King of the Recluse

[Meleta/Isoldaa]

ALLYA

Your story grabbed me from the first, dragged me in, and kept me there with your lovely descriptions, well-formed characters and realistic dialogue. Further, your storyline never really knocked me out of my immersion with any glaring errors in grammar, syntax or even plot holes throughout. This was a well-executed (no pun intended ) and well-polished piece overall.

AGRO

Of course, your characters are just as lively and brilliant as ever, and the dialogue moved the story along at fast, steady pace, as I imagine you intended. There were several places, however, where my immersion was thrown by errors in grammar/syntax - my inner editor was 'tsk tsking' at not a few spots. I also had a harder time understanding the motivation of Lauren to find Pollard in the first place; in the end, this felt more 'excerpt' from a larger story than a whole and finished piece on its own.

OVERALL

For providing a completely lovely and lovingly polished piece, (and for the demons! Yeah demons! ;D) my vote is for ALLYA[/i]

[Mena]

Do I have to make comments? Can I just vote?

Both were well written and intriguing but in the end I absolutely adored Allyas.

Allya has my vote.

[Allya]

Wow thanks!

New Topic: Psychological Horror

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

In Sleep

“Hello, Ms. Peyton? Michelle? Can you hear me? Yes, well, my name is Doctor Reed. How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Saint Francis Hospital. Do you remember how you got here?”

“I . . . Why can’t I see!? Why am I tied down!? What’s going on?!”

“Michelle, I need you to calm down. There has been an incident and we had to restrain you both for our and your own safety. But before we get into that, I need you to try to answer some questions; we need to know how much you remember. Can you do that?”

“I . . . I can try. Can you at least take the blindfold off?”

“They are bandages, Ms. Peyton, and it wouldn’t be advisable. Calm down. Here, have some water you have to be thirsty. . . There, feel any better?”

“Not really. What happened to my face?”

“Is there much pain?”

“Some, yeah. When I talk.”

“Then maybe just listen for a moment. Five days ago you were brought into the ER with multiple lacerations on your face and hands. Our tests show dangerously high levels of amphetamines in your blood stream. A pretty exotic cocktail, in fact. It’s a wonder you survived that alone.

“You were violent and mostly incoherent. You managed to injure a security guard, two EMTs and a surgical resident. Two of them got stitches, one is on a regimen of antibiotics and one is scheduled for surgery next Tuesday as a result of their efforts to save your life.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t remem. . .”

“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Michelle?”

“What?”

“When was the last time you slept? Took a nap?”

“I don’t know . . . Why?”

“Because while you were screaming and struggling, biting and clawing and cutting with your stolen razors those good people who were trying to help you, the only intelligible thing anyone could get out of you was the words, `Can’t sleep.’ You’ve been here in this ICU for five days now, detoxing. No one has seen you sleep, not once. You’ve been conscious the whole time, Ms. Peyton, yet this is the first time you’ve been lucid enough to communicate with.

“Now, I’m going to be frank with you Michelle. When medical personnel are injured on the job because of some manner of accident, we typically chock it up to bad luck. When our staff is injured on the job because some junkie OD’s and attacks them without cause or provocation, people get upset. You may have ended a promising young student’s surgical career, did you know that? Severe nerve damage on his right hand. He may never regain full control of all of his fingers. He would really like to know why.”

“I already said I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I can’t think.”

“You don’t bear any of the trademark characteristics of a long-time drug abuser, so this was probably a first time binge. Am I right? Near as we can figure, you pumped yourself up with a mixture of every thing you could get your hands on with the intention of deliberately avoiding sleep. Does any of that sound familiar? The question is, `Why?’”

“. . .”

“Still nothing? We haven’t operated on your face yet, you know. Haven’t been able to, you wouldn’t stop thrashing long enough and now that you’re in our care, sans insurance of course, we can’t risk sedating you with all the other chemicals in your system. It could kill you. . . You’re shaking. Are you cold? Do you need a blanket?”

“No. I’m fine . . . It’s like I can almost . . . Just now I felt this sinking in my stomach. Like, I suddenly remembered something frightening. I can’t quite picture it.”

“I see. Now, Ms. Peyton, I need you to relax, and try to stay calm. I’m going to go over with you some of the details of the evening you were brought in as reported by those who were there.

“Around 9:30pm the security guard at Target, the one who found you, got a report of a young lady shoplifting. That, allegedly, was you. A customer reported seeing you take an item from a shelf and enter the Lady’s restroom. The security guard, not wanting to upset other customers and knowing there was no other way out waited outside the restroom for you to exit.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“Uhm. After about ten minutes, he says, another woman entered the restroom and immediately exited in a panic. She insisted he take action.

“Now, Ms. Peyton, this next part is going to be hard to listen to. I want you to brace yourself.”

“O . . .kay, I . . . Alright. Can I have some more water first?”

“Of course. Here. I’m going to take another blood sample while we talk to check your levels. You’ll feel a pinch

“The guard says he entered the restroom to find the shoplifter, `slicing her own face in the mirror with a stolen package of Bic refills.’”

“What?! Ow!”

“Hold still. Now, here comes the hard part. Judging by your wounds, the best we can guess is that your drug-addled obsession to stay awake led you to the conclusion that the best way to not sleep would be to remove your own eyelids. And you were not wholly unsuccessful.”

“I did what? Why would I . . . I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Here’s a pan, there you go. Feel any better? Didn’t think so, poor girl. The guard called 9-1-1 as soon as he saw what you were doing and tried to restrain you until the ambulance arrived. You cut him pretty bad.”

“How bad?”


“He’ll be alright, six stitches on his arm. He’ll be back to work by now I’d guess.”

“What about me? How bad is it?”

“Let me see, here. Your left eye is badly damaged. Severe corneal trauma. You chart says you may never see out of that eye again. The other seems to be in better shape, but unless we can get you into surgery in the next day or two, the damage there may be irreparable as well. You won’t be blind, but you won’t be able to see like you used to.

“There, now. Try not to cry, it’ll probably hurt more. I know there’s really no good way to hear this; there’s really no good way to tell it. Michelle, try to breathe, with me; in . . . out . . . in . . . out. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen, which is why I really want to know . . .”

“Why I can’t sleep?! Why I won’t sleep?! I remember . . . Sort of. There’s something in there.”

“Something in where?”

“In my sleep. In all our sleeps.”

“Michelle, forgive me, I don’t understand. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. I know! But it’s real, you have to believe me. Cody told me about it, Cody saw it first.”

“Who is Cody? A friend? Boyfriend? Should we call him?”

“We were talking about strange dreams that we’ve had, back when we were kids and stuff, and Cody starts talking about this one he had had recently. It wasn’t the dream that was strange, it was a thing in the dream. It was out of place, even for a dream, like it didn’t belong there.”

“What was it? Did he say?”

“I need more water . . . Thanks. He said it was like a bird, kind of. Like a bird without a body, just two wings joined at the middle. Kind of like a boomerang, or . . . Or like when you’re a kid and you draw birds but they’re just like flying `m’s.”

“Ok, I can sort of picture that. But what’s important about that?”

“Because I had seen it too, I just never noticed it. As soon as he mentioned it, I knew I’d seen it before. And then he told me about the sound; like a flag in a heavy wind. Like a really fast `snapsnapsnapsnapsnap’. Sorry, I can’t make the sound right without moving my arms. But you know what I’m saying?

“I saw it in my own dreams that same night. It had a leathery cast to it, all fleshy and flexible, but with no joints. And completely colorless. I’d say it was grey, like raincloud grey, except that isn’t quite right. It was almost like it blended in with the rest of the dream, always there but not quite right. And then, every time I’d try to focus on it, it’d dart off to the corner of my vision; snapsnapsnapsnapsnap.”

“I’m trying to picture it.”

“Don’t! That’s what I did. That’s how I noticed it, and that’s when it noticed me. When I started looking for it I suddenly saw it everywhere. In all of my dreams, like it just passed through doorways or windows between them and was always there, in the corner of my sight.”

“ . . . And you said your friend Cody has seen this too? That he told you about it and this is why you refuse to sleep?”

“No. I can’t sleep because Cody is dead. I remember now. The very next morning, the morning after he told me, Cody didn’t wake up. He just died in his sleep. Check your records, they probably brought him here.”

“I’ll . . . Look into it.”

“What was that? That pause?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I was reading your chart.”

“No you weren’t. I didn’t hear any papers rustling like every other time. You were thinking about it. You’ve seen it, too. Or at least think you have. That’s how it happens. That’s how it was with me. I thought I’d seen it, I thought it sounded familiar; and then it was there, everywhere. Part of every thought, and still completely out of place.”

“Michelle, I’m going to step away for a moment, see about running these samples. If your levels are good I’d like to try to help you get some rest.”

“No! Can’t sleep!”

“Settle down, Ms. Peyton. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Doctor Reed, listen to me. Don’t sleep, don’t make me sleep. It’ll be there. It’ll be there in your sleep! It knows you know; if you look it will find you. If you sleep you’re dead.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“If you sleep you’re dead! If you sleep you’re dead . . . What’s that noise? Doctor? Doctor Reed? Someone? What’s that noise? Oh, God . . . Please? Someone?! Wake me up! Someone wake me up! Please, wake me up!"

[Allya]

Dearest Angie,

It is a strange thing, the death of a parent. It’s something that most know will happen but I suspect few are prepared for. I know that I was not. When I received the call on that chill December morning in 1975 I was still in my bedroom slippers, puffing smoke out the cracked window of my third floor apartment and half listening to the morning news. After hanging up with my mother’s neighbor I sat dazed at my kitchen table, the half-smoked cigarette still smoldering forgotten on the window ledge.

She hadn’t been sick, my mother. Though perhaps she had and chose not to tell me. She had always been a private woman who would soak in the details of your world without spilling the colors of hers. Speaking with her had always left me feeling lighter as though she pulled my burdens out through my mouth and kept them firmly locked in her unseen vault. I wondered then if burdens and secrets die with those who carry them. I believe that in that early morning I decided that they must, but silently hoped they did not.

In the following days I learned of her cancer and of her tight-lipped battle against the unseen foe. I was hurt she hadn’t told me but not surprised. She was never one for pity. Too often she had seen friends who had lost themselves to the pity of others, forgetting who they were before the sickness took them. She often said that illness and great wealth caused similar problems. Both caused one to be surrounded by false smiles and false friends. It made sense that she would wish to avoid such things.

That Friday she was interred beside my father in the family mausoleum, a leftover from a wealthier and more colorful past. Generations of my family rest within the stone walls constructed by a mourning husband in the late 1800s. It is a place I rarely visit though we had buried my father there five years prior. The old stone whispers of permanence and the empty spaces of inevitability, two things I have endeavored to avoid in my life at all costs.

It wasn’t until Saturday, with my mother buried and the shadows of the mausoleum fading from my thoughts, that I grasped the key to my mother’s apartment and firmly turned the lock. I rushed inside and quickly shut the door behind me to keep the bluster of winter at bay. Slipping my boots and gloves off, I hung my coat by the door and steeled myself for the long day ahead.

As I walked in from the foyer I found my mother’s home as it had always been, tidy. She had a place for everything and everything was in its place. It was strange to know that my job was now to sift these things, measure their value, and determine their fate. I felt grossly unworthy of such a role but there was no one else. Resigned, I flipped the radio on, tied my hair into a loose bun, and set to work.

For the next few hours I worked my way through the house starting with the kitchen and bathrooms before moving on to more personal rooms. It was the end of the day before I found myself in the room I had been subconsciously avoiding, her bedroom. My mother had always been so private and it felt like an intrusion to walk into that room and prepare to root through her most personal things.

Steeling my nerves, I sucked in a deep breath, and charged headlong to where I thought I’d find the most personal items, her closet. Surveying the perfectly organized space I spied what was sure to be the last earthly vestiges of my mother’s hopes, thoughts, and dreams. There, on the top shelf, shoved in the far right corner, sat an old striped hat box with the edges well frayed. I reached up and could barely grasp it with the tips of my fingers but after a few precariously balanced moments I managed to worm it from its home.

I sat on the bed with the box in front of me for quite some time. Had anyone seen me they surely would have laughed for there I sat with fingers trembling in fear and excitement while staring at a worn-out hat box. With cautious hands I lifted the lid and peered into her box of memories.

There were many things in there that seemed nothing like her. I saw pictures of her smiling and laughing in a way that seemed almost alien to the face I knew. There were letters from men I’d never heard her speak of and mementos from places I’d never known she’d been. There were poems written in her hand though I’d never known her to write. I noticed through all of this that neither my father nor I were in these pictures, poems, or memories. It was as though she had lived another life and kept it shut up neatly in her old striped box.

There was however, one thing in the box I recognized. A small black velvet box sat in one corner and I opened it to find the broach my mother wore everyday. It was a very ornate, antique-looking piece with a large blue sapphire set in the middle of scrolling silver and gold. I had never seen her without it so, thinking back, I suppose I should have noticed that it was not pinned to her before burial. Thinking perhaps she had wanted me to have it, I pinned it just above my heart and reached for the lid of the hat box.

My fingertips never met the well-worn edges of that striped lid. Instead they raced to my chest where I felt a sudden stabbing pain. It was endlessly excruciating and my clawing fingers seemed powerless against the pain. I hopped up from the bed and raced to the mirror in the adjacent bathroom, hoping to find the cause in my reflection. I forced my hands away from the spot even as the pain grew more intense so that I could see the wound. I was sure the pain must be clouding my vision because all I saw when I removed my hands was my mother’s broach pinned neatly to my shirt. There was no blood or marks of any kind radiating through my shirt. But a moment’s glance was all I had because the pain grew too strong and caused me to faint.

I slept all night on that bathroom floor clutching my breast in panicked dreams. Subconsciously I still registered the pain. I felt the fire radiate out from my chest and move through my veins kissing tip and toe. My mind pounded in agony. It felt like razors were clawing through the deepest parts of me and leaving pieces that didn’t fit in their wake. My heart raced and I felt my body writhing on the floor, helpless to intervene. I was a prisoner in my own body and in the wee hours of dawn I found myself simply begging for the torture to end.

It did end. I estimate that I lay on that floor for approximately twelve hours. I awoke bathed in sweat and trembling from exhaustion. I was disoriented and confused but more than either of these, I was afraid. Immediately I wanted to remove the broach, sure now that it was the cause of all my troubles. I stood up, looked in the mirror, and moved my hands to my chest to unpin it.

Only they didn’t move. My hands still lay at my sides instead of listening to my command to remove the broach. Then I watched in horror as my legs turned me around and walked me out of the bathroom. They sat me back on the bed and my hands reached for the hat box lid, placing it securely back on the box. I then scooted to the edge of the bed and placed my hands on my lap.

I know this sounds odd, Angie. How could I not be in control of my own body? But I wasn’t and so I began to wonder just who or what was. That was when I found him, my stowaway. The razors from the night before had made a place for the interloper deep within my mind. From there the fire had stretched throughout my body and burned new pathways, new connections for control of my vessel. I had become an unwilling spectator to what had been my own life.

I had so many questions and I knew no way to ask. My mouth was no longer my own. So I thought my questions as strongly and clearly as I could, hoping against hope that the interloper would answer. There were so many things I wanted to know but I started with one question which I repeated over and over in my mind: What?

After a moment I felt an answer. It was like seeing with no eyes. It was a vision, a memory, but it was not mine. I saw stars melt into beams of light and planets zoom in and out of view like passing cars. I passed through nebulas of colored fog and spent ages in the deepest black until finally I reached a planet of swirling blue, brown, and white. I recognized our home immediately but could not gaze for long.

I zoomed towards the Earth until the blue filled my vision and, as I felt the cool water lick my skin, I saw I was not alone. Millions of others like me dropped into the waters creating a sapphire sheen upon the ocean. I could hear them all. Some died immediately, others drifted far from me, and by the time I reached soil I was alone.

My next memory was of a slender brown-skinned girl reaching for me in the sand. As she placed me in the palm of her hand for examination I could feel the blood pulsing beneath me. I reached out with my body to taste it and felt the girl jump in surprise, dropping me back into the sand. I watched as she tore a piece of hide from her dress and reached down again to pick me up, careful not to touch me. I was placed in a bag with bits of stone and shell and carried back to her camp.

When I next saw light, I was being pulled from the bag by older hands. I beheld a woman of the same color as the one who had found me but visibly older and painted with strange colors. Her brown eyes flickered in the firelight as she examined me, turning me over and over. Finally, she placed me in her open hand as the younger girl had done. Once again sensing the blood, I reached out with my body to taste it. Finding it sweet I latched on and the process began.

My stowaway then showed me generation after generation of conquests, stretching through the ages. I felt like a weary time traveler stealing rides upon the backs of unwitting souls. One after another their lives paraded before me and I started to see a pattern.

I discovered that this new memory stretched beyond the experience of the interloper. He could see the memories of his hosts prior to his conquests. It was in these older memories that I saw the product of his transformation. These women were never the same after holding my stowaway. He controlled them and their lives moved to his beat. All that they were before became muted, drowned out by his strong presence. Even those they loved and married, for they all loved and married, were chosen by the interloper. His reasons were not love but rather continuity. He chose mates that would produce good hosts knowing that his current vessel would pass.

I continued to flit through the ages eventually coming to faces I recognized. I saw my great great grandmother, my great grandmother, my grandmother, and finally my mother. Suddenly the warm alien smiles emanating from the pictures in her hat-box made perfect sense. Those were her smiles. The smiles I had seen growing up were never hers, they were his. It was this realization that brought back the fear.

I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. Where was my choice? At this thought I once again felt the pain course through my body. I screamed and writhed upon the bed, crying and cursing the foul creature. It caged me in the pain and waited for my acquiescence. When I quieted, it released me and I sobbed silently because I understood. I was no longer the captain of my own ship. My body had mutinied and tied me to the mast. I would have a clear view of my journey but be powerless to control it.

Through the years I watched a life I wouldn’t have chosen. Angie, that isn’t to say I didn’t love your father, I did, but I cannot say I would have married him. And of course I loved you from the moment I brought you into this world. My heart ached to tell you. It wasn’t a bad life, but it wasn’t mine and over the years I grew to hate my new captain.

For awhile I wondered why my mother hadn’t warned me, why no one through the generations had been warned. Late at night when my body slept, I searched the old memories and discovered the reason. He left them within hours of their deaths. Too weak and frail to talk or move, none could give a warning. He knows he can live for weeks in the broach before death will claim him. It has always been enough.

By now you are surely wondering how it is I could give you this warning. You were always so very smart. It’s my belief that the powerful cancer drugs they use today tricked my captain into thinking that the shadow of death was death itself. He left me too early. I lay in the hospital bed and felt his talons release their hold. I was weak but I lifted hands now alien to me and clumsily moved them to unpin the broach. I wrapped it in a few tissues taken from the box on my side table and at my request the nurse will mail it to you a week after mailing this letter.

You see, dearest daughter, I wish to give you a choice. You will have the choice none of us had. Joining with this creature was terrible in so many ways but there were benefits as well. The things I saw, history, astronomy, cosmic answers, are things that the world should not be without. The cost was great and the method tortuous but the knowledge gained was immense.

I leave it to you, this terrible, wondrous legacy in the hopes that foreknowledge will give you a clearer path.

Please know that though my captain showed little emotion, you were loved every day.

Love Always,
Mom

***

Angie wept as she set down the letter and wondered over the words. Were these the ramblings of a dying and deranged woman or the first true things her mother had ever said to her? She had always been cold, just as she described her own mother in the letter. It was all so strange.

The packages had both arrived at the same time. Clearly the nurse had not listened to her mother. Luckily Angie had opened the letter first. She held the other envelope and turned it over in her hands, contemplating the contents. If what her mother had written were true then the envelope held great knowledge but the price was great pain.

It was laughter outside that pulled Angie from her circling thoughts. She looked up and saw her friends on the patio talking and smiling as they sipped on beer in the evening sun.

Angie set the unopened envelope on the counter and walked outside to join them.

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

Zovo:
Quite enjoyable and certainly fits the idea of psychological horror. The abrupt and harsh way that the doctor dealt with the patient worked well with their desperation and it gave it a good sense of hopelessness. I didn't notice any glaring mistakes and your writing was solid. The idea of not being able to sleep is certainly a good way to induce fear in a reader.

Allya:
Like Zovo your story fits the psychological horror theme well. Unlike Zovo's your didn't play much to the horror part in my opinion. Saying that I still really enjoyed it and the ending was rather refreshing compared to the standard "They're all fucked" that many horrors have. Again you didn't have an glaring mistakes and the writing was solid.

Overall:

While I certainly enjoyed Zovo's piece I found Allya's an original take on horror and although it didn't drive fear in to me, I still found the idea of losing control of yourself rather threatening. I vote for Allya!

[James]

Zovo:

Hmm. I’m torn here. I loved the approach of using only dialogue and therefore reflecting the blindness of the main character. It made us just as helpless as her. But, I think that also made it very hard to write a horror. Dialogue has limits no matter who’s the writer. Saying that, I think you actually did a very good job conveying some vivid imagery and fear through just a conversation alone.

My main problem with the piece is that I think I picked up on where the story was going very early on. So the tension and pacing felt a little off. The sudden moment where the character remembers and the panic sets in was diluted by the fact that I had already known that there was something clearly wrong with sight/sleep several paragraphs before hand.

Still, letting the reader worry about sleeping is always a foolproof ending.

Allya:

As someone who’s done the horror/letter/diary approach recently, I appreciate the format. I think it’s one of the best ways to tackle horror. But you didn’t go down the horror route so much. I mean, the concept was being a prisoner within your own mind is a good scary idea. But the letter could have reflected the horror of that situation better. We got a glance with it with that brilliant comparison to a ship’s mutiny, but that was it.

I’m not sure the cosmic element worked particularly well. Obviously, it was necessary to show why the story has happened. But I felt like it didn’t really go anywhere. The presence was there, but it was passive, we didn’t get any real motive for the alien. If anything the story was the inverse to your story; the alien seemed stuck just being a vehicle to the story while having no control itself.

Overall:

Hopefully, I won’t sound like a dick when I say that you two have both wrote a lot better than these entries. Both of these stories were good. But they didn’t grab me, they didn’t amaze me. Allya, I can remember your fairytale story vividly. Zovo, your Arena entry about the car crash sticks in my mind. Both of these current stories? I’m not sure if they’ll have the same lasting power.

So, yeah. I have to decide between two good, strong stories. But neither of them jumps out at me. I feel, though, for just capturing the psychological horror slightly better and for the clever use of dialogue only, I’m going to have to vote for:

ZOVO

[Meleta/Isoldaa]

I've read both of these, and if no one else is going to vote, I'll gladly put something in by the end of the day, and get this one judged. I just didn't want to put in something twice in a row, for two different king/queen judgments is all, seemed a bit... Greedy?

[Meleta/Isoldaa]

All righty then...

Technically, both of these stories were flawless, with nothing of obvious note in the way of grammar, punctuation, spelling or syntax to make me wince at any point, or make it easy to credit one above the other in that area.

In addition, they both had certain sections that smacked me right out of immersion, because all I could think in the back of my mind was, "Nobody would do or say that, ever." For Allya, it was the overly descriptive sections peppered throughout the letter Angela's mother wrote for her daughter. For Zovo, it was the overly judgmental attitude of the physician attending to the semi-psychotic/sleep-deprived young woman in his care who, in reality, he ought not be provoking in any way but attempting to calm.

Both had their good sections as well. I enjoyed Allya's use of a simple letter to allay something so fantastically improbable - and yet according to Angela's thoughts after she read it, entirely possible. Zovo's use of a conversation narrative kept the story going at a fast clip, and didn't relent until the very end.

So what I had to do was look up the different definitions of psychological horror, the many different examples of the genre in film and movies, and try to decide whose better fit the genre - only in my opinion, of course.

And so, by the narrowest of margins, I'd have to give my vote to Zovo

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

NEW TOPIC:

Children's Story

[Jenny (Reffy)]

The Squirrel and His Tree

"No, not quite … nearly … Yes!"

The largest pile of leaves near the biggest tree in the park explodes to reveal a small red squirrel with tufts of fluff for ears and a huge bushy tail.

"This has to be the one, yes-yes, it has to be."

Carefully he tucks the leaf into a small make-shift bag at his waist and scurries up the tree. The bag is only the size of a thimble and can barely contain the fragile leaf. Up and up he scurries until he finds the correct branch and with expert balance approaches the point on the tree at which a leaf, maybe the one he is carrying, fell off. With delicate hands and holding his breath he tries to place the leaf's stem back in the hole.

"It fits! It fits!" The squirrel sings out until half of animals in the park are looking in his direction. Feeling a little silly and being the youngest squirrel in the park he gets back to work not wishing to drawn attention to himself.

With his little paws and using some mud and a lot of spit he sticks the leaf back in the hole. The leaf stays where it's stuck. Happy with the job done he rushes off back to the ground to find the next leaf. "I'm pretty sure I saw a matching left for the nub on the tallest branch." He mutters as he goes.

The squirrel works for most of the day returning all of the tress missing leaves. He's forgotten about storing food for winter, which is approaching fast because he's too busy with his tree and it's missing leaves.

It is nearly dark by the time all of the fallen leaves are plastered back on to the tree with spit and mud. The worn out squirrel rests at the bottom of the tree; his tongue is blistered from all the spit required, his hands are numb, and his fur has seen better days.

He begins to fall asleep but something splats on to his head. Another something splashes just beyond his feet. With a jump and a yelp he opens his eyes. It's rain; rain is okay though, thinks the squirrel, after all, it can't be sunny all the time. Content he stays where he is and lets the rain come down around him.

A leaf falls. Then another. One more comes tumbling down before the squirrel notices … and panics! He rushes up the tree to try and bolster the mud and spit but nothing sticks any more. The mud has gone mushy and slick. It's not long before he's crying and shouting at the rain. "Silly rain! Stupid tree! Why am I the only one sticking them on again?!"

Exasperated he stops and yells until out of the gloom comes a deep voice. "Why do you cry?"

The voice is slow and heavy and scares the squirrel until he finds the orange eyes sitting high up in the tree. "Mr Owl. I've worked all day, long and hard, for weeks and months but now the leaves are falling again. I was only trying to repair my tree … my home and now it's all gone wrong!" He wails.

"What has gone wrong?" The owl replies a little unsure.

"My tree dropped all of it's leaves and I was trying to put them back! At first it was only a few leaves that fell but it became more and more. I had to do something so with spit and mud and a hope and a wish I stuck them back on! Now the rain has pulled all the leaves down again." The squirrel continues crying, wiping his eyes on his furry sleeves and wringing his hands with worry.

After much consideration to what the squirrel said, the owl replies, "Did you not know, Mr Squirrel? All trees like this drop their leaves every winter. Do you not remember winter last year? In the dark winter months the only trees with leaves were the pines and they have needles."

Still sobbing the squirrel merely shakes his head in reply.

The owl knows everything about the park; every nook and cranny. "Every year the leaves on this year, your tree, will turn brown and fall off," he explains carefully.

Squirrel believes the owl but he's still upset. "Will they ever come back?" His small voice barely carries up to the owl.

"Next year, yes," comes the slow and calm voice, "Good night, Mr Squirrel."

"Good night and thank you, Mr Owl." Squirrel yawns and stretches, it's hours passed his bedtime, then heads back up his tree. Once he's in bed he tells the tree that next year there will be new leaves and they will be much better than this year's bunch; much more green and leafy. With that thought still in his head, the squirrel goes to sleep. It really has been a long day.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Maple Time Machine

When I was a boy my family moved from the city to a small house in the suburbs. It was red with white trim, a one car garage, and a large bay window in the front room. In front of the garage was a slender driveway which sloped gracefully down to the street before the house. In front of the window was a wide open lawn; soft and lush and green. In the center of this lawn stood a tree.

This was my first glimpse of the house that was to be my home for years to come. I didn’t care much for the house. Once inside I didn’t care much for the kitchen, or the living room, or my bedroom which was nearly as large as our tiny apartment in the city. But I was enthralled by the tree.

I was six years old then, and I remember it being gigantic. Tall enough to rival the forest of skyscrapers from which I’d just moved, but infinitely more beautiful. I didn’t even finish unpacking my things before I set to exploring that tree. In the city there were few trees, and those you saw were small and tamed, cut back and shaped by men paid to keep them trimmed and shapely.

This great maple was none of those things. It was wild and free left alone to tower above the tiny dogwood in its shadow, branches springing haphazardly from the twin trunks according to whatever whim a tree might have. The bark was rough to the touch and painted your hands a dusty green when you held it. It was Spring when we moved in and the leaves, broad and flat were the greenest thing I’d ever seen, shimmering in the sunlight and whispering my name; calling me with their gentle wind-song.

I examined the tree from its base. Staring upward into the boughs the sky was invisible but for the occasional shard of sunlight or patch of blue glimpsed between the rustling leaves. The lowest branch, thick and sturdy, jutted out from the forked trunk nearly a foot above my head; but I was determined to climb. I could see through the bay window as my mother and father unpacked boxes, looking about as they did so and eventually setting my little brother to the task of finding me. I didn’t care.

I shoved my foot into the groin where the trunk made a Y and boosted myself aloft, arms wrapping nearly halfway around it. From there I reached out and gripped the lowest branch. I remember it felt different, smoother than the rest of the tree. Kicking my leg up nearly to the height of my head I wrapped it over the bough and hoisted myself up into a straddling position, facing the trunk. I remember smiling to myself, proud that I now sat higher than I normally stood. Higher than city-me had ever sat. Looking down from there, all six or seven feet in the air, would have been dizzying to my young mind. But I didn’t look down. My eyes were firmly focused on the next branch.

I heard my mother call out my name from inside. Ignoring her I disappeared into the foliage above.

That first year in the suburbs was one of discovery for me. I watched my tree go through an amazing transformation.

In the spring time when the leaves were green and damp, I would climb down after hours spent aloft soaked to the skin and covered in mossy dust and bark chips. In the summer, seeds would grow far off in the branches where I could not reach them. But when the winds came they would fall to the earth in a great helicoptering flurry, floating and drifting on the breeze. The most striking change, though, came with the autumn where the leaves, once so green and lush grew a shade of yellow, then orange. Red then brown and fell all about the yard, completely transforming the green grass to a field of discarded foliage.

I cried that first autumn. I told my father than the tree was dying and that it would have to be chopped down. I was devastated. I was new to the neighborhood and school wasn’t in session, so I hadn’t made any friends. That maple was all I had and it had left me. My father assured me that it was alright, and that the tree wasn’t dead, that it was only sleeping and would wake back up eventually. But as the days grew colder and darker and winter got closer I watched every last leaf drop to the muddy grass. I watched my father rake them and bag them and throw them away. I watched the branches grow dry and brittle with cold, bedecked with ice and snow. I knew for sure it had died.

Thankfully, the school year brought friends, Mike was in my class at school, Nicholas who was a year or two older and lived a couple houses down with his sister Mindy; everyone called her Mandy and she hated it. It didn’t make any sense. But with friends came distraction. Once I got over my tree’s slow death I began to invite others to climb. Another boy from the neighborhood, Charlie, visited regularly. We both found favorite places to sit on branches opposite each other on opposing trunks. When the snow came, we would haul snowballs up into the maze of sticks and twigs and hurl them at one another pretending we captained rival pirate ships. My mother would yell at us, claiming that we’d slip on the ice, fall and break our necks; which never happened.

But a pirate ship was only one of many fantastical transformations that tree underwent. Over time it was a rocket. It was a temple. It was a god. Once it was even a skyscraper. But none of those changes could rival the time I returned home from school to find a man in my tree.

It was early spring. The mornings still began with frosted tips on the grass, and the days ended with drizzly rain through dying sunlight. I had just rounded the corner from the bus stop, waved goodbye to Nicholas and Mandy and headed up my driveway when I spotted him high in the branches; higher than I’d ever climbed. He was wearing a long, heavy blue coat and a woolen scarf tied around his face covering his mouth and nose. His head was uncovered despite the biting cold and hair disheveled hair swayed lazily in the breeze. His hands wear clad in fingerless gloves and seemed to be working at something there on the trunk.

I didn’t know what to think as I stood there in the driveway staring up at this complete stranger in my tree and he didn’t seem to see me. Or if he didn’t, he didn’t care. So after long, shivering, consideration I called out to him.

“Hello?” I shouted, my words escaping in cloudy breaths to be whisked away on the wind. He didn’t respond. “Hello?” It tried again, louder. “Hey!”

He glanced down then, I must have been an ant to him he seemed so high up there. He waved casually with one hand and with the other placed and item in his pants pocket. He began to climb down, slowly at first, but picking up speed and fluidity as he made his way to the ground. I recall marveling at how he gracefully moved from limb to limb, never slowing to decide his next grip or foot placement, just moving reflexively, steadily, downward. As though he knew the tree itself like the back of his own hand. Finally he hopped down from the lowest branch, his boots plopping into the mud beneath.

My heart skipped a beat then as he placed his hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths. This man was a stranger. I wasn’t supposed to talk to talk to stranger, let alone confront them. The man straightened and pulled the scarf down from his mouth revealing a beaming smile. I could see now that, though I’d though him much younger, this man was closer to my grandfather’s age.

“Not as spry as I used to be.” He mused, glancing back up the way he’d come. “What’s your name?”

“What were you doing in my tree?” I asked, ignoring his question and trying to make myself sound tough, territorial even.

“Your tree?” He chuckled. “This is no ordinary tree, and it certainly isn’t yours.”

“It is too mine,” I affirmed with childish indignity, “and if it’s not a tree, what is it?”

“That right there,” his thumb jerked over his shoulder, “is a time machine.”

I stood, mouth agape, speechless.

“But then, you’d know that if you’d ever climbed that high.” He winked.

I just stared for what seemed like minutes, processing this new information. I’d always known the tree was special. There was a connection there, and a certain gravity and reality to his words. His bold confidence in his assertion that will make a six year old boy believe every last syllable. I wanted to know more but my pride cut in. “I have too climbed up there. I climb up there all the time. I’ve climbed higher than that.” I lied.

“No you haven’t.” He smiled and with a wink turned and began walking away.

“I have too,” I protested. I wanted to chase him, or show him, or. . . Or something. “How do you know”

“Because I’m you,” He called back over his shoulder. “From the future.”

I stopped in my tracks and watched him for a moment, walking away wordlessly. When I snapped out of it I was already inside the house telling my mother in rapid-fire sentences between gasping breaths about how I’d met the future me in the front yard. About how he’d said my tree was a time machine, and how I had to figure out how to make it work, where I would go, how many dinosaurs I would see.

My mother was on the phone minutes later, sounding nearly as excited as I was. I don’t know who she called or what they talked about. I was busy. I sat at the bay window all evening watching that tree until it got so dark out that I couldn’t see it; waiting for the time traveler to come back, just thinking about the possibilities. A time machine, I thought, a real live time machine.

In the following weeks I made repeated attempts to reach those high branches. That must be where the controls were, I thought. That must be what he was messing with when I first saw him. If I could just get up there. But unfortunately it was not to be. It was quite high, and many of the branches were spaced farther apart that high up. Those times that my courage didn’t give out part way, then I was forced to live with the reality that I simply wasn’t tall enough.

After months failed attempts, my excitement waned and the idea of a real maple time machine drifted further and further into the recesses of my mind; though it was never far from my fantasies. In play, that tree took me many places in time, past and future. I visited Egypt with Charlie and battled mummies. Nicholas and I fought off space aliens in the distant future; much to Mandy’s chagrin. . . She was the alien. And of course, dinosaurs; Mikey and I rode so many dinosaurs.

As years passed in that house and as I grew the tree grew with me. There in its branches we learned to read, that maple and I. A tire swing added later resulted in countless hours of laughter and bruises. One fateful summer Mikey, the true believer, insisted on climbing up to the time machine controls and encountered a nest of paper wasps the size of a basketball. The tree was a fortress, and a refuge. In the year my parents split up, I invited my brother into the tree, helped him conquer his fear of heights and we grew closer as our family fell apart. Years later, when I was eleven, that old maple provided the ambience for my first kiss; and suddenly Mindy didn’t seem so bad.

Not long thereafter we moved away from that street, back to the city. Somewhere more appropriate for a family of three. I missed my maple, my escape, my friends. I never saw Mikey again, or Charlie, Nicholas or Mindy. Instead I grew up, got a job, traveled. I saw a real rocket ship in Florida. I saw actual dinosaur bones at the Museum of Natural History. I met another girl who wasn’t at all icky and had a boy of our own with his own tire swing, albeit hanging from a store-bought metal swing set.

But that old maple still stands there, in the center of that wide open yard, before a little red house with white trim and a one car garage; though it doesn’t seem as tall as before. In fact, one day another little boy came home from school to find a man in his tree on a chill autumn afternoon.

“Hello there!” He called up to me.

I looked up from my handiwork and glanced down his direction to see him standing there; couldn’t be older than seven or eight years. He wore a brown puffy jacket and blue woolen stocking cap with his pants tucked into a pair of black rubber rain boots.

“What are you doing in my tree?” His tiny little voice drifted up to me.

I smiled inwardly and felt a pang of memory in my chest. I folded my pocket knife and admired my initials, carved there alongside half a dozen other sets, high up in the branches where I could never reach as a child.

I wiped my nose and closed stiff fingers around the nearest branch as I prepared to make my descent. I had to tell this little boy about my time machine because I’d finally figured out how to make it work; it only takes you back.

[Allya]

Well judging this contest was a bit hard because you both took very different interpretations of the topic.

Reffy - I liked your use of topic. You wrote a story for children and it was obvious you kept your topic in mind as you were writing. There are a few mistakes that look to be the "it's mine so I can't see it" variety but they're not anything that rips me away from the story line. I think your story could have used a little more description to slow the pace but overall I enjoyed it. I especially liked that it taught little kids something which children's stories are wont to do and did so through anthropomorphism. My one main issue with this story is a logic problem. Perhaps I missed it but I don't understand why the squirrel is surprised by Fall. Is this its first Fall? This should be explained. Overall good job!

Zovo - I'm a bit torn on your story because it feels more like a story about being a child than a children's story. I didn't notice any grammar or spelling errors and the story flowed quite nicely. However use of words like 'assertion' tell me this is at the very least a story for young adults. In truth I enjoyed reading your story more because the world seemed more filled out and real. Like Reffy's story I had the same logic problem. I wondered why, if he had seen trees in the city, he would not understand seasons now. It was especially odd because that bit of storyline had little to do with the main point. Overall the story was a nice, enjoyable read that made me nostalgic for the tree in my Grandmother's yard. (The one where the branches hung just low enough to give a young girl a leg up on climbing.)

For better use of topic and understanding of the audience I vote for Reffy's story in this round.

[James]

Reffy:

I really enjoyed that sweet, little story, Reffy. There were a few missing commas, but there wasn't anything glaringly wrong with grammar or tenses. It was well-written. Like Allya, I think some description would have helped, just because it felt like such an awfully quick story.

It definitely felt like a children's story, and one that would be read by a teacher to a bunch of small kids sitting on a mat. I had that image while I was reading it. It really captured the feel of the topic. But I do think it was lacking a meaning or moral. All children's stories tend to have something to teach kids and I'm not sure what the message in your story was.

Zovo:

I'm just going to say quickly, I think there were a few missing commas and such throughout. And I want to say that quickly, because other than that, I can't fault this piece. It was just really well done and really well thought. I love it. Everything about it was either good or great and the ending was excellent.

I see what Allya means when she says that maybe it doesn't fit the topic. But, and this may just be a personal thing, that felt like a children's story to me. Reffy's felt like a story a teacher would tell to young students after lunch. Yours felt like a bedtime story a parent would tell their child. It felt a little more personal.



This was a really strong round, I thought. You two both wrote excellent children's story. But my vote has to go to:

ZOVO

[Deleted]

Reffy

That was a cute story. It made me smile and I had fun reading it out loud as I would a children's book. It flowed well when I did, too, save for a few lines where a comma would have been. In fact, lack of commas are the only thing I can really point to as something to improve on; your spelling was great, though lack of complicated words may have something to do with that (a trend I approve of in a children's story). I suppose my only problems were with the lack of a, well, moral or point. It reads like a children's story, but it lacks a reason for its existence, since there's no real lesson. I believe I would have enjoyed it more, then, but it is still a very nice base for such a story. You did a wonderful job, Reffers.

Zovo

This story gave me a bit of a pang near the end. It was bittersweet and I believe you succeeded in what you were trying to do. Like Reffy's, yours flowed well and I didn't feel awkward at any point reading it out loud. Unlike hers, there were quite a few more spelling errors, which is strange reading from you. A lot of the spelling errors were just words used in place of the right one, such as "wear" in place of "were". As for the story itself, I found it packed emotions right at the end effectively. There was a nice build up, though I don't know if I'd call this a children's story. It's a story about a child, growing up, yes, but it doesn't adhere to the topic as well as Reffy's does, at least in my opinion when reading "Children's Story" as the topic.

Ultimately, though, it's a tough decision. They were both stories that stand well in their own right and while I liked Reffy's, I felt Zovo's was more complete and has more going for him than not, even if he wasn't entirely on topic. Even now, I'm vacillating between the two. If I had the choice, I'd give the better story to Zovo and the better adherence to Topic to Reffy, but Zovo just edges out overall. So:

Zovo