In a lonely corner of the Painted Desert, where time feels sticky and shadows stretch just a bit too long, lived Gilbert, an orange-and-black Gila monster with a love for antiques, mysteries, and—above all else—collecting rare things.
Gilbert was no ordinary lizard. He wore a tiny monocle over his left eye and always carried a velvet pouch for “Important Finds.” His adobe burrow was a museum of the marvelous: cactus spines shaped like harps, forgotten buttons from long-lost mailbags, even a miniature fork with only one tine left.
But there was one thing Gilbert had never dared to take: the petrified wood of the Forbidden Forest.
Locals whispered of the Curse of the Stone Trees—a hex said to haunt anyone foolish enough to take a piece. According to legend, the wood held ancient tree spirits who’d been flash-frozen in time, robbed of their voices and vengeance. Take from them, and your luck turns to dust.
Gilbert scoffed at the idea. “Curses are for cartoons,” he muttered, adjusting his monocle.
One golden-tinted twilight, as moths blinked lazily in the sky and the moon rose like a silver balloon, Gilbert crept into the Petrified Forest. There, lying half-buried in sandy soil, was the most beautiful slab of wood he’d ever seen—striped in violet, red, and ghostly white.
He took it.
And that’s when the oddness began.
First, his monocle fogged from the inside.
Then, the zipper on his velvet pouch jammed shut—for the first time ever.
And the next morning? His beloved burrow had collapsed into a neat cone, like something had sucked it underground with a straw.
Still, Gilbert trudged on, stubborn and skeptical.
But the world had shifted. Birds flew backward. His tea boiled cold. And every time he tried to display the wood in his burrow, it would slide off the shelf and land perfectly upright… staring at him.
Eventually, Gilbert gave in. With one dramatic sigh and a cloak around his shoulders (for dramatic effect), he returned the wood to its original resting place. As he laid it down, he whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
The wind whooshed softly, like a sigh of relief. The shadows untangled. His burrow popped back up overnight, better than before, with new windows he didn’t remember installing.
From then on, Gilbert became the forest’s unofficial guardian. He’d still collect treasures—but only those the desert gave freely. And if any traveler came near the petrified wood, he’d give them a firm tail-slap and a story they wouldn’t forget.
Moral of the Story:
Some treasures aren’t meant to be taken. Respecting what came before us is the best way to move forward.