03/28/2025
I’m writing a Humboldt County inspired Children’s book about my daughter and her adventures in our backyard woods in Kneeland California. It’s still in the process but I have the first chapter. I will be writing more as the season progresses and should have it finished by the end of Spring or June 21rst.
If you’re interested in getting a physical copy of the book you can get on the waiting list by emailing me at [email protected] or messaging me on the Unstoppable Words page. Free copies for all parents who sign up by May 1rst.
Here is the Second Chapter as promised:
Chapter 2: The Whispering Woods
Illustration: Sequoyah crouching in the redwood forest, her wide eyes fixed on a giant banana slug glistening on a mossy log. Sunlight filters through the towering trees, dappling the forest floor with golden light. The slug’s eyestalks twitch as if it’s about to say something.
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The moment Sequoyah stepped off the wooden bridge that led from her family’s treehouse, the world changed.
Up there, voices carried—the low hum of her father’s heated podcast debates, the softer murmur of her mother’s therapy sessions, the occasional clink of teacups as guests shared secrets and philosophies high above the earth. But down here, beneath the redwood canopy, everything was different.
The trees did not argue.
The wind did not debate.
The ferns did not fret over the weight of the world.
Down here, everything simply existed—and that, to Sequoyah, was the greatest magic of all.
She padded barefoot along the soft forest floor, weaving between towering trunks as wide as houses, their bark rough beneath her fingertips. The scent of damp earth filled her nose, and above, sunbeams pierced the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating floating dust like tiny stars.
She breathed in. The forest felt like home in a way even the treehouse didn’t.
As she made her way deeper into the woods, something caught her eye—a flash of yellow, glistening in the dappled light.
She slowed. There, stretched lazily across a fallen log, was the biggest banana slug she had ever seen.
It was a golden ribbon of slime, slow-moving and strange, its long body shimmering with tiny flecks of iridescence. Its eyestalks waved like tiny antennae, twitching as if it had sensed her presence.
Sequoyah dropped to her knees, peering closer.
And then—
“Ah, a listener at last,” said the slug.
Sequoyah gasped so hard she nearly swallowed her own breath.
The slug sighed, as if entirely unsurprised. “I was beginning to think no one paid attention anymore.”
Sequoyah’s mouth flapped uselessly. Her heart hammered in her chest.
“You—you can talk?” she finally managed.
The slug tilted its eyestalks as if raising a curious eyebrow.
“I have always talked. You have simply never listened.”
She stared. A talking slug. A talking slug. This was a whole new level of weird—even for her.
She leaned in, squinting. “How are you talking? Slugs don’t have mouths.”
The banana slug let out a slow, measured sigh. “And yet, here we are.”
Sequoyah blinked. She was certain she had never heard of talking banana slugs before. She had read books, lots of them, but none of them had mentioned this.
The slug flicked an eyestalk toward her. “Tell me, do you always believe everything books tell you?”
She frowned. “Books don’t lie.”
The slug gave what could only be described as a knowing smirk. “Neither do forests. But they don’t always tell you everything, either.”
Sequoyah’s mind whirled like wind through the treetops.
Had the trees always whispered secrets? Had the mushrooms always hummed? Had the slugs always talked, and she had simply never noticed?
She sat back on her heels, staring at the slug in a whole new way.
“Alright,” she said slowly. “If you’re real, and you can talk… what exactly do slugs have to say?”
The slug wriggled slightly, as if pleased by the question.
“Ah,” it said. “Patience. And the importance of listening.”
Sequoyah crossed her arms. “I listen all the time.”
“But do you hear?” the slug countered. “There’s a difference.”
She frowned, trying to make sense of the words. But before she could, something rustled in the ferns behind her.
A chattering explosion of movement. Tiny paws, flicking tails, urgent, frantic squeaking.
Sequoyah whipped around—just in time to see a blur of brown fur dart up a nearby tree.
The slug sighed. “Ah. The squirrels are upset again.”
Sequoyah blinked. “Again?”
The slug wiggled its eyestalks. “You’ll see.”
And before she could ask what that meant, the ferns exploded with movement once more—and a dozen squirrels burst into the clearing, their tails bristling, their eyes blazing with fury.
“THE ACORNS!” one squirrel shrieked. “THE ACORNS ARE GONE!”
Sequoyah had absolutely no idea what was happening.
But she was about to find out.
