Note: These short stories are set in The Magical World of Zealandia, offering glimpses into its adventures and mysteries. While they can be enjoyed on their own, reading Zealandia: The Dreadstones Grasp will provide deeper context and enrich your experience!
Tom Walker hated Mondays.
Mondays always felt like the universe had woken up late and was still putting its shoes on.
He trudged downstairs in his stiff school uniform, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Elter the tubby bear was already at the dining table, reading the paper upside down and growling softly into his porridge.
Tom trudged in, uniform shirt rumpled, hair still damp from the shower, and slumped into his chair with a sigh only a teenager could manage.
“Feel like my brain’s leaking out my ears,” Tom muttered.
Elter didn’t look up. “Must be Monday.”
On the table between them, the Zealandia Gazette lay half-folded, a headline stretched across the front:
COUNCIL DEBATES ENDING MONDAYS FOR GOOD
Tom blinked at it, then rubbed his eyes and blinked again.
“Wait… what?”
Elter flipped the paper without reading the article. “Someone in the Council says Mondays are inefficient. Bad for morale. Wants to scrap them. Whole day. Gone.”
Tom frowned. “You can’t just… delete a day.”
“Why not?” said Elter, scooping another mouthful of oats. “No one likes Mondays.”
Victoria wandered in, tucking her shirt in with one hand and holding a hot drink in the other.
“Won’t that just make Tuesday the new Monday?”
The room went still.
Elter froze mid-chew.
Tom looked at him. “She’s got a point.”
Elter squinted at his porridge like it had betrayed him. “Right. Well. Then we get rid of Tuesdays too.”
“Then Wednesday becomes Monday,” said Victoria, sitting down.
“Then Wednesday goes,” Elter snapped.
Tom leaned forward. “You’d cancel Thursday?”
“If I have to,” said Elter.
“Then Friday’s next,” said Victoria.
“That’s a sacred day,” Elter grumbled. “But yes. If it comes to it.”
Tom looked up at the ceiling. “So what—no week at all? Just… floating through time?”
Elter looked vaguely impressed. “Better than this.”
Victoria sipped quietly. “Why don’t we just rename Monday? Make it feel less like a punishment.”
Tom nodded. “Rebrand it.”
Elter looked suspicious. “Like what?”
Tom shrugged. “Something gentle. Soft.”
“Moonday,” said Victoria.
“Grumbleday,” said Tom.
“No-day,” said Elter, firmly. “No commitments. No school. No responsibilities. Just nothing.”
They all nodded.
Then Victoria checked the calendar on the wall—a large, ornate thing made of priceless metal, with twisting brass dials and tiny enchanted illustrations that danced around each day of the week.
She frowned. “Wait.”
She got up, stared at it, then turned around slowly.
“It’s Sunday.”
A beat of silence.
Tom looked down at his uniform.
Elter looked at the paper in his lap.
Victoria closed her eyes. “I did all this on a Sunday.”
Tom slumped in his seat. “I woke up early. For no reason.”
Elter stood, took his porridge, and tipped it neatly into his wife—Hazel the bear’s—brand new houseplant.
“We never speak of this,” said Victoria.
Tom nodded.
Elter left the room.
The plant sighed quietly.