This is short story I submitted for a contest on the writing site, Figment. The guidelines requested that we -- in no more than 1200 words -- write a modern retelling of an recognizable and renowned faerie tale. *Please forgive me as I take a moment to joyously crash my symbols in a ticker-take parade of one. This happens to be one of the first pieces of writing to receive public acclaim; the validation, from someone other than my overly-doting husband, warmed this insecure writer's heart considerably.* The story was first selected by the editorial staff as 1 of 20, whittled down from 230. After a cross-country voting by poll, the story was then chosen as 1 of 5. The final 5 have been sent to a published YA author for her consideration. I eagerly await the announcement of a final victor; however, win or lose, I wholeheartedly believe the victory was achieved in the completing of yet another story. If you are a fellow writer, you might understand this poignancy.
**Update** I WON!!
"A professional writer is an amateur who never quit." ~ Richard Bach
***
Crowded is never a good thing. Never. People can get hurt; children traumatized for life. The last time it happened, and it was crowded, someone almost got run over by a car.
**Update** I WON!!
"A professional writer is an amateur who never quit." ~ Richard Bach
***
Crowded is never a good thing. Never. People can get hurt; children traumatized for life. The last time it happened, and it was crowded, someone almost got run over by a car.
I purposely scheduled my appointment in the middle of the afternoon, figuring it would be the least crowded. The after-lunch rush should have passed, and most of the working-class are still at work. After stopping at the water fountain – procrastinating – I come to the Pepto-pink door. Taking a deep breath, I suppress it. Peering through the rectangular window, I see the room is crowded.
Crap.
My sweaty hand slips on the door handle as I pull it toward me. Heads turn discreetly, but quickly lower. An ordinary boy of seventeen offers no competition for the latest US Weekly. I head toward the receptionist, stepping over a boy playing on the floor.
Waiting room toys are lame. What is that thing? There is not one ounce of joy in pushing large beads up and down a wire. Whoever’s in charge of ordering the toys should be fired. It’s boring… insulting. Just because it’s colorful-
