Writer's Choice - Week 1

"Proof 'enough' my Captain?" the Duke said, slewing his eyes over to his uniformed man. "Proof 'enough' for me?" He laughed, short and without humor, and touched my chest. "Dear man, I am a skeptical scholar of such degree that to accept a that man's heart pumps blood, I had to take one out first, and watch."

By answer the Captain nodded and fell silent. The Duke smiled at me.

I felt of two minds about the smile. I had never seen a smile like that on a person. I desperately wanted it to be reassuring, and so I attempted to smile back. However, I could not help but to recall the early morning back home when I came across a fox in the Miller's small coup. The fox had young Imbzie by the neck, and when it saw me staring at it in horror, it stopped worrying the flesh of the limp chicken and dropped it. It smiled at me. And then it picked up Imbzie and fled straight out the door between my legs. I had been beaten for letting it get away with the chicken, and the Duke's smile, I felt, probably had pain behind it too.

"Did you know, Captain, that it is a leading theory that small animals are fluffy and cute in order to cause their parents to become more attached to them? Infants of all mammals, really."

"No, Sir."

"I am not convinced of the veracity of this supposition. Of course, I acknowledge that some people are drawn to younger, cuter animals, but I personally do not feel much one way or the other about them." He held out his hand, palm up, in front of me, as if asking for something. Not knowing what else to do, I put my right hand in his. He smiled again. "For me, it isn't their appearance. It's their innocence. THAT is enticing."

"Yes, Sir."

"However, some animals learn faster than others," the Duke continued, my hand balanced in his. "A kitten, once kicked, will never trust another man again. A puppy takes a little more time to learn mistrust. Children, speaking our tongue, may be convinced one way or another. I have not yet decided what that says about mankind."

[URL=http://www.nanowrimo.net][IMG]http://mbmfiles.com/Nov2009/091120-kVmtDJlLmZuW.jpg[/IMG][/URL]

“What’s happened?” Ruth asked, her face anxious as she appeared outside the gate of St. Philip’s churchyard. Luke was supporting Bronte so that she wouldn’t stumble on the uneven sidewalk pavers as they moved along Church Street, away from the busy tourist area around the Market. Bronte didn’t turn to address her grandmother. She kept her eyes pointedly on the cast iron balcony of the Dock Street Theater in the next block as she said, “Thank you for taking care of me, Luke. I’m sorry that it had to come to this.”
“Come to what, young lady?” Ruth demanded, hurrying along on the other side of Luke and gazing up into his face, where even in the darkened street the beginnings of a black eye were obvious. Bronte glanced up at her cousin; it seemed that he didn’t sense his grandmother’s presence at all.
“That’s a pretty ballsy move, showing up and getting in someone’s face like that,” Bronte said, speaking to her grandmother and hoping that it translated to the situation back in the pub.
Luke tightened his grip on her arm. “I should have done it a long time ago. He’s had it coming for years.”
Ruth’s face fell. “Bill?” she asked.
Bronte nodded. “Yes, he has.”
Luke glanced down at her. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m not sorry, and I won’t ever be. He hasn’t been a real father to me my whole life. If it weren’t for your dad and Grandpa, I wouldn’t have ever figured out how a real man is supposed to act.” His voice cracked on his last words, and he cleared his throat.
Ruth’s hand reached toward her grandson, and then fell as she realized that her touch wouldn’t be able to comfort him. Seeing this, Bronte said, “Ruth would be proud of the man you have become, Luke.”
“Yeah, well. . .” he replied, uncomfortable with praise.
Seeing that he wanted to change the subject, Bronte said, “I think I could use a drink, but all of our usual watering holes are in that direction.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the Market.
“I have plenty of watering holes in this direction, thank you very much,” he replied as they passed the ancient cobblestones on Chalmers Street. “The Blind Tiger has the cure for what ails us, and plenty of it. You can buy your gallant cousin the first round.”
Bronte, feeling steady enough to release her death grip on his arm, stood straighter and then reached to pat his shoulder. “I can probably do that, though I think that I’m permanently out of a job.” She thought of the hours that she had spent behind the bar at Connelly’s, or bent over time sheets and paying bills in her tiny office off of the private dining room.
“You’re an heiress. Time you started living like one,” he replied. This caused his grandmother, usually the most ladylike woman Bronte had ever known, to snort loudly.
“You’ll both be all right, if I have anything to say about it, and I do,” Ruth said.
Bronte replied, “We will both be fine, Money Bags. I’ll buy the first round, but you’re either going to have to pony up, or we’ll have to find a sponsor. I have a feeling that we’re about to rack up a bar tab of epic proportions.”
The two cousins marched around the corner onto Broad Street, followed by the shade of their grandmother, who watched over them until the bartender called Sam to take them home.

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it. ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

I hated school. I had never gotten along well with it, even when it involved learning about partially interesting things, like the plants and animals of the wilds, or the geography of the different lands. Needlepoint was not even partially interesting.
I pricked my finger again. I hid it under the table, quickly wiping the blood on my red skirt. I had taken to wearing red on needlepoint days so it didn’t stain. I tried to look at the cloth I was supposed to be stitching. Somehow, the needle went in there, out there, and made a straight line as it went. My line was very wobbly. I ignored it and kept on stitching.
The teacher came up behind me.
“Lady Devega. You should probably take those stitches out. Your picture won’t look anything like you want it to if you leave them in.” she said.
“Yes Ma’am.” I said, and started taking out the stitches.
I tried to ignore the giggles. I tried to tell myself that what these other girls thought of me didn’t even matter, that I was a Devega and there were family lands waiting for me. I told myself that I didn’t care about needlepoint, so it didn’t matter whether or not I did well.
I was lying to myself. The giggles hurt, I did care about the stupid picture, I wanted to do well. But I wasn’t doing well, and that’s all there was to it. I had spent so much time out in the wilds, focusing on riding that I was hopeless when it came to the Court. I didn’t know the etiquette, I couldn’t cook worth a darn, and my fashion sense was decidedly backward. I was provincial.
‘I don’t care,’ I lied to myself again.
I glared at the cloth, pretending it was all the girls that giggled whenever I couldn’t do something the rest of them could. The needle was readied in my hand. I stabbed the cloth with my needle, my intent vicious.
I poked myself in the finger. I winced, and wiped my finger on my skit again. More giggles sprung up around me. I did my best to ignore them, trying not to get blood on the cloth.

Once we’re back to the cave, Tosha grunts and says, “On the count of three-”

I count out, and we gather enough momentum to swing the stag off of Tosha’s shoulder and onto the leaf-scattered ground. Exhausted, my guide immediately goes to sit on one of the boulders that line the mouth of the cave. Probably just as tired, I join him quietly, taking a rare moment to rest my eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Tosha reminds me out of habit and I wave him off, uninterested.

“Yes, yes.” Better to appease him than deal with his constant badgering, I’ve discovered.

I’m not sure how long we sit there, both of us wordless and aching with the fatigue that accompanies constant movement and awareness. It’s been at least twelve hours – probably longer – since the last time I’ve gotten a proper rest, and it’s finally starting to catch up with me. I’m just starting to drift off when a sharp pinch snaps me back into awareness.

“Ouch!”

“I said, don’t fall asleep,” Tosha rebukes, serious as ever.

I glare at him, unable to help it; I’m nearly sick with exhaustion and I can’t remember the last time I’ve been genuinely comfortable. I want to scream, but I don’t.

“Come on,” he beckons, struggling to his feet with obvious difficulty. “Better get a fire started before the sun goes down.” He hesitates, but then reaches out a hand.

I stare at it briefly, unsure, but then accept his help, sliding my palm against his. His skin is warm against mine, a reminder that I’m not the only living thing out here after all.

Mini Write-In Insanity, Vlogged for All to See on Youtube.

Philip was called to test for the pike. He had seen the odd-looking weapon before; it looked not unlike a farmer’s axe head mounted on the very top of a nine-foot sapling. He knew the stories of the Kingdom’s celebrated infantry, and the cavalry that struck fear in to the heart of 20 nations. But this strange device evaded him. He had a momentary panic that he would fall at his first hurdle.
And then he took the weapon into his hand.
He knew, instinctively, that he should salute his examiner, and he did, coming ram-rod straight with the pike held against the straight line of his right leg. In a flash of inspiration, this farmer’s child, rescued from the woods two years before, began to dance in place with the weapon. He swept the blade down, visualizing the onrushing horse and picking his spot. A quick, upward thrust would catch the rider’s stirrup, and a sharp twist would cut the securing belts of the saddle. Withdraw to disengage the axe head, sweep the length of the pike back, around, over – one flowing line – to catch the rider across his chest and unseat him. He let the dance grow, dispatching the imaginary rider as he hit the ground and rounding to be ready for the next charge.
The noise of battle consumed his head, cutting across the sudden silence of the Great Hall. He knew there were others watching his private battle, but they were not on the field this day.
He heard the examiner shout “Battalion,” and he knew what the command meant. The onrushing cavalry melted away, replaced by a battalion of heavily armored infantry, each shining shield he faced bore the royal crest of RivalCountryName.
He was alone on the field. The column advanced, its steady rhythm almost hypnotic after the mind-sounds of the horses a moment ago. He dropped into a crouch, brandishing the pike against the progressing line.
The column kept its rhythm; he knew, somehow, that was to his advantage. Two quick bounds and he had covered the intervening distance before his target was fully aware that battle had been joined. A thrust, and this infantryman’s helmet fell; it took the body just a moment to follow it. A quick turn and he planted the haft inside the shield of the solider to his right. The blow would not kill, but it would wind him and allow Philip one more precious second. The line was breached.
He closed his eyes and saw the field stretch out before him. The battalion had already stuttered, its impeccable rhythm now faulty. Philip tumbled backward; the pike was built to fight at a distance, and he would need every advantage. He swept forward, cracking a helmet and pushing aside another shield in one fluid motion. Retreat, reset. The line was breaking; it would be more difficult now. Sword thrust missed him, and Philip drew the pike around to plant the haft into the stomach of the attacker. Another attack, closer. The line was beginning to overwhelm him. He plunged the axehead into the chest of the nearest infantry man. It cracked the bronze breastplate, sunk deep into the flesh … and lodged there.
He tried to withdraw it, but it was stuck fast. He twisted the haft but managed only to wrench it from his own grasp. He reached for his belt dagger – dagger? There was no examination on daggers for entry into the Warriors Guild – that all of the Kingdom’s pikemen carried, but it wasn’t there. He showed just a moment of panic, but he knew a split second later that panic would achieve nothing right now. If he was to die on the field, he was to die with dignity. That was his duty. That was his teaching. That was his heritage.
He turned to face the line and bared his chest to a hundred sword points. The pain, when it arrived, was an exquisite release.
“Stand down,” came the command, snapping him back to his senses. He was on the floor, the cracked haft of the testing pike laying, somehow, almost 20 feet away.
“How many, soldier?” the chief examiner asked. His voice was soft, contemplative. Almost … concerned.
“Six dead, including a cavalry officer, two disabled,” Philip said. “One of the dead still has a pike-head lodged in his gullet.”
“And the pikeman?”
“Careless, sir. Dead.”
“Then you still have much to learn, don’t you, soldier?”

I left the apartment, locked the door and walked cautiously down the stairs to the ground level, looking to and fro attentively. I didn’t see anything, so I left the safety of the stairs and began to walk towards my Accord in the parking lot. I had gone maybe half a dozen steps when I heard a sharp rustling behind me. I turned my head and began to run even before I identified what had made the noise. It was a gaunt figure with shreds of clothing hanging from its bony outstretched arms and shoulders. Her breasts were just about free of her bra and the remains of her blouse, but the sight did not arouse me in the slightest. She (it?) let out a low growl and came after me at a trot. I faced forward and ran to my car, hitting the unlock button on the key as I ran. I heard the soft thunk of the lock opening and saw the flash of the headlights. Another growl came from the thing chasing me, about ten paces behind me. I reached the door, grabbed the handle with my free hand, threw it open, dove into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. I watched in horror as the creature crashed into the door just a second later. Drool and blood smeared the window but it didn’t seem to be able to get in. I got myself quickly into driving position, thrust the key into the ignition and fired it up. I took off the parking brake and threw the car into reverse. I punched the gas pedal and the Accord pulled quickly back. I turned the wheel and the front fender smashed into the zombie’s leg and it fell to the ground. I shifted into drive and the car lurched forward. I didn’t feel any bumps from under the car as I zoomed out of the parking lot, so I somehow had missed hitting the thing—not that I was really trying to do that—but I couldn’t have missed by much. I squealed around the curve into the main drive and stopped at the entrance to Oleander Drive, shaking all over and panting. I put my head down on the steering wheel and closed my eyes, waiting for the worst of the tremors to pass. When they had run their course, I put on my seatbelt and—this sounds stupid now—flicked the turn signal to make my turn.

Cinnamon had the highest of aspirations for herself when she started at the club. She was a good dancer, and having been a gymnast in her childhood, she learned the more complicated pole tricks swiftly, giving her an edge among the other girls. Aside from Monique, she made the most money at the club. She had thought that it wouldn’t take her more than a year or two to save up enough money to get a home in a neighborhood that was in a good school district. Within a year or two, she would trust herself to be 100% clean and able to take her daughter back. Within a year or two, she could have her life back.

And then her daughter’s father walked into the club one night and saw her at work. Clayton saw the amount of money that was being rained on his baby’s mama. And he knew just how easily he could get a piece of that. So he waited until after she got off work and followed her to her trailer. She was surprised to see him, and knew right away that he meant trouble. But she was exhausted from work, so when he forced himself inside and had his way with her, she didn’t have the strength to fight back. The next morning, he hadn’t left, and she decided that what he had done would hurt a lot less if she just took him back. If she was in a relationship with the guy, then it couldn’t be rape, right? It was just sex with the man she loved, the father of her child. Though it sounded completely insane, it was the only way that she could manage to hold on to her sanity. At least, that’s what she thought. By the time she realized that in reality he had stripped away every last shred of dignity that she’d ever had, it was too late. She was too hurt, and too tired to fight. So she just kept dancing, and kept hoping that someday he’d get bored.

“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what? It’s just us. No one comes out this far.”
“I could have sworn I heard a noise, like a rustle or a clicking noise.”
“You’re just nervous. War will make your brain do crazy things. I thought I saw my dead brother a couple years back.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing. I had gotten up early to make a fire for the rest of the company. I lit the thing on fire and through the smoke I could have sworn my brother, Sam, was standing there. He was wearing his uniform and he looked really sad. Like he was sorry for something.
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Naw, I reached my hand out and his body just vaporized into thin air. I called out his name and that woke everyone up. They all thought I was crazy.”
“Do you think you’re crazy?”
“Just because you hear and see things that aren’t there it don’t make you crazy.”
“I guess they wouldn’t put a bunch of crazies in the military would they? I’m glad we could come out here together Tommy. It makes feel safer to know that you got my back.”
“Not a problem Sam.”

Our neighbors, three on one side and two on the other, tended to mind their own business. We were all friendly, but we didn’t socialize much. Everyone went to work every day. We did have a block party on the Fourth of July, nothing fancy. Everybody brought a dish and shared it. Usually too much beer and red wine flowed and on the fifth of July everyone went back to work with a hangover.

But this was on late March. Snow still hid the crocuses and daffodils although the green shoots were beginning to break through the crusty snow. It was cold. There would be the occasional day when the sun would shine and the sky turned a beautiful shade of blue. The air so clear it shimmered. That was when I appreciated the beauty of my surroundings.

So when Montreal went up in a mushroom cloud, followed by Toronto and Vancouver. We were all more than a little surprised. We all figured bombs would fall on Washington, DC and New York, Las Angeles and Boston.

Canada made no political sense.

Xvermonter

“I was driving my car downtown, I was gonna give a tour to a school, but I didn’t make it. I was in an accident. When I came to I looked for others and I wondered for a time, but couldn’t find anyone. I remember walking for awhile but then my back and ribs hurt so bad I, I must have blacked out from the pain.” Again the two people looked at her in confusion and interest.

“What is a car?” Asked Mrs. Reynolds. The doctor hushed her.

“When you say tour, what do you mean?” The doctor asked.

“I was going to do a Civil War tour for a school.”

“How would you do a tour for something that has not happened yet?” this time it was Caroline’s turn to stare at them in amazement.

“What are you talking about? The war has happened.”

“Madam, I can assure you, while talks are heated, war has not been declared.”

“April 12, 1861 Confederate forces open fire on Ft. Sumter at 4:30 in the morning.” The doctor looked at her very carefully.

“What day is it Madam?” Caroline blinked. She didn’t know.

“I don’t know how long I have been out, but the last day I remember was November 4, 2009.” Mrs. Reynolds gasped but the doctor continued to stare into her eyes. Very quietly he said.

“Madam, it is November 12, 1860.” A long quiet hush fell on all three of them. Caroline’s face had turned ashen then turned red.

Non Omnis Moriar

Chapter One: The Accident
On the morning of December 2nd, 1998 at 7:00am Anna Paloma woke up to the loudest cracking noise she had ever heard. She say upright, twisting her head and neck away from the bedroom window in anticipation of some great accident to come crashing through the wall. With her arm still raised above her head, she blinked twice and looked around. Her dog,Holmes, was laying still at the foot of the bed, her boyfriend Nate sleeping soundly beside her. Anna lowered her arm and sat looking forward. Holmes sat up still looking straight at her face, questioning whether or not he should be barking out some alarm. Satisfied that all was in order, the pup laid back down. Anna gazed down at her still sleeping boyfriend.
"What the fuck was that?!?!" Anna finally belted out.
Nate turned his face toward her, looking very angry from being disturbed.
"What was what Anna? Geezus, It's 7:00am on a Saturday. What the fuck are you talking about?"
Anna looked as if someone had slapped her straight across the face.
"You didn't hear that? Honestly?"
Nate turned back over pressing his face against the pillow and muddled something that told Anna she was the only one who heard anything.
She sprung out of the bed and darted across the room to the bedroom window. A befuddled Nate was now sitting up staring at her as if she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, then he too stood up and walked out of the room. Anna could hear his feet padding on the hardwood floor towards the kitchen. The faucet turned on, then off and then the sound of Nate walking back into the room. She stood and took a deep breathe, grabbing the curtain with one hand and the other bracing against the wall as if she were about to witness a scene of gruesome destruction. With a wince and a squeal she ripped the curtains aside and looked out onto the lawn to see everything perfectly in its place.
"Close the damned curtain Anna!" Nate growled from the bed while covering his head with the sheets.
Anna went and sat on the edge of the bed, now coming to the realization that the cracking noise existed only in her head.

“I slept just fine dad. I should be good on money though. Mom just put ten thousand in it about a week ago. I maybe burned through a thousand, but nine should get me everything I need for the YOTO meeting tomorrow night. And then some. I’ll probably cover Kendra because her parents took away her allowance for a week because she forgot to tell them that Soya was going to be at the fair when we went on Saturday, and they don’t like Soya because she’s Chinese, but it should be enough. I’m thinking that I’ll probably go to the mall and get whatever strikes my fancy so long as it’s sensible and warm.” Shiloh yawned after she finished saying this, folding her arms on the table and watching her father as he made his way about the kitchen, making his usual breakfast buffet. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, muffins, grits, oatmeal, biscuits, cereals, yogurt, bagels, donuts, croissants, toast, milk … anything you could ever want when it comes to breakfast foods, the Brooks had it in stock. With the money that they had pushed together, there was always always a full stock of whatever you could possibly desire when it came to food. Even though Shiloh could eat all the sweets she wanted, she preferred fresh, healthy things. She had seen what food like that did to people and done her best to avoid it.
“What are you feeling for breakfast pumpkin? I can make whatever you desire... I’m taking the day off because your mother’s caseload is extra light today and we’re going to go down to the country club to golf.” Mr. Brooks was flitting around the kitchen as he spoke, flipping the eggs, rotating the bacon, turning the pancakes, rolling the sausage, checking on the muffins, stirring the grits, mixing the oatmeal, popping biscuits out of the oven, skimming his fingers over the boxes of cereal, pulling yogurt from the fridge, thawing bagels from the freezer, emptying donuts from the box, shaping the croissants, and chilling the milk. Shiloh loved to watch him cook because her father was a multi-tasker and an amazing cook.
“I’m thinking something leafy… I know you’ve got this big spread of protein and grains and stuff, but I’m craving a lettuce breakfast wrap with some turkey bacon and a small side of yogurt. Preferably strawberry if you have it, but if not, strawberry banana will do… wait, wait, never mind. I want to go with the Strawberry Mango Banana Raspberry delight. It’s my favorite. And for drink, I want an orange and apple based smoothie. If that’s not too much trouble, daddy dearest. I don’t want you to strain yourself.”
(Unrealistic, I know. But it's my novel. I've always been more of a dreamer than a realist.)

With expert skill and attention the barber attended the chin of a daily customer with his razor. "The thing is, I just can't seem to get the leg to stay quite straight and steady no matter how I try, there's always a wobble." The customer was a lanky man with an unusually angular jaw and deepset eyes. The language he spoke with was more Maghrebi Arabic than the local Berber tongue with a smattering of French where it was most appropriate. It is a singular gift to people brought up of such multilingual societies and who continue to exist within them that they may express themselves so well as so many emotions and situations are best told in one language or another, this ability to pick and choose from the strengths of various tongues was one of those precious things we so often look over and take granted until we are removed from their truth. As for this man in particular whose name was Ali, Maghrebi Arabic played a more significant role than it did for the barber due to him being a more recent immigrant to the town. Wimmiden still remembered the night when Ali came into town and remembered it every morning the man sat in his chair. Perhaps its because the very next morning Wimmiden was the first man to ever shave his beard and had done so every day since.

Wimmiden wiped the razor on the towel over his bare forearm and made a thoughtful sound in his throat before replying, "And I suppose you don't want any direct help in this my friend?" The night Ali came into the town had been during a very hard time where the stresses of every single day challenged the soul and resolve. It had been at the heart of the violence during the struggle for Maghrebi and particularly Algerian independence from the French. Everyone had to be a patriot, a warrior, a friend and a calming hand and yet still preserve their core being against the temptation of excess. In those terrible days, months and years its a wonder many specific memories remained in Wimmiden's or anyone else's mind.
"No, no, I can do it. It's just difficult you know?"

"Yes" murmured Wimmiden enjoying the feel of the stubble coming free under his mercilessly sharp razor, a sensation not at all dulled by the passage of decades in this trade. Wimmiden did know and his eyes darted momentarily to Ali's right scarred right hand and the two stumps that remained of his little and ring fingers, that he retained any use of the others was still a miracle. Strange and terrible days indeed that turn a citrus field worker into the maker of bombs. Ali never talked much of his previous life on the coast, though there were some details that deduction had revealed. He had lived near Oran, he had a family then of his own a daughter and beyond that there was nothing. Ali had a new family now and he had never left the town since he had come all those years ago. He was now as much as one of them as anyone from the outside could be and Wimmiden found great comfort in their daily ritual. Maybe it just provided extra balance to the day, a daily reminder of just how good things were now and just how bad they had been... Carefully another swipe of the razor passed over Ali's flesh and the barber smiled brightly and turned around to oil his hands, "Well then, we're just about done here."

"Maine is well known for it's attitude of supremacy over anyone not from Maine, it's disdain for anyone "from away" and it's inhabitant's curious tendency to replace the letter "r" with an "ah" sound when they talk."

Wow guys! You have no idea how much I enjoyed reading all those excerpts! Everyone is doing a great job with their hastily-written words :D

That said, it's now time for voting! We've only got until 6pm tonight to vote, so get reading and deciding!

As for me, I'm voting for Chopperjohnson - that was the excerpt that left me really really excited to read more. Whatever is going on in that scene is very interesting, and I happen to have a special love for warriors with long spears :)

What about you? Who do you vote for?

2005: Lane's Girl: *winner*
2006: After Ancient: *winner*
2007: Pike's Revenge: *winner*
2008: Phooka Tales *winner*
2009: Apollo and Daphne

www.stickynotestories.com

I vote for AVIRTUE.

Thanks!

I vote for Biggarster. I enjoyed the dialog.

conclusivelead... love the mental images

I second on conclusivelead. :) Not sure what it is about it, I just really, really like it.

Oh, wow! Thank you, ohmywurd and ramaccor! <3 I appreciate it!

Mini Write-In Insanity, Vlogged for All to See on Youtube.

Congrats conclusivelead! I'll have your prize for you at teh downtown write-in!

2005: Lane's Girl: *winner*
2006: After Ancient: *winner*
2007: Pike's Revenge: *winner*
2008: Phooka Tales *winner*
2009: Apollo and Daphne

www.stickynotestories.com