The raccoon’s name was Professor P. J. Waffles, though nobody remembered exactly who had given him that title. It might have been the squirrels. Or perhaps the duck.

Every morning, Professor Waffles emerged from his woodland cottage wearing a pink bathrobe and heart-shaped sunglasses, carrying his famous mug of Plot Juice. The mug was always full, despite the fact that nobody had ever seen him refill it. Local scientists had attempted to investigate the phenomenon, but Professor Waffles chased them away with a glitter pen and a lecture about narrative causality.

“Stories,” he explained, “must be nourished.”

The duck, who lived permanently atop his head, disagreed.

“Quack.”

“You always say that.”

“Quack.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re a duck.”

The duck accepted this criticism.

Professor Waffles considered himself a serious writer. Unfortunately, his stories rarely cooperated. He would sit down intending to write an epic tale about pirate queens, forgotten kingdoms, or cosmic dragons, only to discover several hours later that he had produced twenty-seven pages describing a particularly emotional sandwich.

This frustrated him.

“Focus,” he would tell himself.

“Quack,” said the duck.

“Exactly.”

One autumn afternoon, while struggling through Chapter Fourteen of The Baroness of Moon Volcano, Professor Waffles encountered a problem. He had written himself into a corner. His heroine was trapped atop a mountain. The villain had stolen the magical compass. Three secondary characters had become obsessed with competitive marmalade-making. Nothing made sense anymore.

The professor paced.

He drank Plot Juice.

He stared dramatically out the window.

He drank more Plot Juice.

Finally he decided to consult his oldest advisor: Mr. Whiskers, a large orange cat who lived next door.

Mr. Whiskers was waiting on the fence.

“You have plot holes again,” said the cat.

“How did you know?”

“You’re wearing the emergency bathrobe.”

Professor Waffles looked down.

The cat was correct. This was the emergency bathrobe.

“I don’t know how to finish the story.”

Mr. Whiskers yawned.

“Have you considered that maybe the story knows how to finish itself?”

“That sounds suspiciously wise.”

“I am a cat. We specialize in suspicious wisdom.”

The raccoon thought about this.

That evening he returned to his desk. Instead of forcing the story where he thought it should go, he simply followed the characters. The heroine stole the compass back. The marmalade competition unexpectedly saved the kingdom. The villain retired to become a landscape painter. By midnight the story was finished.

Professor Waffles leaned back in his chair, exhausted but satisfied.

The duck gave an approving quack.

The moon shone through the window.

The Plot Juice mug glowed faintly.

For one perfect moment, everything felt complete.

Then the professor noticed a new idea scratching at the door of his imagination.

It involved time-traveling badgers.

Professor Waffles sighed deeply.

“Absolutely not.”

The duck looked at him.

“Quack.”

The raccoon opened a fresh notebook.

“Fine,” he said. “But this time we’re keeping the marmalade to a minimum.”

Cheese

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