The Sticky Sun Dial
A short fantasy comedy featuring Dennis & Roberta
Once upon a frosty January morning, the temperature sat stubbornly at 11 degrees. It was cold enough to make your breath hang in the air like tiny clouds. The Sun Dial — a literal, physical dial that controlled the intensity of sunlight — was the only thing standing between the world and permanent winter gloom.
The dial itself was a masterpiece of ancient design, forged from golden metals and encased in a protective dome high on a mountaintop. It could be turned to adjust the sun’s warmth, raising or lowering the temperature with precision. But this intricate mechanism was fragile and required careful handling. Only a few individuals, known as Sun Keepers, were entrusted with the task.
One fateful day, Dennis — an apprentice Sun Keeper — decided to bring a snack along while monitoring the dial. He had a weakness for honey on biscuits and had carried a small jar of the sticky stuff up the mountain. While eating, a gust of wind knocked the jar from his hands, and it tumbled across the control panel. Dennis panicked, grabbing at it, but it was too late. The honey oozed onto the Sun Dial’s gears and knobs.
At first, the damage seemed minor, but soon the honey hardened in the cold, causing the dial to stick. Every attempt to adjust the sun’s warmth required extra effort, and sometimes the dial wouldn’t budge at all. The cold grew worse, and despite their best efforts, the Sun Keepers struggled to clean the mess completely.
So now, when Roberta asks why it’s so cold outside and why the sun won’t warm things up, you can explain:
“Well, someone brought honey up to the Sun Dial, and now it sticks. That’s why we’re stuck at 11 degrees for now!”
It was a bitterly cold morning — 11 degrees, to be exact. The world shivered under a sky that should have been warm and golden, but instead, the sun sat sluggish and weak, barely casting enough light to melt the frost on the windows.
Roberta stomped her boots on the ground and wrapped her coat tighter around herself as she glared at Dennis.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, her breath puffing out in little clouds. “You’re telling me the sun is controlled by a dial?”
Dennis nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“And someone got honey all over it?”
Dennis shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“And now it sticks?!”
Dennis cleared his throat. “Technically, it’s not just sticking — it’s gummed up. The gears won’t turn properly, so we’re kind of… locked in at 11 degrees until the Sun Keepers fix it.”
Roberta crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “And who, exactly, got honey on the dial?”
Dennis hesitated. He had rehearsed many versions of this conversation in his head. He considered blaming the wind, the fragile jar, maybe even a rogue bee. But Roberta’s stare was the kind that could peel paint off a barn door. Lying would only make things worse.
“…It may have been me,” he admitted.
Roberta inhaled sharply, then let it out in a long, exasperated sigh. “Dennis. You had one job. Keep the sun running smoothly. That’s all. And you thought a sticky, drippy, notoriously hard-to-clean substance was a good thing to bring up there?”
“I didn’t mean to spill it! I was just having a biscuit!” Dennis protested.
Roberta pinched the bridge of her nose. “So, what now? Do we just live in an eternal ice age because of your breakfast?”
“The Sun Keepers are working on it,” Dennis said quickly. “They’re trying different solutions — vinegar, warm water, some fancy solvent one of them brewed up. But it’s slow going because the honey seeped into the gears, and well…”
“And well what?”
Dennis gave her a sheepish look. “It, uh… caramelized a little.”
Roberta froze. “Caramelized.”
“Just a bit!” Dennis said defensively. “The sun was a little too high at the time, and the heat—”
Roberta put her hands up. “I don’t want to hear any more. Just tell me when I can stop wearing four layers of clothes inside my own house.”
Dennis hesitated. “A week. Maybe two.”
Roberta gave him a long, deadpan stare.
“…Maybe three,” Dennis added weakly.
Roberta groaned again and stomped inside, slamming the door behind her.
Dennis sighed and pulled his coat tighter. It was going to be a long winter.
Disclaimer from the Department of Dumbassery
These stories are 100% fiction, written by Dennis for the sheer joy of storytelling, caffeine-fueled inspiration, and occasional dramatic flair.
Do not attempt to reboot haunted Roombas, operate ancient puzzle boxes without supervision, or bring honey near celestial machinery.
Any resemblance to real people, pets, or smart appliances is purely coincidental… unless it’s funny.
Thanks for reading — now go solve a mystery, drink your coffee, and be a little legendary.