In the quaint, yet infuriatingly dense town of Captain Obviousville, asking questions was not a habit—it was the town's unwritten, yet somehow, widely accepted law. Nobody read signs, labels, or even instructions on their toothbrushes. It was as if the townspeople had collectively sworn an oath against processing any written information. This made everything from grocery shopping to finding the nearest restroom a community event. Why read the “Exit” sign when you could ask fifty people where the door was?
Olivia Blithe, the town's only bookworm and honorary Queen of Eyerolls, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. One morning, she watched as Mrs. Perkins, her neighbor who once asked how many days there were in a week (while holding a calendar), inquired, "Does this jar of peanut butter contain peanuts?" Olivia’s left eye twitched as she gestured to the giant label that read "100% Peanuts". It didn’t help that the mayor had once asked, “Does this road lead to the park?” while standing under a sign with “Park Road” painted in bright red.
To put it lightly, Olivia had had enough.
That evening, she snuck into the abandoned library—a place so dusty that spiders had given up on weaving webs there due to the sheer boredom. Among the forgotten relics was The Book of Mildly Cursed Practical Jokes, which was banned not because of its dark magic, but because the instructions were longer than a cereal box ingredient list. Page after page, Olivia skimmed until her eyes landed on "The Curse of Eternal Questions." The spell promised that once cast, people would be compelled to read everything in sight, or they’d be overcome by a mysterious, itchy confusion that could only be relieved by reading.
Olivia stood atop the mayor’s statue at dawn and dramatically shouted, “Look and Read, or Be Conquered by Confusion’s Steed!” Most people ignored her at first, assuming she was practicing for some new musical or reciting the town's weather report in an overly theatrical manner.
By midday, things started to change. Gerald, the postman who once asked “Does this package have a return address?” while holding it, suddenly paused in horror as he read, “Contains Fragile Contents. Handle with Care.” His knees buckled. Elsewhere, Timmy the baker, who had built an empire of flour-based chaos by asking if eggs were essential to cakes, now stared wide-eyed at the list of ingredients on a bag of yeast like it held the secrets of the universe.
The chaos that unfolded was both hilarious and tragic. Mr. Blathers, the town historian who prided himself on knowing everything without ever reading, was found curled up on the floor of the library, sobbing and whispering, “So many footnotes, so many dates…”
Mrs. Wicker, who hoarded collectible figurines and prided herself on never reading the price tags, fainted when she finally noticed the one on her prized limited-edition porcelain frog: “$10,000”. She revived just long enough to gasp, “But I thought it said ‘Free with Love!’”
As the day progressed, Captain Obviousville was awash with the sound of rustling paper, muffled gasps, and the cries of people discovering long-forgotten notes stuck to their refrigerators like, “Dentist appointment, 2009.”
However, not all was bleak. Olivia watched with glee as the townspeople slowly adapted to their newfound reading habits. The grocer, known for asking if milk was dairy, started putting up hand-drawn signs: “Yes, This Milk Contains Dairy—For the Last Time!” At first, the questions evolved into a horrifying blend: “Is this sign real? Wait, am I reading this?” But soon enough, people read for the sheer joy of knowing things without needing three neighbors and an emergency committee to confirm.
The town’s epiphany reached its peak when Mayor Finnegan, known for spending three hours explaining why chairs were “sit-on devices,” stood in the square and read aloud “The 101 Obvious Laws of Captain Obviousville”. He started at sunrise and finished only by moonlight. By the time he was done, the townspeople were both exhausted and enlightened—particularly Mr. Parker, who discovered he’d been using an “illegal cheese” not approved by the town’s dairy laws. He vowed never to question lactose again.
With the curse broken, the townspeople learned to enjoy the subtle art of reading. They had picnics where they read each other ingredients, formed competitive game nights around manuals, and started the town’s first-ever book club—though it primarily featured books with titles like, “This is a Book” and “Yes, Read This One.”
Olivia watched the celebrations with a sly smile. Someone came up and asked, “Did you plan this whole thing?” She simply pointed to the giant banner overhead that read: “Thank You, Olivia, Our Savior of the Obvious.”
And as the fireworks burst above and the crowd burst into song (with lyrics on cue cards, naturally), Olivia knew that her plan wasn’t just a success—it was a masterpiece. The town of Captain Obviousville had finally stopped asking and started reading.
Until, of course, someone looked up at the fireworks and asked, “Wait, are those.. fireworks?”
