Bluebird, it's so pretty and perfect! I love it! Especially her hair. :) 

I'm so sorry, Kate! Finaly got it done!

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Wishing the New Year In

Little Eva kneeled on the window sill, looking out at the sleeping world beyond the glass. Fluffy clouds coated the sky like a feather blanket, ever so much softer and more inviting than the mattress Eva had slipped off of. They reminded her of the cotton candy she had enjoyed at the fair in the summer. That seemed ages ago, yet Eva distinctly remembered the soft, sweet feeling it left in her mouth. Looking at the sky, she smiled a little. She was sure the clouds tasted just the same way. The fierce wind of the afternoon slowed to a frosty breeze, and a night-time hush enveloped the world. A carpet of smooth, untouched white flowed over the city streets and roofs, yet only a little powdered sugar swirled in the air, nothing compared to the morning’s storm. Not a soul walked the streets tonight; people were far too busy at home, getting ready to welcome the new year in, to notice the splendor of the night. Eva felt as if she was alone with the magic of darkness on this New Year’s Eve, and she was just fine with that. Eva didn’t want to share that moment with anyone; it was hers to keep and hers to treasure.Somehow, Eva felt, the spell would fade away if too many people noticed it.

Eva should have been in bed long ago, snoring soundly to the sound of the crackling fire. But the chatter of the guests in the living room stole all the sleep from her eyes, and now her window served as a portal into a foreign world, trivialities live her pillow and blanket forgotten. She even forgot about the voices next door, ignored the danger of the housekeeper coming in with her usual squeaky, “Eeevieee! Vat are you doeeng up? Get eento bed right theeees meenute!” She looked out the window at the breathtaking view and smiled contentedly. 

The old grandfather clock tolled the first stroke of midnight, and the adults clinked glasses behind the door. The clouds outside parted, showing a single bright star in a patch of clear sky. Eva watched it, transfixed, as the star grew larger and brighter as the clouds around it swirled and bent into a trail of stepping stones. At the top step, the clouds parted to let something… Someone! To step down. A translucent spirit, taking the shape of a girl Eva’s own age. As Eva gazed at her, a similar, slightly younger spirit took form, pausing to look around at the wintery world. She muttered something that looked like a final farewell, then sighed contentedly, taking her first step up the shapeless staircase. The grandfather clock tolled. Step number two. Toll. Three. Toll. Four. At step six, the pair paused, turning towards each other. The breeze grew stronger, huffing and puffing and bending its soft how into whispers. Time slowed, the whole world spun around the two girls. 

“So. It’s that time again,” the descending girl nodded instead of a greeting. 

“It is.”

“I’ll miss all of you next year.”

“You’ll have fun,” the second girl smiled, “The World is always fun.”

“It’s time,” the first sister (for now Eva could clearly see the likeness between them) repeated. 

“We have a moment. Tell me… How are the others?”

“Missing you. Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”

“As usual, Nine.”

“I’ll miss you, Eight…”

“Well, I guess it’s time.”

“It’s time,” Nine nodded resolutely.

They took a step. The clock tolled. Four. Three. With each step, Nine took the shape of a girl, while Eight melted into the clouds.

The clock tolled its last bell, the living room erupted in cheers of “Happy New Year!” Nine hopped lightly off the step and melted into the air. The clouds once again flowed over the single, bright star, leaving Eva to gaze wide-eyed at the empty air. Only a couple of snowflakes swirled where Nine had just been, yet Eva didn’t need proof to know what she had just witnessed. She may not have had a party to celebrate, but only she had seen the New Year arrive.

“Mummy, I want to see a dragon.” Six-year-old Bret DeVaughn was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging his blue-socked feet back and forth, just unable to touch the ground. Bret ran a finger down the illustration in the book he was reading, an incredible beast standing like a warrior: Rippling muscles, wide, sharp, eyes, shining red scales like plates of armor sliding down the back of the creature.

“Bret, baby,” His mother offered him a tired smile, looking up from the soup she was stirring.  “Dragons are rare. There are only a handful left in the world because of hunters, and it costs a lot to go see them. You know we can’t afford that right now.”

Bret stared at his mum with dark, pleading eyes. He wasn’t quite old enough to comprehend the concept of not being able to afford things, and from the majestic picture it was a wonder to him that anything would manage to kill even one.

“When’s holidays?” Bret asked.

“Two weeks.” Mum added some salt to the broth.

“Can I have paper?”

Bret smoothed out the white expanse that was a sheet of printer paper with one hand, grabbing a stubby red crayon with the other and paused for a moment.

What I wont for holeedays, he wrote in large letters at the top of the page.

That was probably spelled correctly. Bret looked at his work in satisfaction, and proceeded. Peering at the neat printed type labeling the animal in his book, he copied down the name. Dragon.

He then padded over to the refrigerator and stuck it right in the middle with the assistance of a purple heart-shaped magnet. His mum inwardly sighed.

Bret received a lovely plush dragon for the holidays and he cried at first because it was not real, but soon after he fell asleep, curled on his side, holding it tightly. From that moment on the two were inseparable. The dragon was called, very creativity, Dragon. He was dragged around, thrown about, dressed up, kissed and cuddled. 

Dragon had black button eyes that shone in the sun, and soft blue scales like tiny shells curling up his squishy body. Two tiny horns, the deepest of midnight blues, protruded from out of the top of his head, and his mouth, filled with tiny teeth, was always grinning cheerfully up at whoever gazed upon him.

Some years later, Bret was once again sitting at the kitchen table, his feet now able to brush the cool tile floor. He was reading the same book, the pages now worn and creased, Dragon perched next to him, also appearing to be reading intently. It was a moment familiar to all best friends: One of peaceful silence and the quiet enjoyment of one another’s company. Bret took a sip from his glass of milk.

“Hey, honey.” His mom slid into the seat in front of him.

Bret looked up and put down his milk, using the edge of his sleeve to wipe the residue from where it rested on his upper lip. “Hi.”

“I have some news for you.” She smiled at him, and pushed her green-framed glasses higher on her nose. Her soft, dark brown eyes were creased with tired lines, cutting into the smooth, freckle-specked skin of her face.

“Okay.” Bret did not much care for news, but if it was to be had, so be it. He patted Dragon on the head reassuringly.

“Do you remember when you were six and you asked to go see the dragons?”

“Yeah.”

His mother’s hand opened and two slips of crinkly, thick, cream-colored paper fell like leaves onto the tabletop, where they fluttered for a moment and then lay still.

Confused fingers pulled one over towards Bret, smoothening out the deep, aesthetic wrinkles and reading, wide-eyed, the slopingly curvy text that proclaimed:

This ticket entitles the bearer admittance to St. Guinevere’s Castle and Dragon Reserve, one of the few last homes of dragons available to the public.

Bret sat there for a moment, then loudly shouted something indistinguishable and fell out of his chair. A second later he leapt up, ran to his mother with the ticket still clutched in his fist and hugged her, laughing, laughing, laughing.

For it is just so exciting, isn’t it, to have one’s childhood dream about to come true and posses confirmation of such written on beautiful creamy parchment in loops and curls.

“I finally get to see real dragons!” Bret shouted again, lost in the brightness in his eyes and heart, and ran out of the room to go find his friends and show them the unimaginable glory that he held within his hand.

Dragon sat, forgotten, on the table, and smiled serenely as always after his friend.  

At first I was going to say something really sarcastic back to you.

And then I saw the other comments, and then yours, and I decided against it. :/ Thankfully, at least I'm in a good mood. My birthday is tomorrow. :)

Aaaaaaannnd Hazel says bidk. Which either means bid or IDK, as in I don't know. Which I don't. Ugh.  

Great stories everyone! Today is the deadline so NO MORE STORIES will be accepted after like midnight tonight. Artwork is due November 10nth. Judging will take place directly afterwards.

Here's the rest of my story, just in time! It's a bit of a steriotypical "smart animal who's a writer" story, but I think it's okay. This is also my first time posting a writingpiece on the CB. I hope it's a good first impression. I posted the beginning on an earlier page. 

He walked slowly to the computer to check his email. What? That draft wasn't there yesterday, and Terrence certainly hadn't written it! He opened the draft, read it, and sat in the computer chair, eyes wide, mystified. This is what Terrence read:

A sharp smell

I twitch 

Alive

I feel the thrill

I hear the words

around me 

the world lives

I can smell it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samuel gritted his small teeth in annoyance, pressing his ears back against his fur. This was an unseemly time for him to be awake and darting around Terrence's living room, he knew that. But the white rat also knew that whenever inspiration calls, it is the artist's duty to answer. 

Samuel was a writer. A writer of beautiful poems, but no one knew it yet. This is how the world works sometimes. Those who are brimming with potential are ignored, and those who are not particularly skilled suceed. Every day, Samuel sat quietly inside Terrence's family's green paisley couch. Words streamed through him and around him, like ramen being poured into a bowl. Samuel sat, content to stay still while words rushed around him like currents in a ocean, twisting into phrases within his head.

Of course, a rat has to eat, so Samuel nibbled a red currant every now and then. The sour-sweet taste peirced his tounge, giving him a pleasant jolt and the energy to continue listening. 

This was how the poem-writing rat spent his days, and how lucky he was that Terrence and his family liked to talk! Samuel absorbed all he could, the careless slang and profound connections entering his little rat brain and settling there. Then, on a seemingly random schedule, real inspiration would strike. That was the reason behind Samuel's trip across the living room. Inspiration had struck him upside the head like a drumstick on a drum. He had to write this new poem.

He crept along almost silently to the computer, scaled the revolving and heavily padded computer chair, and made a softly graceful leap onto the keyboard. Slowly, Samuel located the "Mail" app and began a new draft. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terrence grinned at his computer screen and pressed PRINT. He slipped the sheet of paper, still hot, off the printer and carefully folded it in quarters. He stuck the poem in his shirt drawer. There it would stay, a memorial to the white rat who lived in his green paisley sofa. But Terrence didn't know who had written it. This is the way the world works sometimes. 

The beginning of my story is on page 8.