Dook and Doodleook
Dook meets Doodleook on a quiet side street in Sala City, the kind of side street with a bench that exists mostly to suggest sitting.
On the curb sits a ferret.. Blue.. Not blue fur blue, Blue pen blue. He’s clearly Dook. Same shape. Same posture. Same friendly neutrality.
But he’s drawn — visibly drawn — in uneven ballpoint lines. Some strokes are darker where the pen lingered. Some lines trail off where whoever was drawing clearly got distracted.
His outline jitters like a doodle on the corner of a notebook when the page is being nudged. Dook stops.. Then tilts his head.
Dook (pleasantly surprised): “Oh! I’ve seen you before.”
The blue ferret looks up. One eye is a proper circle. The other is three circles, one crossed out.
Doodleook: “Hi!”
His voice sounds exactly like Dook’s, except slightly faster, like it was written in the margins.
Dook: “You’re me, but… flatter.”
Doodleook (proud): “Two-dimensional-ish!”
He stands up. His feet don’t quite touch the pavement — they’re hovering at “artist didn’t bother with shadows” height.
Up close, it’s obvious what’s going on.
Cross-hatching where fur would be. A few erased lines still faintly visible. A tail that loops twice because the pen never lifted.
Dook: “Why are you blue?”
Doodleook looks down at himself, as if noticing this for the first time.
Doodleook: “Oh! That’s easy. I’m drawn in blue pen.”
He says this like it explains everything. Because it does.
A car passes behind them. Its color bleeds slightly into Doodleook for a frame before snapping back.
Dook: “That makes sense.”
They sit next to each other. Dook sits on the curb. Doodleook sits on the idea of the curb.
Doodleook: “I only exist when someone is thinking about you without committing to you.”
Dook (delighted): “That’s where I live too!”
Doodleook grins. His mouth redraws itself twice to get it right.
Doodleook: “I’m the version of you people draw while on the phone. Or during meetings. Or when they’re supposed to be doing math.”
Dook: “Oh. I like math.”
Doodleook: “Me too! But I never finish it.”
He gestures vaguely and a half-drawn equation appears in the air, crossed out, replaced with a tiny fern.
From across the street, Flops yells something about a parking sign that “definitely wasn’t there a second ago.”
Dook waves back.
Dook: “Do you drink cocoa?”
Doodleook (thinking hard): “I can be drawn drinking cocoa.”
Dook: “That’s close enough.”
Dook mimes holding a mug. Doodleook immediately gains a blue-pen mug, complete with steam made of squiggles.
They sip. Dook drinks. Doodleook traces a sip line and makes a satisfied noise.
A breeze goes through Sala City. A few of Doodleook’s lines wobble, like the page is being turned.
Doodleook: “Oh! I think the notebook’s closing.”
Dook: “Okay. See you later.”
Doodleook (cheerful, already fading): “Probably! I show up a lot!”
He smears sideways slightly, like ink dragged by a thumb, then pops out of existence with a faint skrsh sound.
Dook looks at the empty curb, there’s a small blue doodle left behind: Two dots, a smile, and a fern.
Dook: “That was nice.”
He gets up and wanders off to rejoin Flops, leaving the doodle exactly where it is — until the city gently forgets it, one line at a time.