Stick stepped to the edge of the crayon forest. Something round was waiting there.
A round blob swung a thick black crayon like a club. Stick dodged, tripped it, and splashed into blue watercolor.
Stick strutted toward the paper mountains. He had a challenge to find.
A wobbly triangle blocked the path. Stick karate-chopped — whoosh, whoosh — and it spun away.
The triangle landed face-down in the grass and did not move. Stick kept walking.
A tall lumpy scribble person stepped out. Paper-clipped arms swung — knock! Stick fell flat.
Then the scribble person picked up an eraser. Rub, rub, rub. Stick was gone — only a smudge remained.
Stick stared at the blank space. His hand reached for the smudge — but slipped right through.
He wandered back toward the crayon forest. Somewhere, he heard a soft drip.
Stick found the puddle blob. "Do you want to build something?" The blob oozed upright and nodded.
Together they stacked paper-clips, crayon shavings, and eraser crumbs into a tall wobbly tower.
The tower tapped and fell apart. They laughed until their lines shook. Stick had a friend now.
