Disclaimer: I am no genius and am only part German - aka NOT Walter Moers.

The Other Optimus Yarnspinner

This is where my story begins… Having thus established this fact, I opened my eye. This is where my story begins… I always started my day off repeating this mantra. It was only the first of several mental exercises. And I, Optimus Yarnspinner, had a duty to perform. This is where my story begins

I stretched and carefully planned out my meals for the day. It tells how I came into possession of The Bloody Book and acquired the Orm. A bit of light reading would do nicely. "The Mountain Maggot" perhaps? A bit of organic verse would do nicely. Besides, starting a day with Wilfred the Wordsmith was always promising.

The wall of metal melts, and there

a hole comes into sight.

I feel a gentle breath of air

and through the gap streams light.

I rushed a bit through the following seventy-seven stanzas, but just as quickly forgave myself. Once you have reached a certain point you can allow yourself some liberties.

I was feeling nostalgic today so I hauled my copy of Memoirs of a Sentimental Dinosaur off the shelf. It's not a story for people with thin skins and weak nerves, whom I would advise to replace this book on the pile at once and slink off to the children's section. Having decided to read in the company of my friends I headed out to the Grotto.

On the way I passed Dancelot Two (I cannot rid my mind of this nickname for the life of me). He was deeply engrossed in a book. I could clearly read the pages being so much taller than him, but anyone would have known what book he was poring over. Dancelot, of course, had only published one work. A shame really.

I often wondered what it would be like to only study a single book over and over again. Seems boring, really. Al, of course, has complained that he has too many books to read. Rather short sighted in my opinion. I myself was responsible for hundreds of novels, thousands short stories and poems, and a score of monumental stage plays that take months to perform. Not to mention the books by Thelonius Orm, Wilfred the Wordsmith, Hildegard Mythmaker, Oscar van Tripplestock, etc. And my friend Wilfred thinks memorizing "The Mountain Maggot" is a full course meal. Oh please, that barely suffices as breakfast.

I reached the grotto and deposited my substantial self on my reserved seat. Normally we Booklings do not have specific seats, but in my case they made an exception. I was no longer the minuscule Bookling who wandered into the Grotto so many years ago. No, stuffing my mind with myriads of literature had given me quite an ample girth. I was nearly ten times the size I once was and towered over my peers. It was merely an outward symbol of my expansive literary knowledge.

I commenced on my actual breakfast. Near the beginning (on page 444 out of 10,000), I found myself tearing up a bit.

The gnomes stepped aside and thrust a tiny Bookling towards me. Pale green in colour, he was shuffling timidly from foot to foot.

'Who's this?' I asked.

'It's… Optimus Yarnspinner,' Al wheezed. 'Our youngest.'

That was too much. My eyes filled with tears.

'But I haven't written anything yet,' I sobbed.

'We're…counting on you,' said Al. 'We await your first book with… the keenest anticipation.' He took the little creature by the hand.

By now I was sobbing profusely. Of course I was honored to be the sole Bookling who had seen its author in person, but I wished I could speak with him one last time. I desperately needed to know if he was working on another book.

A/N: Hope that wasn't too weird. I just had to write down this idea I've had since finishing the book.

Walter Moers is pretty much my hero, though I'm afraid this doesn't do him much justice.