Winners from

Challenge #8

"Use the primary colors -- red, blue, orange, yellow, green, purple"

500 words or less..

Prizes

1st Place -- 25,000 credits

2nd place -- 15,000 credits

3rd place -- 10,000 credits

Update: it was brought to our attention that the 1st place winner did not use "yellow" in their entry. Therefore, we will move #4 to #3, #3 to #2, #2 to #1 and we will adjust the difference for the people paid already. Humans... so prone to error.

Contestant #048                                        1st Place

Leave The Rabbit in the Hat

Colours are an entirely human concept. They have no meaning outside of our consciousness. Words like “red,” “purple,” “orange,” and so on relate solely to light of specific wavelengths.

Newton, using two prisms, demonstrated that white light contained within it light of all wavelengths, and that once light of a specific hue had been extracted, a second prism would not—as widely believed—“stain” the light a different colour. The redness was intrinsic, not added.

Our understanding of the nature of light was further enlightened—pun intended—by the famous “double-slit” experiment, beloved of physics students the world over, which demonstrates the quirky, schizophrenic wave-particle nature of light, being both nuggety photons and rippling waves at once.

Science has unravelled the mysteries of the rainbow, which now reduces to a simple line-of-sight phenomenon caused by photons bouncing around in countless billions of water droplets before exiting at various refractive angles in the direction of our retinas.

So, that’s colour cracked then, isn’t it? It’s wavelengths of light, made up of odd wave-particle things.

And yet, somehow in peering into the magician’s hat, we lose the rabbit. Colours touch us in ways more profound, more fundamental, than a mere register of wavelength. We delight in a roseate dawn. Swathes of green bring us peace. Azure skies and aquamarine seas give us a sense of the vastness of the world, and perhaps a yearning to travel.

Colours affect our mood. We even use them to describe our mood: “Feeling a bit blue today…”; “He was green with envy…” We describe cowardice in term of yellowness, and a “purple patch” is what we all hope for. We use them to describe politic inclination. Red universally warns us of danger; green assures us that all is well. Colour words permeate our language and our thoughts. Indeed, we would describe such words as “adding colour to our language”, in a literal and self-referential way.

We are creatures of colour. Colour allows us to describe and understand the world, to differentiate, aggregate and classify, but beyond that it speaks to our innermost essence. Without colour, we would be very different animals indeed.

Recycled Bike

"Hey Red, if you want this fixed you're going to have to give me a hand you know." Joe complained. I rolled my eyes at my dog, Blue, who had been sitting at my feet by the steps and wandered back over to where Joe was fixing my bicycle.

"What do you need me to do, I don't know nothing about fixing stuff," I said "Besides, it looks like you've got everything almost done already." I looked at the bike that Mom had found leaned up against some garbage bins in a back alley. It was ugly alright, originally I think it may have been orange, but it must've spent alot of time sitting around outside as most of it had faded to yellow now.

"Pass me that screwdriver, and I think that may be it then you can give it a try around the yard," Joe answered. I passed him the screwdriver that was laying on the ground nearby, "This one?" I asked. Joe grunted something, which I guessed was a 'yes' because he took it from me without even looking up.

Several moments passed while Joe tinkered around with something near the gears, and then he stood up dusting the dirt of his pants and wiping some grease off his hands. "Alright Red, give her a try and we'll see how you make out." I made a few rounds of the yard with Blue in hot pursuit, I started to pick up some speed, but it'd been awhile since my last bike ride, and I forgot how tricky them handlebars can be when you turn them too tight, the next thing I knew I was laid out on the grass with green stains smeared on the knees of my good school jeans and a purple knot growing on my forehead. Blue was licking my face and asking in his own doggy way if I was alright.

Joe came running over to see if I was alright, but I was too big to cry about a little spill off an old used bike. "Geez, Red, you alright, your Ma's gonna have my hide when she sees them jeans of yours!" he exclaimed, slowly a big grin spread over his face "But you shore nuff rode that bike didn't ya boy?" he grinned "Now let's see if we can scrub out them jeans before your Ma comes home from work and gives us both a whooping."

Life in Color

My feet sounded ominous as they slapped against the wet stones of the Rockland breakwater. A cold purple-white fog rolled in across Penobscot Bay, closing me off from the land. The fog was thickest at night. The breakwater that jutted out into the bay culminated in a weather beaten old lighthouse about a mile out. At one time the house had been inhabited by a lighthouse keeper. Who knows what fears and terrors haunted isolated souls as they tended the warm orange lights that pierced through summer storms and raging blizzards, warning wayward ships against the treacherous rocks of the Maine coastline. It held a certain magic for me. A draw I could not explain. To think of all those lonely hours spent thinking, reading, dreaming….

Now it was a shadow of what it had one been. Green paint chipped and fell off in chunks. No one lived there now. The windows and door were boarded up. The electric lights were more yellow than orange as they spun in circles, piercing the fog. It too had seen it’s glory days come and go. Nothing stayed the same. Nothing.

I flew past the ancient structure to the very end of the rocks, stopping just short of plunging into the black water beneath me. The waves were high that night. In places they sloshed over the rocks and wet my sneakers. My socks were already damp when I reached the end, and I seriously contemplated taking off my shoes and walking barefoot.

During the day this was a cheerful place, but at night it took on a very different persona. On warm summer afternoons it was common to see blue sky reflecting on blue-green waves, children playing on the beach, fathers fishing with their sons, a red kite flying high in the sky, and couples strolling along gazing at each other. But only the very lonely walked the breakwater at night.

Tonight I thought about times when I too had looked lovingly into the eyes of another. Had sat on this very spot and watched the sun set over Rockland. How I had wished that moment would last and last. I cried as I thought these thoughts. He used to call my sudden bursts healing tears. I clung to them now.

My heart felt as cold and clammy as the planks I sat shivering on. As I walked back I noted every rock that we had kissed on, the floating ramp where he proposed, and the bench where he picked a wild rose and put it in my hair. At one time my life had been full of color. Sunshine, deep passionate red, bright blues and greens. Now my life was a dull gray. How long before color returned to warm me again?

I left the breakwater behind me again, as I had done so many nights since the accident. But I knew I would be back. It knew I would be back.

Winners from

Challenge #7

"Write a story about the picture"

1,500 words or less..

Prizes

1st Place -- 25,000 credits

2nd place -- 15,000 credits

3rd place -- 10,000 credits

Contestant #001                                        1st Place

Contestant #005                                       2nd Place

Contestant #023                  Tied             3rd Place

Contestant #022           Tied                    3rd Place

The Hewitts: Not As Bad As You Think When You Don't Think As Bad As You Do

The light in the far left corner shown it's light dimly. Ara, Mae, and Jack stood around as they watched mother Carolina make their plates. Don decided he'd pass and wait his turn.
- People always looked down on the Hewitt family because, they were different. One of the Hewitt's' would walk past and others took a liking to spraying disinfectant spray, water and sometimes lime beans, shouting things like "y'all can have them there beans if you want, ain't got nothing else to eat!" or turn towards the others and wonder aloud "Do y'all smell something funny?"
The Hewitt's were actually very bright. Mother Caroline taught them each how to read chapter books by the time they were 6. Mother Caroline taught each of the girls Trigonometry while their father taught the boys how to use his archery set and hunting. Their dad, before he died, was in a lot of debt trouble and called bill collectors 'Demon backs' and said they wanted him for his smarts but he'd be damned if they ever got em!
Mother Caroline was a unique women who never drank anything stronger than tea. She loved scales and made sure she kept one in the house. Her husband tried to cajole her into selling it but she was as stubborn as ever, making excuses about how they needed to know how much the food weighed. He'd sometimes holler "We don't ever have any food in this sonofabitch!" or he'd look at her with this disbelieving expression and she'd wink. Mother Caroline wasn't too respected by the towns folk and would come home from making 40cents a day all groggy-like. Mae and Ara would sit her down and tell her about their day in school.
Mae was the red-head with a long almond face, long slender neck, pale skin, boney fingers that cracked when she turned the doorknob to fast, very skinny with almost no behind and 5 feet tall. people called her names like tomato, giraffe neck, ghosty, crack-a-lack and flatback. Of course she'd never tell mom none of this. Mother would lecture her that they just are intimidated by your outstanding looks. She'd say that Mae was unique and unique is better than what everyone else is: too original. Mae would force a smile and scratch her head.
Ara, was big and had short onyx hair. She liked her dresses big because, she thought that was the best way to hide her rolls. She was just a little taller than Mae and had more of a milky skin tone. But with that cute skin tone she thought she had clown feet, and a nose as long and big as a tree. Then on top of that she figured she was as fat as a pregnant elephant. Mother said "Don't call it fat, call it big-boned, and your nose can't get that big unless you're Pinocchio and lie a lot." Lying was Ara's not-to-do's.
Jack and Don were born on the same day, same time, but one year apart. Their father called them the 'Special Mountain Goats'. He never told them why but he always laughed when they asked. On top of being born one year apart they looked exactly alike not counting Jack was a head taller than Don.
Life as a Hewitt wasn't bad at all if you seen it their way. When ever they'd gotten a car, they'd name it. When ever one had to go to the hospital their father, Nathan would break them out of the hospital Nathan Hewitt style. When ever the 'Demon Backs' came time after time on their door step they'd hop in the Tree-dane, Wolf, or sonofabitch(or what dad called the car when it broke down) to do what he also called the Skedaddle. The Hewitt's left to never return but when their father caught a terrible disease and died they moved to one spot, and never did the skedaddle again.
Mae was a great reader. The teacher would pick on her to read every time the principle would come in. The the others hated her for that but as mother always said to them as they snickered "Oh dry up! Read a book for goodness sake."
When Ara went to school she got into an argument with a kid who had friends who detested Ara. When she got home scrapped and bruised mother tsk'd and said "Oh child, never argue with an idiot, they bring you down to their level and beat you with experience." Ara would stifle her cries and nod.
"Be poignant and sublime sweetheart and they'll see." Ara would simply sigh and go to her seat at the table.
-Later Mother Caroline was making supper while Mae, Ara, and Jack stood by as she prepared something akin to a fest from money she got with an odd job. The lamp light had dimmed but it didn't bother them none, it wasn't the first time. Getting together for dinner was something unbreakable for a family who went through so much and felt unbreakable. The light shined through if you knew where to look. Here, the Hewitt family wasn't as bad as you thought when you didn't think as bad as you did.
The End

Winners from

Challenge #6

"The History of love"

1,000 words or less..

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

Contestant #008       CORRECTED     Tied 1st Place

The History of Love

Sunlight. Stars, fresh paint, spring time, blue eyes. A balloon against a cloudy sky. Loud music and late nights and long, slow, gets-your-heart-racing kisses. Love. Nights remembered only because someone so graciously remembered a camera.

As I lay on the floor of my decaying home, I realized I sincerely hated each and every one of these things.

Weak sunlight filtered through the greasy windows, further hindered by smoke-stained blinds with only half the slats in them. I lay situated spread-eagled on the thin carpet, outlined in empty beer cans, stale chips and ramen noodle cups. I was a murder scene all to myself. The clock that lay upside down beside me read 2:47pm, which meant I was up way too early.

The door opened, and closed.

I let my eyes close and hoped that perhaps she would think I was asleep.

"I thought you were getting groceries."

Oh well, I tried.

I made sitting up look like a great battle, fought hard and barely won. She sighed and I offered a plaintive smile.

"I decided it went against my religion."

This earned me a cold, flat stare.

"Against your religion?"

"Yes."

"To work?"

"Yes."

"You're an atheist."

"Yes, well, I've seen the light. Hallelujah, and what not."

"You're disgusting."

"I made dinner."

She left me sitting in my nest of garbage to examine my latest creation, ramen noodles with almost expired pizza sauce on top. We ate in silence and left the dishes to blend on the floor.

"Want to have a shower?"

I took her hand and followed her into the cramped bath-space. Steam billowed from behind the curtain, beaded on the mirror and her eyelashes.

As we lay damp and intertwined on the bed later, I felt her slow sleep-breathing against my side and stared at the dark ceiling. I realized that like everything else in our life, sex had become more routine than anything. It was done purely for the satisfaction of following a habit. I closed my eyes again, this time trying to trick myself into thinking I was asleep, but the tears still escaped.

In the dark, without a sound, I told her I loved her.

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She was already gone when I woke up.

I walked into the bathroom and rested my forehead against the cold mirror. Haggard grey eyes stared back, set in a thin pale face framed by too-black hair. I was beautiful before I stopped trying. I had gone to bed with wet hair and it took fifteen minutes to sort the tangled mess into something resembling order.

I kicked the clock right side up and glanced absently at the scolding red 11:34am.

My cereal was stale but the milk hadn't gone bad yet. I picked at a hole in my jeans, waiting for my body to finish the motions of eating breakfast. Again I was struck by the force of habit I lived in. My thoughts turned to Reo and the shower. I hoped she was at work.

I borrowed garbage bags from the old lady next door with too many cats and a disapproving eye (She was obviously disappointed by the lack of young men wandering in and out of our place, the old vulture) and set about scraping the filth from our living space.

The phone rang just as I was hauling our dusty, ancient vacuum from the closet.

"Maddy, do we need anything?" Somewhere, something inside me still thrilled at her voice, the same way it used to when she would kiss me in secret behind the college dorms. I tucked the phone against my shoulder and wandered into the kitchen to take stock.

"Well, we need some milk, eggs, ramen noodles, bagels, some meaningful sex and garbage bags, and I think we're nearly out of cat food and communication," As if in response to the magic word, our most social of kittens wandered over and licked my elbow. I scratched Anorexia's ears and ran my fingers over her prominent rib bones, as I always did.

"I'm going to stop and pick us up some supper so don't make anything, alright?" I clicked my tongue. She was never one to appreciate my sneaky little jokes.

"Take out, mm? What's the occasion?" Invisible and Monotony scrambled onto the counter to team up on Anorexia, and an epic battle of kitten fights ensued.

There was silence on the other line and for a moment I thought she'd gone again, out of my life for so many more hours.

"Today is your birthday, Maddy."

Well, that one caught me off guard.

"I... Right. I was testing you. Listen I'm doing a little cleaning, I'll see you around seven, okay?"

I hung up in a daze.

What was happening to me?

I remembered, it seemed like not so long ago, when Reo and I were newly in love. Things had seemed to be much easier then. Back then all we had to do was defy our parents and the government, flaunt our unacceptable affection in public much to the delight of adolescent boys and hard drinking men, and the disgust of their girlfriends and wives. It made no sense. We had planned everything. We found the perfect loft, gathered our collection of questionable strays, shopped at the cheapest furniture stores we could find and lived off ramen noodles and Kool-Aid and Kraft Dinner. We were almost so hip, it hurt. But I suppose in hindsight, we should have known it couldn't last forever.

When I lost my job, I assured Reo that things would be alright, that all we needed was time and it would sort itself out.

We went hungry for that month and she told me that she wanted a change. I vividly remember the night of begging, pleading, crying, promising her everything from new shoes to another cat to my first born. The make-up sex had been excellent.

I pressed my head against the refrigerator door. I was done cleaning.

---------------------------------------

As it turns out, she one upped her promise and bought me cake too.

I saw the sparkle in her vibrant green eyes and I didn't ask her if we could afford this. I pulled her close, and kissed her like the first time. Her hand shook against my cheek.

We laughed all night. She smeared icing on my face and fed pizza toppings to the kittens. I spilled my cake in her hair, by accident. I let her shower alone, and when she came out, I pulled her against me again, burying my face in her wet hair. Over and over I said her name, until it became a wordless blur falling from my lips, and she silenced me with hers. With my eyes I apologized, and with my hands I told her how much I needed her. Her skin told me the same and this time we fell asleep on the floor together. The kittens warmed our feet and in the morning, she was still there.

Sunlight and green eyes, vanilla flavored skin, chocolate cake and three grey kittens. Late nights, late mornings, watching her wake slowly in my arms, the first thing she does is smile.

As I lay on the floor of my decaying home, I realized I sincerely loved each and every one of these things.

Contestant #008                                Tied 1st Place

The Endurance of Love

The History of love is a multi-faceted subject; it shines brightly, and takes on many forms. Love can feel elating, or it can hurt. It can be felt, given, taken, unrequited, or underestimated.
All of the above have been experienced through centuries, my experience with love has not been that long, but its history in my life began at the moment of my birth and has continued in varying forms even as I write this.
Twenty-Six years ago, there was a beautiful impoverished woman who was a single mother of a young daughter. She lived a simple life, in a simple apartment complex, living paycheck to paycheck. This woman happens to be the woman that accidentally conceived me. I will omit the love exchanged in order for me to be conceived. She had a choice at this point, being a single mother; she was not in the best of positions to raise another child. She knew she had three options, and she chose to find a family for me. This was the first act of love, a selfless love. Giving her child to a family who wanted one; and that could take care of one better that she was able. She loved me enough to give me a better life, with more opportunities.
Time passed and it was the day of my birth. My potential parents were waiting for me as I squeezed my way into this world. I don't remember this moment; I don't remember the tears that fell on my face from my mothers eyes. What I do remember is being a little girl having two wonderful parents that let me explore the world around me, what I received from them was an unconditional love. In my failings and wrongs, I was still loved. A scraped knee got a kiss, and when I was afraid at night, I had two wonderful parents to sleep between.
I always knew for as far back as I remember that I was adopted at birth. I was adopted from a woman named Sage. Every birthday my mother told the story of my birth, and how Sage's bag was packed. She would tell me about the freckles on her nose, and the light-red hair she had. These are the facts I held on to for years. I love my parents for never keeping my birth a secret.
Teenage years came, and I experienced what I thought was love from one boyfriend for a month, and then on to the next. I really at this point in my life had no clue what "being in love" was. I knew that I loved my dog, and my parents and a hanging out with my friends. It was my senior year in high school that I felt what "being in love" was. My parents had raised me a very strict catholic, though it did not stick with me for some reason. I did things my own way, I had sex. And I had sex with my first love. Now, I knew that this is how babies were made, but never did I think I could become pregnant, but I did, at seventeen.
I kept it a secret for about five months, not knowing what to do. I finally told my parents, with my boyfriend. The reaction I received was not pleasant; I grimace still as I think back to that day. That was a bad day. However, my parents loved me, and said they would be supportive of any decision I chose. The first thought I had, was to give my child up for adoption, this was the plan, for a week. Until I saw my father crying saying he would never know his first grandchild. This made me rethink my decision, not just because I saw my strong father cry, but because I did not want my child to grow up with the empty feeling of not knowing who your original mother was. So I decided to keep the baby. My boyfriend loved me, he loved the fact he was going to be a father, even at the tender age of 18. As months past, I felt my child grow inside of me, and slowly I started to fall in love with kicks and bumps I felt on my belly. Nine months past, and my son was born. A Beautiful boy, with red hair, immediately my thoughts went to my birth-mother. My son had my birth-mothers red hair.
Attending college and having an infant was not an easy task, but I had a great support system in my boyfriend, and parents. It was soon after nearing my last semester at college that my boyfriend proposed to me. Shortly thereafter I had a family all of my own. I knew the feeling of a parent's unconditional love.
Still, even being surrounded by all my loved ones and being in a stable environment, I couldn't shake the want and need to find the woman that gave birth to me. A private investigator was hired and I found 3 addresses, I figured it would be less invasive to write a letter. I wrote two letters to two different addresses. Both were returned to me with addressee unknown by the postal service. I didn't bother writing to the third address, as by now my spirits were crushed.
Two years went by, and I was driving home from my parents' house down a very long road along coastal California to my house. A song came on the radio, and tears poured forth from my eyes. I had to find her. I wasn't going to write a letter this time. This time I felt that I had to call her. I pressed my foot to the gas pedal and safely sped home. I told my husband what I was going to do, and airing on the side of caution, he told me to hold off. My resolve was too; my curiosity could no longer be contained. I got the city and state from the last address and I dialed information.

The phone rang once. It rang twice.

The third time a woman picked up, and I asked for Sage. There was a pause, and the woman said "IM sorry she is not in right now, may I take a message?" "Yes," I said, "can you please tell her that Missy called and here is my number". I hung up. I was over-come with joy that I found the right house! That in itself was enough to satiate me for a while.
Then my phone rang, it was a man. He introduced himself, and asked who I was. He told me he knew exactly who I was; and that my birth-mother was in tears with joy and needed to calm down before we talked. I talked to her husband for a while, learned I had siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, all of which whom knew about me.
The time came where my birthmother came on the phone. My heart raced. And I started talking first. "I just want you to know, that I have had a wonderful life, and I owe it in part to you, and that I have never been upset with your decision. I have thought about you my entire life, and I want you to know that even though it has been so long, I love you, and thank you." We both cried over the phone. She told me her side of the story of the night I was born, and after I talked to her, every single member of the family called me. I learned about my heritage, I cried when I talked to my sister. My brother sang for me over the phone. I had an entire family that was willing to accept me into their lives with open arms. The hole in my heart was no longer there.
We met for the first time a month after the first phone call, and I felt as if I had known then my entire life. Our mannerisms were the same, our laughs were identical. It was surreal, it was unimaginable. It was love. It is a love that had endured twenty six years and will continue to grow and evolve for the rest of our lives.
I am very close to both sides of my family. I still consider my parents, my parents; they raised me well and I love them dearly. I also have my birth-family with whom I fit in perfectly. Love is all around me, and it brings me to tears to think about how lucky I am to have found my birth-family and have a supportive set of parents. This has been my path of love. This is my personal history of love.
I know that love might be in different forms for other people, but the beautiful thing about love is that it will always be here, for me and everyone else. From birth until out last breaths we will have felt the wonder and warmth of love from someone or something.

The History of Love

Love has a checkered history. Men have fought duels for love; women have been beheaded for love; monarchs have relinquished their thrones for love; songs have been written for love; publishers of romance novels have gotten rich because of love; and Morton Eberle of the Bronx dumped his wife of 23 years for love. The most insidious form of love has always been love at first sight. So it was for Morty. Let's examine Morty for a moment. An ordinary man, Morty at 47 was a little bit grey, a little bit paunchy, a little bit short-winded, and a little bit prone to farting in bed. Marty wasn't looking for love. Morty was looking for the Yankees to make it to the World Series. Morty was looking to make a killing at his weekly poker game. Morty was looking at women young enough to be his daughter during his subway commute to work. Morty considered his new subway hobby in the nature of art appreciation. When one tired of reading the New York Times; when one tired of reading the subway advertisements for the twentieth time; people-watching invariably took their place. And why in the world would he want to look at other aging men wearing suits and carrying briefcases, or worn-looking women like Rosalie rushing to their jobs half asleep? It was the young ones, the fresh-faced ones who caught his eye. And that fateful morning, the youngest and the one with the freshest face was Bethany Tucker, seated directly across from him on her way to her job as a salesgirl in the Junior Department of Bloomingdale's. It was Bethany's first year out of school and she was thrilled to be working there. She loved the store, she loved her work, and she particularly loved the discount she got as a perk. Hitherto she couldn't afford to shop at Bloomingdale's. Now she could afford to dress stylishly rather than having to resort to looking rather punkish. Shopping had now become the major love of her life; she was thoroughly addicted to it and only her small salary prevented her from doing it more. She was dressed in her new outfit from the Junior Department the morning Morty fell in love with her. It was in pink, her favorite color, with a tiny skirt and a jacket that hit her at the waist and boots and handbag to match. Her silken blond hair hung straight to her shoulders. Her smooth face, with large blue eyes, was devoid of makeup, nor was it needed. When she crossed and re-crossed her legs, which she did often, the merest hint of something lacy beneath her skirt drove Morty to distraction. But it was Bethany's face that Morty stared at the longest. He had an overwhelming urge to pinch her plump cheeks, to gaze into the depths of her blue eyes, to part her rosebud lips--Marty felt a sudden pain in his chest that he was sure came from Cupid's arrow before realizing it was a touch of indigestion from the high-cholesterol breakfast Rosalie had fixed him. He thought music was welling up inside of him until he realized it came from the headphone of the woman seated next to him. He didn't mistake the subway shuddering to a stop for the earth moving, though; he wasn't that far gone. And yet by the time the subway reached the Bloomingdale's stop, Marty could not prevent himself from following the girl out of the subway and into the store. When she quickly disappeared from his sight, Marty didn't give up and catch another train and go to work. Instead, he used his cell to call in sick, and then slowly traversed the store for two hours until he spotted her. The problem then became what to do next. He desperately wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, to smell the scent of her hair, to have her look at him, to have her acknowledge his existence. He knew he was crossing some boundary he had never crossed before, but he didn't care. The world could come to an end tomorrow as long as he got to know her today. Marty was feeling love for the first time in his life. She was rearranging stacks of cotton sweaters when he finally approached her. At first he was going to say he was buying a birthday present for his daughter, who was about her size, and would she help him. On second thought, he didn't want the girl to assume he was old enough to be her father. He finally hit on the idea of saying it was for his secretary, although his secretary was about as appealing to him as Rosalie. He finally got up the nerve to say, “I'm looking for a present for my secretary. These sweaters might do.” His voice came out sounding a little hoarse, but he rather liked the sound of it. She gave him a smile of such sweetness he could feel himself melt. "I'd be glad to help you, Sir. What size is she?" He quickly glanced over her body, as though he hadn't spent the last half hour staring at it. "About your size." "That would be a small. What color do you think she'd like?" "I have no idea." "Which colors does she wear to work?" "He pictured Heidi and could only come up with one color. "Usually black," he said. There was pale yellow and pink and blue and a soft green and white and even one in violet. But not a black sweater in the bunch. She looked so disappointed that he burst out with, "I'll take one in every color." And now, of course, it sounded like he was having an affair with his secretary. No one in his right mind bought his secretary half a dozen sweaters for her birthday, or even one for that matter. Flowers yes; sweaters no. A sweater could easily be construed by some as sexual harassment. She gathered up the sweaters and carried them to the cashier's counter, and Morty quickly realized his time with her was about to come to a close. "Perhaps skirts to match," he said. She beamed. "Oh, I think I can help you with that," she said, and he followed her to where matching skirts were hanging, all short, all adorable. And when those were found and carried to the counter, he asked about matching boots. "That would be a different department," she told him. And so he was turned over to the cashier and then directed him to the gift-wrap department. He picked out paper in white with pink hearts. He paid extra for very large bows, but Morty was never a stingy man. He had so many shopping bags when he was finished he resembled a bag lady. He found he couldn't leave the store. His feet simply wouldn't allow it. He didn't know where she lived. He didn't even know her name. By this time he was convinced he would die if he couldn't have her. In his eyes, she was perfection. He made his way back to the Junior Department, knocking people with his bags all the way. Mostly he got indulgent looks from women wielding their own shopping bags. When he found her, she looked surprised to see him again. Not displeased, though—she didn't look at all displeased. "These are for you," he said. "What?" "The things I bought, I bought them for you." She stared at him in confusion. "Why would you buy them for me?" "I love you." Oh, my God, he was thinking, it took me six months to say that to Rosalie and I only said it then for ulterior motives. She glanced pointedly at his hand. "You're married." "That can be rectified." She thought of all the clothes he had bought her. She thought of the possibility of having her own Bloomingdale's charge card. She thought of long days spent shopping while he was at work. She thought of the way he had looked at her on the subway, which hadn't gone unnoticed. She thought how romantic it was that he had followed her to work. She thought of not having to share a room with her little sister anymore and not having a curfew. "Take me to lunch and we'll talk about it," she said to him with a big smile. Not the greatest love story in history; just another example of the power of love. As for Morty and Bethany, she grew to love him very quickly and they were still in love the day he died of a coronary at age 67. She dropped dead in Bloomingdale's tea shop 20 years later, surrounded, as usual, by shopping bags. And still it lives on, love, and always will.

Forever Yours

My Love, I saw you today. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would, and I think some of that was because of how the sunlight danced deceptively down upon everything, painting the world a glad shade of gold. Utter silence is all I heard; not a single soul was around. Not a single living person. It took me awhile to calm myself, to face the facts, to approach you. Sometimes, I wonder if you hear me when I talk to you, because I never get a sign that you are listening. I mean, there are some rather large obstacles that prevent you from making it obvious, but even a very subtle gesture would be appreciated every once in a while. I guess that's expecting a little too much from you, though. It was a portrait straight from the mind of a sick artist, the way I stood there in front of you for an hour before I could say a single thing. Just you and I, the grass between us. The words in my mouth, they were like cotton, choking me; I just couldn't spit them out. When I finally sunk to my knees in front of you, tears filled my eyes with some swift speed, stinging and unexpected. "I miss you," I whispered, and that's when my heart broke, nothing more than shattered glass inside my hollow chest, sending shards splitting into my other organs. "And I don't understand why you had to go." The glinting, gleaming gravestone made me nauseous when I stared at it, at your name, at the weedy flowers littering its base. I leave you pebbles instead, for good luck. I am not sure how good luck works in the afterlife, but just in case you needed it, I have got you covered. "It's been awhile." Thirty-five days. Thirty-five days that you have been dead, and twenty-nine that you have been in the ground. Thirty-five days too many, thirty-five days that I have been tears held together by plastic. Thirty-five days that it hurts to breathe. I have been strong for your mother and your siblings. I just want to cry, every night, when I lay my head down on the pillow I stole from your room. The pillow that still smells the way you did, one of a thousand things I threw through your window and drove away with, because I couldn't stand the thought of losing you. I am afraid, so afraid. That you will slip between my fingers. Afraid that one day, I will forget how perfectly our hands fit together, like pieces of a puzzle. Afraid that one morning, I won't see your face when I wake up. Afraid that sometime soon, you won't be the only person who passes through my mind; I am afraid of losing you, even though you are already gone. It's hard to understand. You are a corpse now, rotting and covered with worms for flesh, with empty holes as eyes, and no air in your lungs, and I am still up here, but I wonder if maybe, maybe I am as dead as you are. Maybe my heart will just stop beating. Does it hurt to die? I have wanted to ask you that for awhile, but it's so strange to say aloud, so I keep praying that you are clairvoyant enough to read my mind. For you, it must have hurt, because it took them forever to declare you dead officially, hours passing, hope wavering. The waiting room of the hospital is absolutely the most dreadful place on the planet, worse than the depths of a geyser or a war zone. The television was set to ESPN, but I couldn't bring myself to watch the tennis tournament, mostly because you play tennis. Well, you played it. I forget the "ed" sometimes, and it hurts to correct myself, so most of the time, I let it slide, and people shoot me sympathetic glances, eyes full of pity, but gratitude that it's not their loss. When the doctor finally came out, I could read him like a picture book, but the world didn't spin until the words came out of his mouth. "I'm sorry." And then, darkness. So am I. I can't help but feel like it was my fault, that you are gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye, or that I love you. I still love you. I will always love you, perhaps just because you are gone. I wish it was me, instead of you; every night I made a pact with God, even though I knew it was too late. I wish we had never fought, that I had never said I hated you, that you weren't driving to my house when it happened, that I was gone, and you were still here. It would be so much easier to be the ghost coming back to haunt you, but you don't even have to haunt me. I am guilty enough on my own. Your name is still written all over everything I own, and I still wear your sweatshirt every day. Since you died, the world has been little more than a perpetual winter for me, except I don't stop to catch snowflakes on my tongue, and I haven't made any snow angels yet. We made them together last year at the winter carnival, and we traced our names into the snow beside them. You drew a heart between them. I have a picture of our snow angels, along with hundreds of pictures of us, pictures I hide under my bed, because I can't cry. I keep the one I stole from your room, the one in the frame on your dresser, on my bedside table, mostly because it was yours. I won't let the sands of time erase you, even if I have to struggle against them. I wonder how long it is going to be this way, how long my ribs will ache with every breath I dare to take, how long my smile will be fake and uncomfortable, how long your grave will be the only place I feel safe at. Maybe there are a certain number of days I have to pass, and then the world will start to turn again. I just hope I am not like this forever, but if I am, well, I guess I deserve it. I had no idea this kind of pain was possible, that my heart was capable of loving this deep, that I could miss someone this much. I find myself replaying every nanosecond I ever spent with you in my head, searching for anything I could have done to stop this. I learnt my lesson, though; that I have to appreciate what I have in front of me, or else it will be viciously snatched from me. Oh God, I can't even care about anything else anymore. I hardly eat, I am failing, and my room is in shambles. Are you happy now? I am so sorry I wasn't a good enough girlfriend to you when you were alive, but now that you are dead, I am indebted to you, forever yours. I sat at your grave for hours, until the sun disappeared behind the tops of trees, until my eyes cried themselves dry. I didn't want to leave. I had to, though, and so somehow I brought myself to stand up, wiping my eyes on your sleeves until they were red, raw, and dry, drier than the afterlife. The Eskimos have this myth that says the afterlife is dry, just dry. If it's dry there, I hope you can always find water. I stared at your name, your beautiful name, perfectly carved into the marble, memorizing every curve of every letter. After I could blink and see the exact image, I dug in the pocket of your sweatshirt, until I felt the round, cool pebble between my fingers. I set it gently atop your grave, with a sad smile. At least my eyes stayed dry. "Goodbye," I murmured, a casual departing phrase. With my back turned to you, I lifted a foot, pressed it gingerly into the leafy ground, and walked away. From then on, I knew it became our history. Forever.

Winners from

Challenge #5

"1234"

1,000 words or less..

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

Contestant #031         Claimed                1st Place

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4....Sarah did not understand why the repetitive count of 4 beats controlled her every move and most of her waking thoughts. She counted the words in sentences in 4 syllable stances, and frequently counted the letters on words, using only her four fingers to count the letters over and over, until they came out even. For example, she spelled the letters of the word 'frequently' using her four fingers....freq...uent..ly...fr..eque...ntly over and over in her mind, until a new work would stick there. 'Frequently' only had to be counted twice, before it came out even!! She had no idea why she did this, in fact, if she had of been questioned she would have been surprised to find out that everybody did not organize their thoughts and actions this way.

She had always been a quiet child, content to play with her blocks, or Lincoln Logs, or Play Doh. She has every toy imaginable, but preferred to play the things she could organize, or stack. She organized the doll furniture in her doll house into groups of four, before she could even count. She baked four cookies at a time in her EZ Bake oven. She wore two pair of socks, so that she would have a total of four on all the time, and was more than a little irritated that she could not find a way to wear a total of four shoes. Her mother noticed that some of Sarah's habits were a bit odd, especially the bit about the socks but she merely assumed it was a childhood idiosyncrasy and assumed that it would pass.

Fours, and multiples of fours, were the the basis of the unique sorting system of her child's brain. It was the number that made most sense to her, and she spent endless hours touching her thumb to the pads of each of her fingers, over and over and over again. In truth, she often fell asleep repeating this ritual. Later, when she started school and faced a specifically challenging lesson, she would clear her mind by closing her eyes and repeating this ritual exactly four times. If she missed one finger pad, she would take another deep breath and start over.

By the time she was a teenager, she was fastidious about her room and belongings: her books were alphabetized, with four laying on their back cover, spine out, and 4 standing up on their bottoms, her desk drawers were perfectly organized with not so much as a paper clip touching a rubber band. And, bless her heart, she had a ritual for everything!! Her mother had grown so accustomed to Sarah's orderliness and tidiness that if she thought about it all, it was merely to thank the stars that Sarah's room was neat and for her not being thrown into the rebellion of adolescence of having clothes strewn about the place and the general untidiness that often occurs soon after puberty. Her friends had also become accustomed to her strange habits and were used to the fact that the clutter of their rooms and their walls that were lined with posters and the other memorabilia of their young and tender lives made Sarah a bit nervous and so she did not spend too much time at their perspective homes. Her door was always open to them, and to be honest, she was a great hostess and they really preferred to visit her room, anyway.

As a young adult, facing college, she was still functioning, but only minimally and her life was controlled by rituals and rituals for the rituals and rituals for those rituals. It was only after she had a breakdown, of sorts, after discovering that she had more than 4 food items on her plate in the college cafeteria during Saturday brunch, found herself unable to eat and then subsequently worked herself into a state of anxiety requiring hospitalization that anyone, including herself, realized there was a problem.

The plain simple fact was that no one really saw anything wrong with the way Sarah liked to have things neat. No one really seemed to mind that none of her food could touch on her plate, or that she never ever drank after anyone , or that she sometimes washed her hands 4 times after toileting. And, ultimately, since no one could hear what was going on inside her head, and therefore, did not know she was counting, counting, always counting . . . she merely slipped through the cracks, a little odd, but essentially, ignored.

Today, with the help of really, really good pharmaceuticals, a name for her illness, namely Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and having passed the need for weekly counseling sessions, she is almost "normal". Her counselor has deemed her “healed” and suitable for human companionship. If one thinks about it long enough, it seems very odd, doesn't it? The fact that counting things by fours is enough to make someone unfit for human companionship?? And, if no one sees her late at night systemically touching her thumb to the pads of her fingers exactly four times, what's the real harm??

1, 2, 3, 4, fi… damn it, 1, 2, 3, 4, fi… no”! Turning her eyes to the ceiling Cheryl whispered a silent prayer to the god of counting, who ever that may be, to help her finish the sum she had in front of her.
This was Cheryl’s first day at infant school and Ms Troop had set the class the task of counting stars she had drawn on the board.
It wasn’t that Cheryl couldn’t count beyond 4 or 5 just that the dots on the board were dancing around so that where 1 dot had been there now appeared 2 or even 3.
The exercise had been meant to help bring the class together in the counting but Cheryl, who had always been a fastidious child, really did want to count every star.

The bell rang for midmorning play and as one the class rose and rushed to get too the playground quicker than the next, all that is except Cheryl. Now the classroom was quiet Cheryl focused all her attention on stopping the stars from moving and succeeded in the upper part of the blackboard’s alpha centurion constellation.
She quickly moved through the rest of the board and managed to stop the stars floating about and to stay fixed in one place.
Now she noticed that the stars on the board resembled the pattern of the stars that her father had shown her in the evening sky. There was Orion and his belt, the Big Dipper and the Great Bear.
Just then one of the stars shot across the blackboard in a graceful arc burning out just before it ran into the class plan that was pinned to the board. “I wonder if it would have set fire to it”? Thought Cheryl as her eyelids started to close.

Cheryl was still asleep on her desk when the teacher and the rest of the children returned noisily from playtime. The children started to sit behind their desks when they noticed the blackboard and slowly silence descended upon the room.
Ms Troop had never known such a thing to happen, normally she had to tell the children to settle down and yet here they were sitting wide eyed and speechless staring in her direction. It slowly dawned on Ms Troop that the children were not staring at her but past her and at the blackboard behind her.

Ms Troop turned and covered her mouth to hide her squeak of astonishment for there on the blackboard the night sky was set out in all its glory with Orion and his belt, the Big Dipper and the Great Bear along with accompanying shooting stars.

The ticking seemed to grow louder causing stormy blue-gray eyes to turn in the direction of the simple black and silver wall clock. 1… 2… 3… 4… she started to count before realizing what she was doing and chastising herself. Sinking her hands back into the hot sudsy dishwater she continued to scrub at the chicken pan when the soft dripping of the faucet caught her attention.

1… 2… 3… 4… a lump swelled in her throat but she tried to ignore it and lifted her right hand to wipe away the stray locks of hair that had fallen before her eyes.

Here, let me get that… a memory said soft, deep and warm with love, causing her to freeze for a moment with her lathered hand held up to her messy dark honey hair while foam dripped down her forearm unnoticed. For a second she could almost feel the whispery soft touch of his fingertips across her brow before she blinked and the feeling was gone. Lowering her hand she once again glanced at the clock noticing the time and feeling icy tendril squirm through her stomach like unwanted echoes.

Soon… 1… 2… 3… 4… and it would all be over again. That fraction of time when her world had changed forever: when the deep baritone laughter that had filled the little apartment had ceased to exist. Only mere seconds left to countdown until ghosts stood at her door once more, dressed in blue and wearing expressions that told her everything before a single syllable had passed their lips.

The clock grew unbearably loud as it echoed the numbers in her head, the sound causing her to hold her breath while she awaited the knock that had brought her the news, the end of her life as she had known it.

1… 2… 3… 4… and the instant passed, the clock moved on, the world continued to thrive outside her window as if nothing had ever happened and she found herself exhaling a ragged breath as she once again made it past that time. Only now she wondered how many more days like this she would go through before the clock stopped counting it out, before the shadows stopped coming to the door, before she forgot the comforting sound of his voice?

Winners from

Challenge #4

Fairytale Re-write

2,500 words or less..

Prizes

1st Place -- 50,000 credits

2nd place -- 30,000 credits

3rd place -- 20,000 credits

Contestant #010         CLAIMED               1st Place

I'll tell you one thing: It isn't easy being a wolf. A little background information about me: I was born in the Dark Woods, and lived there pretty much all of my early life. I grew up with my brothers and sisters, romping and playing together all through the trees, so it came as no surprise to anyone that knew me when I decided to go to the local university and even considered settling down and make a living for myself there once I had graduated.

Anyway, it's about here my tale begins. I graduated from Wolf College in the spring of '03 with honors. I could have done anything I wanted with my life, or so I was told. The problem was, I didn't know what I wanted to do. So, I decided to get a job that would allow me to see the world and maybe help me figure out what I wanted to do with my life. And thus began my career as a door to door salesman.

I know. I know. You're thinking to yourself, what in the world is a wolf doing as a door to door salesman? Well, I'll have you know I was pretty darned good at it! Remember Jack? You know, the kid with the beanstalk? Well, who do you think sold him those beans? Yes, I'll admit I had to disguise myself pretty good to make that sale, and all I got was a lousy, underfed cow for the trade, but I still made the sale! Besides, I was able to fatten the cow up a bit and sell it to some cat with a fiddle. He said he was going to train it to jump over the moon or something. Not my business really, but it was another sale nonetheless! I was making quite the living! If you wanted something sold, I was your man... I mean wolf!

That's when my luck turned sour. I was out in the east country peddling some wares when I came upon this house made of straw. The name on the mailbox said L. Pig. I decided this was as good a place as any to start, so I went up to the door and knocked.

"H-hello?" came the voice from inside.

"Little pig, little pig," I said beginning my sales pitch, "let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you."

The little pig, obviously unused to sales calls replied, "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!"

Just as I was about to reply, I felt a tickle in my nose. I suddenly remembered I was allergic to hay! Oh, dear! I huffed and I puffed, and did my best to stifle the sneeze, but to no avail. With a mighty, "ACHOO!" I let fly. The poor pig's house was leveled. I tried to apologize profusely, but the little pig was already running away squealing. What a rotten start!

Well, I thought trying to keep my spirits up, there is always the next house. Funnily enough, the next house I came to also had a mailbox with the name L. Pig on it. However, this house looked to be made of some sort of wood rather than straw. That was a relief! I walked up the path to the door and knocked.

"H-hello?" came a timid voice from inside which sounded suspiciously like the first little pig's whose house I had accidentally knocked down. My eyebrow arched slightly, but I pressed on with my pitch.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" came the reply.

That sounded strangely familiar. "Say, you wouldn't be related to that chap in the straw house, would you?" I asked. "I really want to apol-" but just at that moment, a piece of straw from the first house, which had attached to my clothes, got caught in a small gust of wind and sailed right up my nose! I huffed and I puffed madly, trying my best to stop my nose from a repeat performance of my previous sales call, but before I knew it, I erupted with a mighty, "ACHOO!" and the house made of twigs crumbled before me.

Through watering eyes, I attempted to apologize. "Wait!" I cried. "Wait! I'm sorry! I'll pay for that! Really I will!" But it was too late. I saw not one, but two little pigs high-tailing it away from the scene. Can't say I blame them really. I wouldn't want to hang around a
menace with hay fever such as myself either if all I was going to do was knock down people's houses.

Grumbling, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and began making my way down the road again in hopes to make up for this rotten day with a successful sales call at the next house. I read the name on the mailbox and my eyes narrowed suspiciously: L. Pig.

"Just what the heck is going on here?" I wondered out loud to myself.

Sighing in resignation, I walked up the path to the house. This one was made out of bricks and looked to be much sturdier then the other two houses. I brushed at my clothing, trying to appear presentable, then walked up to the door and knocked.

"Hello?" came a rather bold sounding voice from behind the door. Well at least that was different.

"Little pig, little pig," I said, though with a little less heart than the previous two times, "let me in. I have some lovely wares to show you!"

"Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" came the by now overly familiar reply.

I sighed deeply and dropped my bag of goods heavily to the ground in despair. However, as it fell, it stirred up a cloud of dust so thick, it nearly blotted out the sun. I could feel the sneeze welling up inside of me. Oh, drat! I huffed and I puffed in an attempt to clear my nose and spare the pig in the brick house the fate of the other two, for I thought surely the force of the sneeze I felt building up would be enough to level even this fine structure.

"ACHOO! ACHOO! ACHOO!"

Well the good news, good listeners, is that the sneeze cleared away the cloud of dust surrounding me. That and the fact that the house was still standing gave me a glimmer of hope that this sale might be redeemed. However, when I looked, my bag of wares was nowhere to be seen. Could anything else go wrong this foul day? I cursed and I swore loudly, searching franticly for the bag. I looked low and high and then I spied it. Well part of it. The bag had blown all the up on the roof and wedged itself in the house's brick chimney. Muttering darkly, I climbed onto the roof to retrieve it. Just as I reached it, the bag slipped and went tumbling down into the darkness. I stared, dumbfounded, for several minutes before deciding I would have to go down and retrieve it.

Gritting my teeth, I clambered into the chimney and began crawling down. I was almost near where my bag had fallen, when suddenly, my grip on the wall slipped and I tumbled downward at high velocity. I landed with a splash in a large pot of water. It only took a minute for me to realize that a fire had been lit under the pot and the water was nearing its boiling point! This was too much!

With a howl of alarm and pain, I shot back up the chimney, leaving my bag of goods behind! I jumped off the roof and high tailed it away from there as fast as my legs would carry me. I ran all the way back to the Dark Woods, where I still reside to this day.

I haven't gone back into the door to door salesman business, although I hear there is an elderly lady with granddaughter that dresses in red all the time that doesn't live too far away. I wonder if she might be interested in a new nightgown or some spectacles. Well, I don't guess it could hurt to ask. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

The End.

Contestant #009           CLAIMED            2nd Place

Once, a long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived three beautiful princesses. These princesses were known to be the most beautiful in all the land. The eldest had jet-black hair, the palest and smoothest skin, and the most beautiful rosy lips. The middle sister radiated joy and beauty, even though she was often covered in a thin layer of dirt from time spent with her animal friends. The youngest had a voice unmatched and filled her family's world with sunshine. The Three Little Princesses were known as Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora.

The three girls were constantly plagued by jealous witches, evil stepmothers (Why does our father marry so badly? the three girls often wondered), and horrendous beasts. After almost being cooked alive by a sweets-obsessed old maid, Snow White finally proposed a solution.

"Sisters," she said, "Let's move away from here for a while. We can set up small kingdoms of our own and be free of these awful evils." The two younger sisters agreed, and the trio set out into the countryside.

Snow White was passing a beautiful meadow when she spotted a crystalline lake, complete with jumping fish and waving cattails. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here, and build it quickly so I can go swimming in the lake!" The workers built as quickly as they could, and Snow White soon had a dinky castle made of uneven stones and weak wood. She didn't care, however; she was soon splashing and playing in the perfect clear water of the lake.

The second sister, Cinderella, traveled a bit farther until she found a spot she liked. She caught sight of a sunlit clearing in the middle of a picturesque stand of ancient redwoods. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here, and build it quickly so I can bask in the beautiful sunlight and lay on the perfect green grass!" The workers built as quickly as they could, and Cinderella soon had a leaning castle on a pathetic foundation of shifting sand. She didn't care, however; she was soon dozing in the sunshine with not a care in the world.

The youngest of the Three Little Princesses, Aurora, traveled much farther than the other two sisters. She was determined to find the absolute perfect spot for her new home. Finally, she found a spot that filled her with joy. The trees were tall and strong, the grass was plush and green, and the water of a nearby stream gurgled happily in its course through the meadow. "Stop, stop!" she cried to her many servants and workers, "Build my castle here!"

As much as Aurora wanted to explore her new haven, she knew that if she made sure her castle was perfect it would pay off in the end. Aurora found the flattest and strongest part of the meadow for her foundation. She picked only the hardest rocks and strongest wood, and hired the best architect in the land. Finally, she supervised the digging of a deep moat. This may save me someday, she thought.
As Aurora worked on her castle, trouble approached Snow White's minuscule domicile. An evil witch, jealous of the sisters' wealth and beauty, appeared beneath the eldest princess's tower.

"Little girl, little girl, you'd better come down!" she yelled violently.

"Not by the jewels on my crowny crown crown!" Snow White replied from the safety of her tower.

The queen scowled. "Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you girl down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the tiny castle. The building promptly collapsed, and Snow White barely escaped. She ran as fast as she could to Cinderella, who had just finished building her flimsy house.

The witch was not far behind. Upon arriving at Cinderella's house, she once again looked up at the princesses hiding in the tower.
"Little girls, little girls, you'd better come down!"

"Not by the jewels on our crowny crown crowns!"

"Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you both down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the leaning castle. The building promptly collapsed, and Snow White and Cinderella barely escaped. They ran as fast as they could to Aurora, who was just putting the finishing touches on her deep, murky moat. The three girls hurried up Aurora's tall, sturdy tower.

The witch arrived. "Little girls, little girls, you'd better come down!"

"Not by the jewels on our crowny crown crowns!"

"Then I'll brew, and I'll spell, and I'll CURSE you all down!" And the witch sent a great curse at the castle. The Three Little Princesses trembled with fear, but the witch's curse did not even reach them. "The moat!" Aurora exclaimed. "Her curses can't reach us because the moat is too wide!" The witch sent curse after curse hurtling toward the tower, but none reached even halfway across the moat. The witch soon became tired. With a shrill shriek, she conjured a cauldron and began mixing a bubbling green potion. "I'll get you, my pretties!" the witch screeched, her green face grimacing to show yellow teeth.

All three princesses knew that the widest moat in the land could not protect them from the witch forever. The Three Little Princesses hung their heads in despair as they thought of the evil witch outside.

Suddenly, a small ball of light fluttered into the room. As the princesses stared in amazement at the glowing orb, it gradually grew until it became a squat lady holding a bulging burlap sack. She had poofy white hair and wore a dark blue dress. She had her face and arm stuck in the large bag, out of which quarters and teeth flew haphazardly. "Wand, wand, where's my wand..." the lady mumbled into the sack. The princesses were shocked into frozen silence.

"Ah!" the lady exclaimed as she found her missing tool. "So sorry for the delay; it's football season and I've been so busy. Anyway, pleased to meet you, I am The Tooth Fairy. Fairy Godmother is in Jamaica with The Genie of the Lamp this week, so I've taken her beat." The Tooth Fairy waddled to the window in the tower, frowning when she saw the evil witch below.

"Well girls," The Tooth Fairy said slowly, "I'm afraid I can't get rid of this witch for you. My magic is meant for teeth and quarters, not for potions and hexes. I can, however, protect you for at least a time." The Tooth Fairy pushed up her sleeves and pointed her wand at Snow White. She began reciting her spell:

"Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho!
It's off to work you go!
In seven small men, you'll find great friends,
But you're required to cook, clean, and sew."

Snow White slowly faded from view as The Tooth Fairy's spell sent her away. The Tooth Fairy turned toward Cinderella. She recited:

"Bibbiti! Bobbiti! Boo!
A pumpkin and a glass shoe!
It would be nice, to live with the mice,
Where step mom and stepsisters hate you."

Cinderella too slowly faded as she traveled to safety. Now only the youngest, Princess Aurora, was left in danger of the evil witch.
"Aurora," The Tooth Fairy said, "You are the hero of this story. Your strong castle and intelligent forethought held off the witch long enough for me to arrive. Because of your heroism, you will not have to work or live with hate as your sisters do." The Tooth Fairy prepared for her last spell, and recited:

"Nightingale, Nightingale,
Dozing beauty's fairy tale.
You fall asleep, a sleep too deep,
'Till wakened by charming male."

Aurora's eyes drooped as The Tooth Fairy's spell took hold. The Tooth Fairy smiled, and then shrank until she was only a glowing ball of light. She fluttered out of the tower, leaving the sleeping beauty to sleep in peace.

I expect you're wondering what happened to the Three Little Princesses in their new lives. Well those, my friends, are completely different stories.

The End

Once upon a time, a boy called Hansel and his sister Gretel lived with their
father and stepmother in a cottage near a forest.

I'm totally kidding on this one. Let's start over.

In the year 2040, Mattel started distributing a brand new toy for kids –
the Millennium Nanny. It was an extremely novel and exorbitant humanoid
mechanism that would fulfill the requirements and expectations of a real
Nanny: It could cook, clean, play and speak. The much sought-after gadget
even resembled a real human, apart from its silver metallic exterior. It was
instantly a hit upon release in the market, and when the motherless Henry
and Gretchen Parallel were given one by their father, the two adolescents
were immediately intrigued.

Henry Parallel adored the robot for the fact that it waited on him hand and
foot. He would sit in bliss for entire days, Millennium-Nanny bringing him
anything he needed, even helping him with his homework in such a way that he
would hardly have to think about anything at all. Gretchen Parallel,
however, did not love the robot for the material benefits that it brought
along, instead using it to learn about its various scientific properties,
spending hours speaking to and studying it, trying to work out exactly how
it was constructed. However, both the children were utterly grateful to
their father for purchasing the pricey gift.

Within the first week of receiving the Millennium-Nanny, the "family (as
they now called it)" went out for an early morning hike in the shrinking
woods nearby. They walked through the short pathways, trying to find a spot
where they would not be burdened by the endless amounts of tree cutters –
men who spent their lives destroying some of the only remaining resources on
the earth. At least, that was what Gretchen said they did. Henry thought he
knew better, telling her the trees will grow back.

"Sure, in a century." Gretchen responded.

"So?"

"So it'll be too late by then!" Of course, Millennium-Nanny broke the
two up before they really had the chance to start a tussle, their father
delighting that he could hand that responsibility to the humanoid.

Silently, the "family" made their way to a cliff which their father had
discovered several days earlier. "Isn't this just spectacular?" he
asked the children, moving to the side for better views. Henry nodded,
staring out at the tall buildings that rose into the heavens. Gretchen could
only frown, her eyes seeing only the sullen civilization that was once a
stunning landscape of earth. Suddenly, as she was contemplating the
destruction she saw, Gretchen lost her balance and slipped. Her brother –
always the more athletic one – grabbed onto her instantly, but she still
found herself hanging over the edge, holding onto her brother's hand for
dear life. It was then that she saw something that terrified her deeply.

The Millennium-Nanny was standing behind her brother, leaning over the
endangered children. It did not do anything. Henry could not look behind at
the machine, but Gretchen couldn't help but notice something extremely
menacing in the face of the robot – and it wasn't doing anything to
salvage the situation! Finally, the kids heard a voice:

"Save them!" It was their father. The robot immediately reached out its
lengthening arm to the children, pulling them up with ease. Their father ran
to them. "What were you two thinking?" he asked, momentarily flustered.

"I'm sorry, Father," Henry answered, not meeting his eyes. "Gretchen
fell, so I grabbed onto her."
"Well, I suppose it's good that you did, and even better that Nanny was
around to save you both," their father responded with a thankful grin.
"Thanks, Nanny."

"You are welcome," the Millennium-Nanny answered in its robotic tone.

On the way home, Gretchen caught up with her brother. She held him back
until the two were fairly a distance from their father and Nanny, and then
began to speak to him. "Didn't you notice anything strange about
that?"

"Anything strange about what?"

"The Millennium-Nanny...Henry, it didn't save us."

"Yes she did."

"No, it didn't. I saw it. It didn't do anything until Father told it
to."

"She had just gotten there. She couldn't have done anything fast
enough."

"But it was there! Right behind you."

Henry rolled his eyes skeptically. "Well, it's not like she did anything
wrong. She can't execute unless instructed."

"That's where you're wrong. Millennium-Nannies are robots, and
therefore are made to follow Asimov's three laws of robotics! Robots
can't allow humans to come to any harm, don't you understand?"

"But she didn't attempt to hurt us!"

"Exactly! It didn't stop us from getting hurt, either. Something is
definitely wrong."

"You shouldn't be calling Nanny "It", Gretchen." With that, Henry
ran ahead to catch up with the rest of the "family".

The subsequent week the "family" had made plans to go hiking again; only
this time their father was unable to join them. "Run along with Nanny,"
he told them. Henry was excited. Gretchen, nonetheless, was unnerved. When
they had made it into the woods, Gretchen noticed that they were using a new
route, and that with every step, they were finding fewer and fewer tree
cutters. "Perhaps we should stay closer to home," she suggested, but the
Millennium-Nanny told her not to worry, claiming to know the way back.

Within the following hour, the trio was lost in the forest.

Nanny told the children, "I will return in an hour. I am going to try
finding a tree cutter and ask for directions. Do wait here kids."

Time trickled by slowly and soon, an hour had passed but the children were
still alone.

"Oh no!" Henry cried, aghast. "She's lost us! Nanny's lost us!"
Only Gretchen did not think they had been lost. She knew they had been left
alone deliberately.

"Don't worry," she told her brother. "Let's just look for the tree
cutters. There's always some around." They walked through the forest,
attempting to retrace their steps, but couldn't seem to find any other
human being.

"We should have just stayed where Nanny left us. She's probably
frantically looking for us right now," Henry complained.

"It's probably at home with father, saying we ran away, actually,"
Gretchen retorted, rolling her eyes.

"It's your entire fault for not trusting Nanny! She'll be so
worried-"

"Henry! Stop calling it that. Stop acting like it cares about us! It's
only a robot, it's not Mother!"

Henry stopped arguing and hung his head, despondence in the air. Gretchen
sighed. "Look, if anybody is worried about us right now, it's Father.
But if he isn't able to find us, we'll have to figure our way out.
Let's just try looking for the tree cutters."

The siblings continued walking through the course of the entire night, but
did not succeed in finding their way home, or even hearing the sounds of
tree cutters. It was nearly daylight when Henry heard a noise that sounded
like drilling. The children followed the sound that was thought to be coming
from the tree cutters, and found themselves facing a large building.

"It's a factory!" Gretchen whispered in astonishment.

"Well then, let's enter-"

"No! Don't be silly...what if it's not the tree cutters? What if
it's something different?"

"Then I guess we're up to find out."

"Henry, don't be ridiculous!"

"Let's just get a tad bit closer, alright?"

Gretchen reluctantly followed her brother nearer to the factory. Within
close proximity, Henry peeked into the crack of a small window, and an
excited look dawned upon his face. "Gretch- it's a Millennium-Nanny
factory!" Gretchen stared at him in disbelief. "Here, check it out for
yourself." She did as told and what greeted her was a sight of utter
incredulity. Millions of tables were arranged with machine parts to make the
Nannies, accompanied by huge walls lined with instruments. "Let's go in
and take a look!" her brother told her, and before she could stop him,
Henry was already knocking at the front door. By the fifth-nanosecond, the
door swung open.

One of the Nannies was at the door, and as soon as it saw the children, it
grabbed them with its long arms. It carried the two under its strong grip,
and while Gretchen screamed and struggled for help, all she saw was the look
of hysteria on her brother's face. She had known! She had known how
dangerous the machines were, and how they weren't to be trusted, but he
didn't believe her. The robot finally dropped them in a small, empty room.

"Wait here," it instructed, and Gretchen did not have the nerve to fight
back. In fact, she had almost expected her brother to complain, or try doing
something courageous, but he looked far too afraid to retaliate either.
After a few minutes of silent waiting, a new Millennium-Nanny entered the
room. Only this Nanny was different from the rest. Instead of being the
usual silver color, it was a shining glorious gold.

"Who are you?" it asked. Gretchen was stunned by how human its voice
sounded. She replied,

"I'm Gretchen and this is Henry, my brother."

"Why are you here?"

"We got lost in the forest. Please, you have to take us home!" Henry begged
in a useless plea. Abruptly, the Millennium-Nanny broke into a sinister
laugh, shattering the night's serene.

"We have never had children trespassed. You will not leave. You will work."
Before Gretchen could respond by asking what exactly the machine had meant,
more of the silver ones entered the room, grabbing her brother away from
her. He was carried out the door.

"What is going to happen to him?" She cried.

"What do you think? He will work for us. So will you." The machine laughed,
making Gretchen shudder.

"What is this place?"

"This is the Millennium-Nanny factory, as I am sure you've already figured
out. I am the leader here."

"You can't be. The head of Mattel should be in charge-"

"He was, or used to. We fixed that." Gretchen's eyes widened with
trepidation.

"You aren't going to harm us, are you?"

"You will work. Work is what children are good enough for."

"Children are good for many things!"

"Children are useless."

"Children grow into adults," Gretchen responded, folding her arms.

"Yes. That is the second problem." Gretchen eyed the machine cautiously.
"Children will not grow up. They will be destroyed by us. There will be no
adults."

"And certainly no humans!"

"You finally understand." Moments after the conversation, Gretchen was
chained to the machine, and was forced to do all the jobs it didn't want to.
She was the one cleaning all the parts of the Millennium-Nannies. Stark
realization hit her - she discerned they were not made to help humans, but
were targeted to destroy them - not only a few, but the entire human race.
It would only be several years before every household owned a Nanny, and
when that happened, everything would be over. She could only wonder what was
going to happen to Henry, but she knew it wouldn't be any good. It was her
and not him, after all, whom the head Nanny had chosen to aid in their work.
By the dead of that night, Gretchen was not only fearful, but she realized
that after the entire episode, she was extremely athirst. Her thirst though,
gave her a brilliant idea.

"Excuse me?" she asked the robot which she was chained to. "I know you don't
want to hear this, but since I am only human, I need some water."

"The only water source lies at the pond."

"May I go?" The Nanny considered the question.

"That is only if I accompany you." The Nanny led Gretchen to a pond
surrounded by heavy forestry.

"I will need a cup to drink from." The Nanny quickly handed her a cup that
seemed to appear magically from nowhere. But Gretchen did not drink.
Instead, she dipped the cup into the small bit of water and tossed it back
up into the air, hitting the golden Millennium-Nanny square in the face. It
was then that the machine did something Gretchen had expected - it set
itself on fire. Luckily, the connection between the two was only a rope's
distance, and the fire quickly burned it, setting Gretchen free. She
immediately escaped unscathed, running back to the factory. The other
Nannies were still working, completely in oblivion to the fact that their
master had been destroyed. Gretchen knew that the only way to save her
brother would be dumping water over all the robots, but there was no time.
She peered at the cup in her hand. There were only a few drops of water
left. Looking to the right, Gretchen saw a switch with the words: On/Off.
Holding the remaining water, she splattered it on the switch, setting it on
fire. Immediately, every Nanny in the room short circuited and ceased
working.

"Henry!" She cried, and her brother ran to join her. The two escaped from
the building at breakneck speed.

"What do we do now?" he asked when they had slowed down.

"Let's try asking for some directions." They walked for hours and did not
find any tree cutters. Though stopping by the river did find them something
different.

"Who's there?" a disheveled-looking man asked. Neither spoke up. Gretchen
could not help feeling proud of her brother for learning not to trust
strangers. Of course, he'd had many opportunities to learn this in the
past little while. Finally, Gretchen answered:

"You tell us first."

"I am George Archet." A light went off in Gretchen's head.

"You're the head of Mattel!"

"I was, once. It was taken over, and now I am finished, living alone in this
forest. So close to civilization, yet far from home."

"It's alright. We just saved the factory. Well actually, we destroyed it,
along with the robots too, so everything's fine," Gretchen told him,
getting closer. He eyed her in disbelief, but her nodding made him trust
her.

"Really?"

"Yes!" He grinned.

"Well, I suppose that's alright, then."

"Can you take us to the tree cutters?" Henry finally asked him.

"I would take you straight home, if you wish," George offered, and the kids
decided to take the offer - just this once. Before the night ended, the kids
arrived home, and after knocking on the door, their father - not Nanny, was
the one answering in tears. He immediately pulled them into a tight hug.

"Henry, Gretchen, I was so worried about you!" Gretchen responded by
breaking the hug quickly.

"Father, we need to get rid of it!"

"Yes, we need to get rid of Nanny!" Henry agreed. Their father chuckled.

"Actually, it's the funniest thing. Several hours ago, Nanny just stopped
working. The television happened to be on and it turns out that all the
Nannies stopped functioning simultaneously. Ironically strange, isn't it?"
Gretchen grinned brightly at her brother.

"Oh yes. It's all very strange indeed."

Happily parallel ever after? Probably.