Who Wrote Who?
A Recovered Volume
Filed Between Books I and II of
The Adventures of Music Dave Series
EDITOR’S NOTE
The materials in this volume were not written in sequence.
They are presented this way because meaning required it.
No claims are made regarding authorship, origin, or intent.
The reader is encouraged to decide what belongs to whom.
0: The Pumpkin Bulletin
A Seasonal Transmission Received Slightly After Midnight
The message arrived the night before Christmas.
Not loudly.
Not in the skies.
Not with trumpets or saucers or neighbors pointing upward.
It came in small.
I was at home. No mop. No social club. No midnight solstice floor to keep polished for the timeline. That job had slipped away quietly, like jobs sometimes do, leaving behind only the echo of routine and the strange freedom that comes with disappointment.
I was feeling small myself.
Meek.
Humble.
Like an old church mouse with crumbs in his pockets and a prayer he didn’t quite know how to say.
That’s when the transmission came through.
The Hope had arrived—but it was coming in micro. Not sky-sized. Not world-sized. Not even thought-sized in the usual sense. It was entering through Portal 67, a mega-micro portal reserved for arrivals so small they barely qualify as existing.
Smaller than an atom.
Smaller than a quirk.
Smaller than a string.
Right on the edge of the mirror universe, where “almost” becomes a place.
When you come in that small, you need a reference point. A landmark. Something solid and unmistakable. Something that says you are here without shouting.
And sitting on the counter—purchased weeks earlier, back in October, with no clear purpose at the time—was a large, unmistakable, unapologetic orange pumpkin.
Pumpkins are excellent at holding secrets.
I’m not saying there’s a universe inside the pumpkin.
That would be irresponsible.
Too much mass. Too much heat. Earth would notice.
No—this was much smaller.
The best place for something that small isn’t the pumpkin itself, but the center of a pumpkin seed, down where the spark of life hides. The quiet place. The beginning place. The place that already understands how something enormous can start as nearly nothing at all.
So that’s where they went.
The Hope.
The crew.
The memories.
The preparations.
They’ve been there since solstice.
Hanging out.
Enjoying the holidays.
Sharing stories and secrets.
Filling my clone brain with borrowed memories and gentle instructions for what comes next.
Sometimes I’d walk past the counter and feel warmer for no reason.
Sometimes I’d swear the pumpkin was listening.
Sometimes I’d hear laughter that felt older than language and newer than tomorrow.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing loud.
Just presence.
That’s the thing about the adventures of Music Dave—they don’t always arrive where they’re supposed to. He’s a red-clay-plus model. Adaptable. Improvised. Slightly unpredictable. The mop was missed, but the universe adjusted.
It always does.
So if you’re reading this and wondering where the story went during the quiet weeks—
If you felt like something was happening just out of sight—
If your own counter held something ordinary that suddenly felt important—
You weren’t wrong.
Some arrivals come in big.
Some come in small.
And some hide inside seeds, waiting patiently for the right season.
This is not the end of the story.
It’s just the part where everything rests, gathers warmth, and remembers what it’s about to become.
— End of Bulletin
