the candy fields sparkled like a thousand tiny lanterns, Barry leaned on his truck and smiled. “Another sweet season,” he said, brushing sugar dust from his fur. “Wiff any luck, we’ll hab enuff camdy corm to last ‘til next Halloweem… or at least until Reuben finds the stash.”

Slimy

Dis seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s kind ob slimy in here, I’d like to get out now please.

King ob Thursdays

Happy Birffday Dad!

He’s the best dad because he always shares his snacks wiff us. We wroted you a poem….

A Birthday Poem for Dad — by Baxter, Barry, Reuben & Fish

Baxter:
Dad, today’s your special day,
So we put our crumbs and cheese away—
We cleaned (well… sorta), swept (one side),
And wrapped your gifts (okay, we tried).

Barry:
I ironed my whiskers, combed my tail,
And practiced singing without fail—
But Fish said, “No, no solos please!”
He bribed me quiet wiff extra cheese.

Reuben:
I baked a cake (a little lopsided),
But Baxter said, “It’s art—I’m delighted!”
We made you cards, each wiff a pun,
And counted candles—there’s… a ton.

Fish:
I made a map of birthday snacks,
From brie to cheddar, we got stacks!
So sit right down, no need to roam,
We’ve brought the party right to home.

All:
So here’s to you, our human dad,
Our chef, our chauffeur, our cheese godsend—
We love you more than crumbs and pie,
Happy Birffday, Dad! You’re the bestest guy!

Oh hai.

King ob Thursdays

Funny Fish

Barry

The Pamcake War

The Pamcake War began in the kingdom, wiff two brothers and one golden-brown treasure. Baxter grabbed hold first. Fish, tiny and determined, stretched his paw to claim his share. Both wanted the same fing, and for a moment, it looked like neither would let go.

Two sides tugging at the same pamcake, both certain it belongs to them. There’s tension, scrambling paws, and voices raised—but underneaff it all, they’re still brothers. They still live in the same home, curled up in the same blankets at night.

The turning point in this little battle isn’t who wins, but when they remember something bigger than the pamcake itself: each other. Because a pamcake split between brothers is sweeter than a pamcake won in war.

If we can take a lesson from Baxter and Fish, it’s this: love and belonging don’t come from holding tighter, but from letting go enuff to share. Our dibide may feel sharp, but like a pamcake, it can be softened—wiff patience, kindness, lub and the reminder that we’re all at the same table.