The Library That Locked Its Leaves

When power silences truth, it’s the smallest voices—the quiet lights—that start it glowing again.

By Forest Moss (c) 2025

In the heart of the glade grew a Library Tree,

With leaf-covered pages and roots full of glee.

Its branches held tales from tickle to time—

And it rustled with riddles, both nonsense and rhyme.

Each critter and crawler had added their lore—

Of hiccups and hopscotch, of slugball and spore.

Some tales were grand, some just slightly unglued—

One book simply read: “MEEP!” (No one knew what it meant. But it mooed.)

Lantern the Beetle would glow every night,

And read upside-down by her own belly-light.

Grizzle the Badger would stomp and declare,

“That book had a goat wearing pants at the fair!”

One morning the Council of Stumps made a rule:

“To zip up the stories and tighten the school.

Too many are reading with questions too loud—

Let hush hush the hushers! It’s best for the crowd.”

So vines tied the pages in bundles and bows,

And branches got covered in NO-GIGGLE scrolls.

The scroll on “How Owls Should Lead with Debate”

Was yanked from its perch like a snack on a plate.

The Dove who made peace with a porcupine prince

Was quietly folded and missing since.

Even a rhyme where beetles breakdance

Was banned for “encouraging rump-shaking prance.”

The forest grew flatter, more silent, more gray.

Even playtime grew quiet. The giggles went away.

The cubs and the kits stopped asking out loud—

They tiptoed and nodded and followed the crowd.

But one little mouse, with a nose full of twitch,

Crept up to the hollow and gave it a pitch.

She peeked through the vines with a flick of her ear:

“Lantern... are giggles still hiding in here?”

The leaves weren’t just leaves—they were stories and sass.

And the vines locked the fun in a no-giggle glass.

Lantern paused.

She blinked.

She reached for a leaf—

Not quickly.

Not grand.

But with quiet mischief.

Her glow gave a wiggle. Her wings made a squeak.

She opened a page, and let the truth leak.

She read of a frog who wore boots on his head,

A mouse who told jokes 'til the mushrooms turned red.

Of squirrels who staged plays in acorn-made wigs—

And bees who won ribbons for dancing like pigs.

Grizzle the Badger, who once had declared

That laughter was dangerous (especially shared),

Passed by the hollow but didn’t complain.

He paused... then he snorted. Then tiptoed through rain.

The Library Tree, though quiet by day,

Still chuckled in dreams in a sneaky old way.

Truth doesn’t wilt when it’s silly or small—

It sprouts like a giggle you can’t quite recall.

The mouse tucked a leaf in the fold of her vest.

A sentence escaped and got stuck in her chest.

And deep in the glade where the hush used to rule—

One whisper exploded:

“WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, FOOL?!”

💬 Moral:

Truth, like a giggle, escapes when it must—

It hides in your pocket and pops with a gust.

✍️ Why I Wrote This

I wrote The Library That Locked Its Leaves because I’ve watched too many stories—real stories, true stories, silly stories—be locked away, banned, or buried under the excuse of "protecting" young minds.

But children are not blank slates to be kept quiet. They're curious. They're brave. And they know when something’s missing.

This fable is for the kids who ask,

• “Where did the story go?”

• “Why can’t we read that one?”

• “What’s wrong with asking?”

It’s also for the grown-ups—librarians, teachers, and quiet rebels—who remember that truth doesn’t vanish when silenced. It waits. It flickers. It hides in hollows. It glows in beetles. And sometimes, it giggles its way back out again.

This story isn’t just about censorship. It’s about legacy. It’s about what happens when you plant a question in a place where answers have been cut down. It’s about how even in a forest gone quiet, a whisper can still bloom.

And above all, I wrote it so that children would know:

• Your questions matter.

• Your voice has roots.

• And no one—not even the Council of Stumps—can silence a good story for long.

— Forest Moss 🌳