Four Stars

"The book was absolutely inspirational, and the story was so well written and developed."

―Paige, book blogger

popthebutterfly.wordpress.com 

Four Stars

"The story is easy to read, light- hearted, and the fun-filled language makes it an interesting read for both young and old."

―Tee Wai, book blogger

biblichor.com

Merel’s Sleep perched on the edge of the wooden dresser. His gaze drifted around the room in which he had spent every night for the last eight and a half years. The familiar view he used to enjoy — the feathery clouds floating across the striped sky-blue wallpaper; the pink slippers with the rabbit ears, waiting under the bed, eager to be of service; on the shelf, the tin music box ready to play its brassy rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ slightly off-key — everything in its place and yet — everything out of whack.  
His eyes stopped on the delicate shape of the violin lying next to him on the solid sugar maple. How he longed to hear its soothing song.
He jiggled his legs, hoping his feet would not fall asleep again.
Over on the bed, nothing had changed. The girl banged her fist against the crimson-colored headboard with a force that almost made the little painted crown drop off. She knelt on her pillow, with a grim expression, arms lifted like a prize fighter, ready to repeat it over and over again.
With a whiff of linden-scented night air, a dream collector appeared through the half-open window.
“Good evening,” he said, and with a quick glance in the direction of the bed where more punches were thrown, he added, “or another bad one?”
Merel’s Sleep eyed the tiny man in the iridescent overalls who hovered in front of him, wings abuzz.
“Nothing here for you to do so far — or me,” he muttered and picked some lint off of the sleeve of his black suit jacket.
“I hope for your sake she will come to her senses soon.” The dream collector waved his chubby fingers. “Anyway, I’ll make sure a colleague drops in later.” He vanished like a bursting soap bubble.
“Whatever.” Merel’s Sleep frowned. In his experience, it would take at least another two hours before she would be exhausted enough to even consider sleeping.
He watched her clutch Roger by the neck and hurl him out of the bed against the opposite wall, where the little plush sheep bounced off and tore down the large poster with the nice colorful illustrations of the Backyard Birds of North America.
“There he goes again.” Merel’s Sleep groaned. He grabbed his violin and jumped down onto the Flokati rug covering most of the bedroom floor. The tender strands of whitish wool stroked his naked feet.
He trudged over to the poster and lifted the edge of it. “Aren’t you getting tired of this, Roger?”
“She doesn’t mean it, friend,” came the muffled reply.
Merel’s Sleep stooped down to look under the creased sheet of paper. “If only I had your patience.”
“She is going through a very tough time right now, you know,” Roger said, crawling towards him.
Merel’s Sleep scratched his left big toe. “Tell me about it.” He couldn’t even remember when all the fuss had started, but it had peaked on one rainy evening in mid-March when the woman refused to read to her.
“Come on, Mom, Sleeping Beauty, please,” she had whined.
“Oh, Merel,” the woman said, “you have to be a big girl now. You know that Blue always gets worse at night. He needs me. You will have to read it yourself.”
The fairy tale book went flying through the room the moment the door closed behind the woman. And since then: perpetual terror.
Merel’s Sleep winced. Over on the bed, she screeched like an emergency siren. His ears were so sore.
“I can’t get into the bed by myself,” said Roger, peeking out from under the paper. “There’s nothing here for me to climb on. I’ll have to wait until she picks me up, friend.” He nestled into the rug’s fur, beaming as if he had been favored with a special treat.
Merel’s Sleep let go of the poster edge and shook his head. What a little imbecile, always calm and accepting — no matter how badly she knocked him about. But what could one expect from somebody who wore a satin bow around his neck?
He opened his wings and flew up.
“It’s 10:42,” Hulda, the vintage alarm clock, informed him as he landed next to her on the night table. The last thing he needed now was her serene smile. Not to mention the ruckus she produced when she drummed mercilessly on her brass bells in the morning. Although right now, even that would be more tolerable than the display of the savage.
He stared at her. Face: fire engine red. Pajamas: crumpled. Hair: soaked with sweat. She had just gotten hold of her tissue box, dragged out the contents and began to rip them into snippets while shrieking like a cornered rat.
“Tick, tock, just remember how adorable she looks when she wakes up in the morning, the sweet baby,” Hulda said, “with her rose petal cheeks and her charming smile. Tick, tock, like a little angel.”
“She reminds me more of the opposite lately,” Merel’s Sleep snapped back. “I’m so fed up. Every evening the same song and dance with this pampered imp. My nerves are over-tight strings, ready to pop.”
Although he hollered, he couldn’t compete with the clamour already filling the bedroom.
“I can barely hold the violin straight. My fingers are a jittery mess. Any randomly picked alley cat is an ear pleaser compared to my performance!”
“Tick, don’t wind yourself up like this,” said Hulda, forgetting to show the next second. “That’s unhealthy. Tick, something could break.”
“A break? Yes, I need a break. No, even better — I quit!”
Merel’s Sleep glanced at the violin in his shaking hand, then at the raging girl, and with a jolt, he threw his instrument down into the wilderness of the woollen fringes.
“The snot nose can find somebody else to play for her,” he bellowed and disappeared.