The Wooblers of 65 Dewhaven Drive

By the sound of their feet in the ceiling and walls, wooblers are often mistaken for mice, though in truth they’re more akin to gnomes or small trolls. Of course gnomes and trolls aren't found in this part of the world but not everyone is knowledgeable of such things. Wooblers are only found in the Pacific Northwest, in the rafters and framework of children’s rooms. They’re partial to children’s rooms because they are fond of listening in on bedtime stories and they enjoy the high-pitched sounds of children’s voices. They make great use of the glow from a nightlight by working on insulation carvings into the early hours of the morning. The subject of woobler insulation carvings is so vast it could fill an entire multi volume series of books in its own right. But this is a very special story. A legend in the enchanted world. Of five wooblers who gave their hearts through every picture on their soul.

Wooblers are rightfully bipedal and look quite stout. They exude gas bubbles through their dawn dots - what you and I would call belly buttons. The sound is imperceptible by humans though it’s said to resemble a puppy’s yawn. They only have four toes per foot and four fingers per hand - thumb included. Their hair can be both long or short though it doesn’t matter because it’s so transparently fine it’s invisible to the human eye. In fact, no human has ever seen a woobler before. An ironic fact given that wooblers hold such affection for them.

Many living creatures of the world look down on humans. They see them as multiplying parasitic creatures destroying the natural world! But wooblers see something very different. They don’t just see humans - they see their imagination as well. In fact, they see their imagination most of all. And this is why wooblers love children above all else. As humans grow tall and start to slouch, they begin to imagine such unfortunate things. But children themselves are surrounded by visions of wonder. Sometimes wooblers will just sit and watch, snacking on dust-coated hairballs the way you and I would popcorn, as children conjure marshmallow forests and cotton candy swings above floating rivers populated by miniature whales of impeccable rainbow inflections. But at 65 Dewhaven Drive, there was one particular room with a child who imagined nothing at all.

Wooblers couldn’t tell the difference between boy children or girl children, and had never been able to comprehend any human tongue. They had no names for things at all but simply knew them by the imagined pictures that accompanied them. And so for the wooblers of 65 Dewhaven Drive, it seemed as if this room had no child at all. There was a bed and a bookshelf and a pile of toys. Stuffies and blankets, and a pale laundry basket full of dirty clothes. Actually, laundry surfing was a favourite pastime of wooblers and 65 Dewhaven Drive had some pretty legendary breaks. So the wooblers who surfed there would often look and wait in that room for a child to appear. From time to time there was a whisper of a sighting. But the wooblers who lived there always believed. They believed there was a reason to live at Dewhaven Drive. They believed there was an imagination just waiting to be discovered. They believed there was a child in that room.

Now there is something important that you must understand. Wooblers don’t just see imagination, it becomes a part of them. Like a mosaic of dreams on their invisible woobler souls. The oldest and wisest wooblers are the ones who have the most imaginations to share. Young wooblers will gather around the heat vents to hear stories and see re-enactments of the most enchanting imaginations. And it was the oldest and wisest wooblers of 65 Dewhaven Drive that concocted a plan, not only to prove their child was real, but also to somehow give that child an imagination. A plan that was not very woobler-like at all.

First, they decided to give the child a name. They needed some way to discuss it after all. Fortunately for us, faeries can understand both the woobler whispers and the human tongues. And the woobler whispers they heard on the wind were translated to a single human word. Arlo. And so, throughout all the enchanted realms (and this story did travel through all the enchanted realms) of the faeries and the mermaids, and the gnomes and the trolls, and even the jackalope tribe in the unicorn hills, the child at 65 Dewhaven Drive was known as Arlo. Once Arlo had a name, the wooblers chose five of their own who had the most magical imaginations imprinted on their souls. Every woobler at 65 Dewhaven Drive would have gladly volunteered but they simply did not know how this was going to end and couldn’t risk their entire community. And so they were five. Five brave imaginative souls.

One night as the room seemingly made for a child waited quiet and dim, the five wooblers left the walls and perched themselves on the nightstand beside the child’s bed. And though as ever before they saw nothing in that bed, there was no doubt in their hearts that something special was there. They crept onto the blankets, something completely unheard of in the woobler world - save for the woobler known as “the wild one,” an adventurer who was never heard from again. But these five did just that, with ultimately careful tact and pure intentions. Four of them stood on every corner of the bed, and the fifth woobler stood right in the middle. Each of the five unclasped their heartdoor. Wait a second. Did we not tell you about the heartdoor? Four fingers and toes, invisible hair, bipedial, dawn dot. Goodness, we forgot the most important feature of all. Every woobler has a heartdoor. Quite literally a door over their heart. Each one unique. Some have zippers and others have buttons and snaps. When they feel safe enough to open it, well, that’s how they see the imaginations of course. That’s how they become imprinted on their souls. And, as the wisest wooblers of 65 Dewhaven Drive theorized, that’s how they could also give them away.

All five wooblers opened their heartdoors and through what the centaurs have come to declare an act of pure love, the wooblers projected their most prized imaginations inside the circle. What appeared is legend now. Though few have dared to dream. Indigo lions from the Savanna and kangaroo kisses. Giraffes the size of shrews. Waterfalls made of flowers and star-shaped wings. A fire slide to the moon. Superheros and magic spells and ever colour and dreams. Five lifetimes of five woobler souls spiraling in a stream. And when that spiral swirled its last, a child could be seen.

Arlo was there and nothing else, not one woobler, not five. But the woobler world would never forget the wooblers of that drive. Because of all the children in all the world, or more specifically the Pacific Northwest, none would ever imagine so beautifully or hopefully or soulfully as Arlo, who did it best. No one knows why Arlo could not imagine to begin with. And no one knows what happened to the wooblers who believed. All we know for sure is there are wooblers and there are children. And in between is everything we can dream or can imagine. So whether it’s a zipper or a lace, or series of snappy snaps, open up your heartdoor to give and get the very best. Sweet dreams children. Sweet dreams gnomes and trolls. Sweet dreams faeries and centaurs. Sweet dreams to the jackalope tribe of the unicorn hills. And sweet dreams to the wooblers. The very wise and very young. And to the five who believed the best - on 65 Dewhaven Drive.

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