The Little Monster and the World Without Flavor

In a faraway place that didn’t appear on any map—some called it the Stolen Empire, others simply Nowhere—there lived a small, peculiar monster behind a sofa.

He wasn’t fearsome or mean. In fact, he was soft and red, with wide, innocent eyes and a curious mind. But because he didn’t look like the others—or act like them—he was often called ugly, sometimes even pitiful. And so, he kept to himself behind the sofa, living quietly and unnoticed by the humans in the house.

Years went by. Nothing changed.

Taxes increased. The government, known only as “The Party,” banned joyful flavors. Bottles of happiness—once common—now cost millions of sori. Sadness, on the other hand, could be bought for just 2 sori. So people bought sadness in bulk and told themselves they were wise for doing so.

Flavor, in this world, was everything. It was more than taste—it was emotion, creativity, expression. Art, music, dreams—all were described in terms of flavor.

And because joy had become expensive, forbidden even, most people stopped chasing it. They accepted blandness. They lived in grayscale. Their clothes were gray, their houses gray, even their expressions gray.

But not the little monster. Despite everything, he could still create happy endings out of nothing. Out of scraps, stories, and a pinch of imagination, he flavored his world with wonder.

One day, sitting behind the sofa and feeling the walls press in, he whispered to himself:

“What is the Outside World really like?”

In his imagination, it sparkled. The sky was a bright cherry red, and laughter floated in the air like dandelions in spring. He believed the Outside was full of beings like him—flavored with color and wonder.

So, he stepped out.

But the moment he emerged, he saw the truth: a gray city of gray people walking with hunched backs and tired eyes. No one smiled. No one danced. They moved like ghosts wearing suits and uniforms.

He was the only red thing in the world.

Still, he searched. He walked all day under a colorless sky, hoping to find just one other monster like him—one who loved flavor, stories, happy endings.

He found none.

As the sun began to fade behind smoky buildings, he sat near an ice cream stand, staring at the cherry flavor. He had no money, only an empty frog-shaped pocket sewn onto his chest. He sighed, dreaming of just one bite of sweetness.

A group of children walked by and noticed him.

“Look at this foolish monster,” one said, pointing.
“No job, no home, no flavorings! How sad is that?” another laughed.
They scoffed at his red fur, at his dream-filled eyes.

The monster opened his mouth to respond, to explain he created happiness—that he didn’t need to buy it. But no sound came out.

Instead, he began to wonder:

Is my world the fake one?
If joy can’t be sold, does that mean it isn’t real?
If flavor must be earned and bought, was I wrong to create my own?

Then came a loud voice—a man, or maybe a machine, booming over a public speaker:

“There is no world for happy endings! Flavor must be earned, not imagined!
Art is flavor, but only when it explodes.
You cannot build flavor from nothing!”

The little monster felt his heart shrink. He had built flavors from hope, from dreams, from nothing at all—and they had tasted more beautiful than anything sold in stores.

He walked to the shore where the gray sea kissed the gray sand and sat on a lone rock. There, he watched the waves whisper secrets to each other. No one noticed him. No one cared.

And as the salt wind brushed his fur, something inside him began to still. His body hardened. His eyes lost their shine.

Until finally, the red monster became a statue of salt—forever watching the waves in a world that refused to taste what couldn’t be bought.

Moral of the Story

When a world stops believing in imagination, joy, and art born from the heart, even the brightest souls can become invisible. But sometimes, it only takes one dreamer to color the world again—if the world remembers how to see.