Goot and the Tower of Mist

In the soft, jiggly hills of Plopvale, where the trees hummed lullabies and rivers fizzed with sweet soda, lived a creature named Goot. Goot wasn’t like the others — he was made entirely of a wobbling, shimmering jelly that changed color depending on his mood. Happy? Bright green. Curious? Sky blue. Nervous? A pale, twitchy purple.

Everyone in Plopvale loved Goot because no matter what, he was always smiling and always, somehow, bouncing just a little.

One morning, Goot awoke to a strange silence. No chirping trees. No bubbling rivers. No giggling neighbors. The world was... still.

When he oozed outside, Goot gasped. The entire valley was covered in a thick, rolling mist. It coiled around the houses and stretched over the hills, swallowing colors and sounds alike. Even the sun looked like a sleepy marble hanging in the sky.

Goot tried calling out. "Hello?" His voice bounced out, but nobody answered — not the feathered squirrels, not the soda river sprites, not even Mrs. Tumblepot from the bakery. Only the mist replied, swirling around him in eerie silence.

Goot's belly trembled a soft violet. Something was terribly wrong.

Then he saw it: rising from the center of Plopvale was a towering column of mist, twisting and spinning into the sky like a giant ghostly tornado. At the very top, hidden by clouds, glowed a faint blue light.

Goot wobbled with determination. He didn’t know what he could do, but he knew he had to try.

Grabbing his adventure bag (which contained three lollipops, a small umbrella, and an old map he once used as a picnic blanket), Goot set off toward the Tower of Mist.

The journey was not easy.

The mist thickened the closer he got. Shadows shifted around him — some small and giggly, others tall and slithering. Once, he bumped into a Mistling: a tiny creature made of fog, with round glassy eyes and stubby wings. It squeaked and tried to steal his map, but Goot offered it a lollipop instead. The Mistling, surprised, squealed happily and zipped away, leaving a clearer path.

Next, Goot had to cross the Soda-Pop River. The bridge had disappeared, and the river now flowed in lazy loops, sparkling dangerously. Goot thought hard.

He took out his umbrella, opened it wide, and — splat! — leapt onto it like a makeshift boat. The umbrella spun and bobbed wildly, but Goot laughed as he steered it with a little wiggle of his jelly body. When he reached the other side, his colors sparkled teal with excitement.

As he climbed the final hill before the Tower, Goot met a grumpy talking feather stuck in a bramble bush.

"Oi! You there, gelatinous lump! Help a feather out!" it screeched.

Goot gently freed the feather and tucked it safely into his bag. It grumbled the whole way, but secretly, it looked quite pleased.

At last, Goot stood at the base of the Tower. Up close, it was even stranger: the mist formed endless staircases and moving doorways. Some stairs led nowhere; others flipped upside down when stepped on.

Goot jiggled bravely and began to climb.

The first staircase asked him riddles:

"What has no legs but can run?"

"Soda-Pop River!" Goot shouted, and the stairs rumbled with laughter, letting him pass.

The second staircase flipped him upside down until he sang a lullaby backward. (It wasn’t pretty, but Goot’s wobbly voice did the trick.)

Finally, at the very top, after countless splats and giggles, Goot found a large wooden door made of twisted branches and frozen mist. He pushed it open.

Inside was a small, lonely room.

At the center, floating above a cracked stone, was a wizard. He was thin and wiry, with a long nose and robes stitched from torn clouds. His eyes were kind but terribly sad.

"You made it," the wizard said softly, his voice the first real voice Goot had heard all day. "I thought... I thought no one would bother."

"Why did you cover Plopvale in mist?" Goot asked, his body flickering between worried yellow and soft green.

The wizard sighed. "I was once the Storykeeper of the Winds. My job was to tell tales, to sing songs of the world. But people stopped listening. They grew too busy... too noisy. I became invisible. So I spun a mist to make the world silent, hoping someone would finally notice me."

Goot listened carefully.

"But everyone’s stuck now," Goot said. "Silent and scared."

"I never wanted that," whispered the wizard. "I only wanted a friend."

Goot bounced forward and stretched out a squishy hand. "You have one now."

The wizard stared at him, then laughed — a rich, booming sound that filled the room like sunlight.

The mist outside began to lift. The swirling staircases unraveled into rainbows. The Mistlings zipped back to the riverbanks, and voices — real, joyful voices — returned to Plopvale.

That evening, Goot returned home atop a flying feather, the wizard riding beside him. The townsfolk cheered and sang songs in Goot’s honor. The trees danced, the rivers sang, and Mrs. Tumblepot baked a cake bigger than her bakery.

Goot smiled — a bright, golden glow.

He had set out to save his home, but in the end, he had done something even better: he had found a lonely heart and filled it with laughter.

And so, in the shimmering hills of Plopvale, the adventures of Goot — the jelliest, kindest hero — were only just beginning.