Biscuit was a golden retriever with a very waggy tail. Not just waggy. EXTREMELY waggy. Magnificently, dangerously, catastrophically waggy.

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Biscuit was a golden retriever puppy with enormous ears, enormous paws, and an extremely important job. Dad was waiting on the sofa. The last slice of pizza was in the kitchen.

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Biscuit was a golden retriever puppy with ears like warm toast and a tail that never stopped.

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At the edge of the sky, where the clouds sit thick and still as risen bread, there lived a small white unicorn named Lumi.

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Barnaby was a bookmobile — rainbow stripes, shelves packed tight, and every Tuesday he rolled to Fernwood Park where six children waited on their blanket with their best reading faces on.

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Rex laced up his cleats — left, right, double-knot — and stomped out onto the pitch. The grass was cool and damp under his feet. The stadium smelled of mud and popcorn.

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The rainbow stream was still.

Lyra stood at the bank and looked.

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Flint was a big silver fuel tanker, long and smooth, with a hose coiled up behind him like a sleeping snake.

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Every morning, when the mist was still sitting low in the valley, Brachio stretched his long, long neck across the ravine and let the little train roll right over him. The wheels tickled.

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Every evening, Princess Wren walked the royal garden before bed — and she knew every single flower by name.

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