The Adventures of Schmaydee and Schmuna
A Summer at the Edge of Weirdness
Just outside the sleepy little town of Haysburg, where the clouds moved slow and even the mailboxes waved politely, lived two sisters who were not what you'd call ordinary. Their names were Schmaydee and Schmuna, and while they looked like two normal girls spending their summer vacation at their grandparents' house, the truth was far stranger.
This wasn't just any summer.
And it wasn't just any house.
Grandpa and Nanna's house stood proudly on a plot of land that had everything: a magic garden with pixie incursions, chickens that may or may not speak fluent sarcasm, a pool haunted by rumors of shark sightings, and enough sand to build a miniature kingdom, or accidentally bury a cousin. Somewhere on that land was a small wormhole, probably. And definitely more than one forbidden pixie hut.
The house itself was… aware. Not haunted, not alive exactly, but wired and weird in all the right ways. Grandpa, an expert in controlled chaos, had tricked it out with smart devices, voice commands, cameras, secret sensors, and the kind of AI that could sass you back. The house didn't have a name (yet), but it spoke often. Through vent whispers, speaker dings, light flashes, and fully automated routines that may or may not have a mind of their own.
“Good morning. The glitter detection system is offline again. Proceed with caution.”
“Reminder: The teleportation closet is for emergencies only. Like Tuesday.”
“Alert: Schmuna is attempting to ride the Roomba. Please stand by.”
Schmaydee, the older sister, age 9, was a clever genius in the arts of racing, building things that probably shouldn't be built, and pretending not to care when she definitely did. She had red hair that glowed like a warning sign and the kind of brain that asked questions like, “If the moon were a sandwich, what kind of cheese would hold it together?” She craved speed, danger, and grilled cheese at 2am.
Schmuna, the younger, age 6, was a glitter-fueled goblin queen of emotional whiplash. She once declared war on ants, bit a wasp back, and could weaponize cuteness to get out of almost anything. Her box forts had watch towers, and her pillow fights were banned by at least two neighboring dimensions. She may one day work for the CIA, the underground gummy bear cartel, or both.
Grandpa, who could turn invisible when no one was looking and run at sub-light speeds, was both the reason everything worked — and the reason it occasionally didn’t. He rode motorcycles, made experimental breakfasts like Schmaffles and Schmomlets, and prepared for pixie warfare like it was a normal household chore. He claimed pixies were trying to take over the garden. He wasn't wrong.
Nanna, equal parts magical Nana and educational tyrant, could spot mischief through three walls and smell glitter before it touched carpet. She was a third-grade teacher with the wisdom of a librarian, the patience of a saint, and the power to raise one eyebrow and silence two squabbling sisters instantly.
Together, they lived in a house where waffles had secret identities, chickens allegedly ran an underground poker ring, and magical weirdness was baked into the floorboards. The summer ahead would be full of new inventions, laser wars, pixie rebellions, giant bonfires, magical smart house pranks, pool construction mishaps, and enough bedtime stories to fuel a thousand dreams.
And let's get one thing out of the way:
Any resemblance between the characters in this book and actual people, living, related, or regularly eating chicken-dogs, is purely coincidental. Totally accidental. Couldn't possibly be intentional. Nope. Not even a little bit. Move along.
Schmaydee and Schmuna? Completely fictional. They definitely aren't based on two real sisters named Zaydee and Luna who giggle through tickle attacks, fire Nerf darts at each other, or interrogate the dog about meatballs.
Grandpa? Absolutely made up. Sure, he rides a motorcycle, farts with comedic timing, programs a smart house with a sarcastic personality, and builds things in his garage, but any similarity to an actual grandfather is purely the result of your overactive imagination.
Nanna? Definitely not based on a certain third-grade teacher who rolls her eyes at Doctor Who and survives more glitter than OSHA allows. Again, just a coincidence. Really.
Everyone else, Xerxes, Taela, The Dax, even Granny-T who is definitely not based on the sisters' Great Grandmother, are all products of fiction, imagination, and just a little pixie interference.
By reading this book, you agree not to ask any pointed questions like “Hey, is this supposed to be us?” because the official answer is always going to be: “Absolutely not. How dare you suggest such a thing?”
These are just silly stories.
That happen to be extremely specific.
And uncomfortably accurate.
But still… completely made up.
Probably.
