Zoey likes a good book. Some of her favorites are Horton Hears A Who!, The Cat In The Hat, Green Eggs And Ham, and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. You know, the classics. In fact, I have read One Fish so many times, I just about know it by heart. Zoey nearly does as well.
But every once in awhile, when I'm feeling particularly creative (or if I just don't care what Horton hears anymore), I'll make up a story to tell her. These stories usually involve beautiful princesses named Zoey, handsome princes named Zed, valiant heroes named Daddy, and fierce fire-breathing dragons named Mommy (Sorry Ella, but when the cat's away . . . the big mouse tries to get the baby mice on his side because he knows when the cat comes home from work the baby mice will scurry to the cat and forget all about the big mouse. Yeah, I got issues.).
Zoey has begun making up her own stories lately. Since she's no wordsmith, her tales amount to little more than severely bastardized Cliffs Notes versions of tales she's already heard.
Her stories are only two sentences long. The first one always begins "Once upon a time," because even the youngest authors know any story worth telling must start with these four simple words. The second sentence is always the same: "The end."
Today's story was Zoey's version of The Three Little Pigs.
Once upon a time, there were three little pigs and they loved everybody and they went to the farm and they sleeped. The end.
Shakespeare ain't got nothing on my Zoey. I'm expecting a call from Random House any day now.
