Prompt ly Keenan

Compiled by Sarah Keenan

Greetings Reader!
In June of 2015, the Keenan family came up with an ingenious, idyllic idea. At the beginning of each
week, a family member would come up with a prompt. Every family member then would have until
the end of the week to write a short story with a 3 pages doubled spaced max. This idea blossomed into
a tradition. The story must include the prompt verbatim somewhere in the text. At the end of the week,
the stories are shared, and the next family member comes up with a prompt.
Some of the stories on this site are terrible, some are publishable. Some are funny, some weird, others
scary and still others are oddly nostalgic. All are 100% Keenan.

Copyright 2016 by Sarah Keenan

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
i

Contents
Brett Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1

Brett Keenan

Educational Therapy
I aint afraid of no ghosts

Educational Therapy

I aint afraid of no ghosts

Jean Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2
A Sage Plant

I wouldnt recommend talking to potted plants

Nathaniel Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4
Using a Different Lens

It fell slowly

Christopher Keenan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6
Subterfuge

That was the moment I realized my parents were aliens

Nicholas Keenan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8
Casting Ever After

The clock strikes twelve. Well thats not clich.

Sarah Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Everything a Man Could Want

Synchronize your watches. Well only get one chance.

Jonathan Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Half Past Twelve

Sounds of a music box danced through the air

Katherine Keenan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
When Fairytales Come to Life

The clock strike 12. Well, thats not clich.

I aint afraid of no ghosts.

What did you say? Miss Esprit replied, looking up from her notebook to look at her client. He was
lying suppine on a couch, and was wearing a horrible flannel shirt that clashed equally horribly with
his khaki pants.
I aint afraid of no ghosts, the man repeated adamantly.
That may or may not be true, Miss Esprit said spiritedly, but your grammar is awful. Please
diagram that sentence for me.
The man looked stunned and a little billigerent. Diagram?
Yes.
My sentence?
Yes.
What are you, an English teacher?
I am today.
Given her seniority and station, he had little choice but to comply, although to be honest, he wanted
to comply, if not for her then for himself.
Ipronoun, subjectme, myself and I
Aintverbnegative, present slang form of to be, often used emphatically, as in Aint she sweet
or Say it aint so, Joe. In American lexicon, aint is growing in usage and popularity.
Afraidadjectivean expression of anxiety about the well-being or safety of someone or
something, from Old Middle English, although Old Gaelic might be more appropriate.
Ofprepositionindicating the relationship between a verb and an indirect object, part of the
conjunction junction family. See verse three, School House Rock, 1973.
Nodeterminernot any, not properly used here, a form of street slang, almost but not quite a
double negative.
Ghostnoun, indirect objectAn apparition of a dead person which is believed to
appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image.
Very good, Miss Esprit commented. Now, rephase that grammatically
incorrect sentence appropriately.
I am not afraid of ghosts, he said, correctly correcting himself.
Very good. And is that statement true?
Yes. Yes, it is, he replied simply.
Really? Miss Esprit said, surprised. Why?
Because I am one.
Miss Epirit got up from her chair, brushed off her skirt, and ran.
1

Jean Keenan
A Sage Plant

I wouldnt recommend talking to potted plants

Meyer Jackson was an unusual boy who possessed a truly unusual skill. It wasnt until he was around
seven that he realized he was alone in that skill. Meyer could talk to inanimate objectshis kitchen
chairs, his bed, the concrete sidewalk, you name it. They all had a story to tell. He assumed everyone
shared this skill until one day his mom insisted he stop talking to his imaginary friends. Imaginary?
Whos imagining?
Each morning, Meyer starts his day with the soft whisperings of his pillow. Meyer, dear. Time
to wake up. His clothes complain if he wears them more than once or twice without a trip to the
wash. Seriously Meyer, cant we avoid the mud puddles once in a while? His shower turns its own
dial and laughs heartily as the unexpected cold water spills over his head (Shower heads can be such
pranksters). His Cheerios love to pretend he is killing them as he spoons them in. Oh no! Goodbye
cruel world! they lament in unison as he swallows them down. It is enough to kill a guys appetite.
His bike gives him a running dialogue of the places it would love to goanyplace other than school
where it has to spend the day with the fancier bikes listening to how much better, faster, and newer
they are. His pencil tries to correct his math answers, although Meyer always insists he doesnt
need the tutoring. Even at night, when he traverses the long dark hallway to his bedroom, the walls
murmur scary stories and titter to each other as his pace quickens. For Meyer, a running dialogue
with everything in his path was normal, even comforting sometimes, because Meyer didnt have
any friendsthat is, no human ones. He tried early on to tell his classmates that he could hear the
thoughts of everything around him, but they dubbed him Meyer the Liar and avoided him like he was
a rash. Meyer learned to keep to himself.
One day, Mrs. Jenkins brought in a new plant to the classroom to liven up the place, as she said. She
described it as a broadleaf sage and Ryan liked the way it smelledlike warm stuffing at Thanksgiving.
As he did with every other object in the room, Meyer introduced himself to the plant, but it failed to
return the courtesy. Perhaps it didnt hear me, he thought. He tried again. Welcome to first grade. I hope
you like it here, Mr. Salvia Officinalis (Meyer thought that maybe using its Latin name might endear
him to it). Nothing. Meyer was disappointed. Frustrated even. He had never failed to communicate
with anythingat least the non-breathing kind. He decided to give the plant a few days to settle in. Its a
well-known fact that some flora and fauna are more sensitive than others. However, when he tried again
a few days later, the plant still stonewalled him. Meyer was stupefied, perplexed, flummoxed, stunned,
and downright disturbed. He had dealt with rude rhododendrons and irritable ivy, even the occasional
fractious fern, but this was completely unacceptable. Maybe the plant just needs to know whos boss. He
tried to be rather forceful. I am talking to you, you stupid plant! he hollered one day. Mrs. Jenkins overheard his words and chided him, Meyer, I wouldnt recommend talking to potted plants. The classroom
children laughed uproariously, along with the stack of papers on Mrs. Jenkins desk, waiting to be graded.
2

Meyer was worried. If all the items around him started ignoring him, who would he have to talk to?
He eyed the plant day after day, determined to squeeze a greeting out of it. When the other kids ran
to recess or art class, he would sneak back into the room, plant himself in front of the silent foe and
attempt to pry a word out. Alas, the green demon remained stoic and determinedly unfriendly. Worse,
he was noticing that some other items had started to give him the silent treatment. The previous night
when he brushed his teeth, he didnt get the usual protest of, Im not going into that dirty cavern,
from his toothbrush. Nor did his blankets wrap themselves around him tightly and lull him to sleep
with their usual bedtime story.
The next day as Meyer sat outside alone at recess, miserably contemplating his future silent world, a boy
from his class approached him, basketball tucked under his arm. Hey Meyer, wanna play basketball with
me and some of the guys? Meyer couldnt believe his ears. It must have been the basketball talking. No, it
was actually the boy. The human, breathing, heart-beating boy! Meyer looked up, brightened, and jumped
up to join them. He ran so fast he didnt even hear the basketball murmur its best wishes. Nor did he hear
the taunting of the hoop as he neared it. The blacktop was silent as Meyers sneakers pounded its warm
surface. The birds, perched nearby, sang a melodious tune . . . without words. All Meyer could hear was the
sound of the boys friendly banter as they tossed him the ball and he successfully shot for two points.
The potted plant contentedly watched from the classroom window as it called the game play by play,
to no one in particular.

Nathaniel Keenan
Using a Different Lens
It fell slowly

A sharp cling rings in my ears as IT hits the ground. IT bounces up quickly, then rattles to silence as IT
eventually lies motionless on the wooden floor.
Stop, rewind. Rewind, I say. My eyes are squeezed shut. Little dots cross my vision as I watch it
again.
Cling.
Rewind, I say. My fingers flick out. The memory rewinds. Again. And again.
Cling.
Cling.
Cling.
Slow motion, this time, I bounce slightly in my bed. Zoom please!
I watch IT fall, starting at 5 feet and 5 inches (margin of error of an inch). The camera follows. IT fell
slowly to the ground. The cling is more like a clang, the sound is stretched by the quarter speed, obviously.
I squint slightly as IT flashes in the light from the window.
Again.
Clang.
Clang.
Cla
Joseph? Mother was in my doorframe. The video disappears.
Not now, Mother. I need to figure this out. I have IT in my hands, but I hide IT from her. I look at
her. Shes in my doorframe. Shes not in my room, but shes in my room.
Wide angle shot to my shocked face.
Honey, Im not in your room. Remember? We decided doorframe is okay. I need a place so we can
talk.
Close-up shot to her eyes.
Okay, I say.
Mother starts talking. The camera pulls away from her slowly as she talks.
Joseph, I wanted to remind you that were still having dinner at Applebees tonight. But, were staying home for dinner next Wednesday, okay?
IT is cold in my hands.
But its a Wednesday, I say. Its Wednesday. Applebees on Wednesdays, Mother.
Camera pans to the calendar, then back to me. I raise my hands.
See?
I know, Joseph. She sighs. But, we talked about Applebees. We have to be more careful with
money. Applebees is no longer on the calendar starting next week, okay?
4

Reverse shot.
Okay. Ill look at it. Ill look at the calendar.
Thanks, Joseph. And since its our last week, youre getting a gift. Okay?
Low-angle shot of my face. My hands move in and out of the shot flicking with excitement. A video
camera? Its a video camera, right?
She smiles. Slow shot across her face. Thats a pretty good guess, Joseph. Youre probably right.
Two hours, Joseph. She signs I love you with her hand, then backs out of the doorframe.
The camera stays, focusing on the empty doorframe. Steady cam, with a slight blurring effect. Empty
doorframes make for good framing. I stare back at my lap, fiddling with IT again in my fingers. The
camera circles my hands slowly, moving in and out of focus.
No more Applebees, because of this. I look at IT, remembering the moment.
I close my eyes and start watching it again.
Theres Father, no, Michael now, standing.
I squeeze my eyes tighter.
The camera pulls slowly from his face. His eyebrows are down; his face is ugly with wrinkles. His teeth
are showing, but its not right. Hes not smiling. The camera shifts to his hands. He pulls IT off his left-hand
finger and holds it in his right-hand forefinger and thumb. Size 9.5. Lens flare as the light catches the gold.
Were past that point, Michael! Its too late! Its past! Father, Michael, yells. He throws IT to the
ground.
Slow it down. Go slow, I say. I cover my shut eyes with my hands. The memory slows down.
IT fell slowly. Fell. It isnt falling. It fell. Its past. Why is it past? Why is it over?
He walks away.
He says its past. It fell. Its past. Why is that? Its past so we cant have Applebees? Why cant we have
Applebees still?
The camera switches between it and Applebees. Quicker and quicker. The world starts getting blurry.
I open my eyes.
The world is still blurry.
But I have it! I yell. My tears fall slowly. Fall. Not fell. Present. Not past. Not over. I put IT, the ring,
on my finger.
I have it. Why? Why is it past? Why? I scream, How is it past?
Camera spins to the empty doorframe. Mother comes through. Shes on my bed. In my room.
Thats against the rules.
Its okay this time. The camera pulls back. Were sitting on my bed. Shes sitting next to me. Were
both crying. Our tears fall slowly.

Christopher Keenan
Subterfuge

Mister Whiskers cleaned the red human blood off the couch. It was terribly hard having human
overlords, but letting them fight aliens was proving to be an excellent distraction from the incoming
feline takeover.
Mister Whiskers collar rang.
Meow . . . Meow meow meow . . . Meow Meow Meow Meow Meeeeeoooow . . . Meow. Meow.
He hung up the phone and walked out towards the small cat door, glancing smugly at the couch.
Which obviously didnt shoot him in the face. It was, after all, just a couch.

That was the moment I realized my parents were aliens

State your name, for the record.
John, I said. John Smith.
His mustache twitched as he glared down at me. Occupation.
Archeologist, I replied. I study ancient cultures and artifacts. I have been employed by the
Washington museum for 6 years now.
The voice recorder quietly hummed on the counter as my host ran his fat fingers through the ash in
his ashtray. A deplorable habit. His wild greasy hair framed his pudgy, mustached face. Perspiration
collected on his brow and neck as he breathed heavily in the smoky air. Over his shoulder, a morbidly
obese cat staggered blearily through the omnipresent cigarette smoke. An old Police Academy degree
was famed on the wall, long since yellow and faded.
You said you have some questions for me, detective? I asked, trying not to think about my odds of
developing lung cancer the longer I stayed in this room.
Only two, he said. His eyes remarkably blue and clear, despite living in a veritable hovel. What do
you know of Eden, and why are the pyramids so tall?
My blood ran cold. Old Detective Johnson? Could he be the one I have waited for so long? I forcibly
controlled my breathing. My wait could finally be up; it could be time to go home.
Still, it could also be a trap.
But I couldnt resist. I wanted to go home. Eden was where the seed was planted, and the pyramids
were built from the top down, I recited.
Johnson smiled a pale yellow-toothed smile. That reminds me, one night I walked into my room
and saw the sky was open.
Inhibitions forgotten, I leapt out of my chair and joyfully yelled, That was the moment I realized my
parents were aliens!
Johnsons smile widened, and then he shot me in the face.

Johnson cleaned the blue blood off of his walls, holding his nose against the rotting stench of the
dead alien. He lit another cigarette to mask the scent.
His cell phone rang.
Agent Johnson . . . Yes, he was an OTHER. I have terminated him and will send him to the lab for
testing . . . No sir, it was the delivery code that betrayed him . . . I have already contacted Agent Marsh.
He is going to his home to see when he last had contact with his home planet . . . Thank you, sir.
He put the phone away in his pocket and smiled down at the dead alien. We finally seem to be
cleaning this planet up, Mister Whiskers.
His cat meowed appreciatively, then shot Agent Johnson in the face.
6

Nicholas Keenan
Casting Ever After

The clock strikes twelve. Well thats not clich.

Beatrice anxiously straightened out her office. She was the best at what she did, and the whole land
knew it, but there was always a moment of apprehension when a client came in, especially when that
client was as wealthy and powerful as the Stormhelds. There were stacks of papers to be adjusted, a
bewitched chair that needed a touch up, and a quill that she wanted to set out strategically, as if implying it was a guarantee that her customers were going to buy.
There was a knock at the door. They were here. Beatrice took a deep breath, stood up straight, and
adjusted her pointed hat and wart before answering the door. Hello! she proclaimed as she saw her
expected company. Come on in!
The Stormhelds were everything Beatrice expected them to be. They seemed to radiate authority.
King Stormhelds beard was thick and well maintained, and his brow always seem to be slightly
furrowed as if he were giving serious thought to everything that was said. The queen was no less
impressive. She seemed to glide as she moved in to the room, while her eyes seemed steady as the
Everlasting Sea and just as deep. In her arms she held a sleeping child that appeared to be the manifestation of joy itself.
Thank you, the King said, his voice rough and yet gentle, like a threaded carpet.
Beatrice gestured to the table, were two comfortable chairs awaited the royal guests. Please.
The group made their way over to the table. The King and Queen sat purposefully and nobly on
their chairs. Beatrice sat across as she pulled out a paper and grabbed her quill. So, what kind of fairy
tale are we hoping for today?
The couple looked at each other before the Queen stated, Were really not sure at the moment.
The Charmings told us about how you set them up with that wonderful True Loves Kiss tale and we
thought it might be worth looking into. They highly recommended you. Said you were the best.
Beatrice tried not appear too proud of herself. It was hard because she was quite good, after all. The
Charmings certainly live up to their name. Wonderful people. Well, perhaps I could suggest a few
options? Maybe a simple curse. Something that wont take effect until shes older. You could forget to
invite me to some event, then Ill come in and curse her that shell turn into something terrible if shes
not back every night before the clock strikes twelve.
Well thats not clich, The King muttered quietly. He must have worried about sounding rude as he
quickly added, I apologize. That came out much more condescending than I meant it to.
Beatrice wasnt offended. It was a common concern. I make fairy tales, your majesty. Youll find that
clichs are just part of the game. Whether its something midnight other times its a particularly potent
kiss; every true fairy tale needs some classic tropes.
I see your point, the Queen stated serenely, But if it is all the same to you, I dont want to risk my
daughter becoming something monstrous.
8

Understandable, said Beatrice, not even a little worried. She had far too many tricks up her sleeve
for that. You mentioned the Charmings. Perhaps we could look into something of that nature. One
where she interacts with some enchanted something, and it curses her to sleep. Some common place
item, like a pillow or a carriage. Then True Loves Kiss can save her from it.
I dont want to be difficult, said the King, looking down at his daughter tenderly, But I would like
our little princess to have her own fairy tale. Could you do something a little more adventurous?
Beatrice had to think on that one. Adventurous? Those types of fairy tales were always hard to
conjure up. There was always a risk that one of the members would hurt themselves and file a lawsuit
against her. It would need to be someone who could stand the rigors. Suddenly, Beatrice had an idea.
She swiveled in her chair and dug through her cabinet of recent proposals and found what she was
looking for.
The Henrys were in here a few weeks ago. They want their son, Prince Eustice, to save a damsel
from an enchanted castle. Perhaps I could kidnap your daughter as some sort of revenge against the
two of you and lock her away in a tower. In your time of need the prince will come and save the day!
No curses, no sleeping, just a classic Rescued Love tale.
The King stroked his beard, Well we have been looking to strengthen our alliance with the Henrys.
We may kill two birds with one stone here. King Henry is a mighty man, Im sure his son will be as
well.
She had them. Beatrice just needed to seal the deal. Granted, combining tales is a tricky and expensive
chore. However, since it is between your two families you can split the bill and ultimately come out ahead.
I can check with King and Queen Henry, but I highly doubt theyll object.
The Queens eyes lit up. Oh, please do. That sounds wonderful.
Beatrice nodded, Now, will the two of you be willing to play the part of tough love? The kind where
you are just trying to protect her from me, but she sees it as oppressive, but when she gets kidnapped
she sees how much she took you for granted? It really helps form the tale.
The King chuckled. It sounded like the rustling of the woods. Youre asking a father to be protective
of his daughter? Yes. I think I can manage that.
Perfect! Beatrice exclaimed with a clap. Ill get started on this right away. In the mean time I have
to excuse you so that I may work on this. Ill touch base with the Henrys and let them know. If they
agree we can all get together and discuss pricing. Ill have a draft of the tale ready for that discussion.
Lovely, said the Queen. She took her husband by the arm as they stood up, We really appreciate
you doing this for us. She turned to Beatrice with real concern in her deep eyes before adding,
Arent you worried about being the villain in this story?
Beatrice smiled and winked one of her emerald eyes. My pretty, Im a witch. Its what we do. Off you
with you now. I must get started. Dont make me curse you now.
They chuckled as Beatrice escorted the stoic pair out of her office, and gently closed the door behind
them. She made her way back to her desk, picked up her quill, and began to write.
Once upon a time . . .

Sarah Keenan

Everything a Man Could Want

Synchronize your watches. Well only get one chance.

Wilhelm Tiberius Augustus III is the emperor.

He is powerful. He is rich. He is shrewd. He has more wives and children than he can count. He has
everything a man could want.
He wasnt always like this though, just as the world was not always as it is now. He was born a
peasant on a farm, the son of a man who had been and would be a farmer all his life. Wilhelm Tiberius
Augustus III is not his name, but his title. His true name is Will, a thoroughly common name by any
standard, the name of a future farmer.
But Wilhelm had always wanted more. He had joined the army. He had risen to the ranks of a
knight. He had gone on quests and found things that everyone had deemed as impossible. He had
become a noble, then a feudal king, then, finally, an emperor.
Some call Wilhelm III a benevolent emperor and his life warrants this title. He brought electricity
and technology to his people. He had unified the lands. He had brought order to a formerly chaotic
realm. Others call him a dictator and this title is just as justified as the last. He had conquered towns,
cities, and nations. He had burned villages and pillaged his enemies. He had discovered the secrets to
eternal life. Centuries have passed and he still exists, still conquers, still rules. He is beloved, hated, and
feared in equal proportion.
A knight enters Emperor Wilhelms throne room. He is dressed in the royal garb with a lightweight
metal placed over his tunic. The metal is dented and his tunic is ripped, but Wilhelm III dismisses
the mans appearance. He himself asked the man to come to him as soon as his task was complete,
particularly with the solstice almost at hand.
The man bows before the emperor and presents the result of his quest to Wilhelm: seven gold
watches. Each is identical and each shows a different time.
Wilhelm III allows the knight to leave. He waves his hand and seven other men walk into the
room. The men are his seven most trusted advisors. He has picked them carefully as the knight was
gone on the quest. In his long life, Wilhelm III has known betrayal, has known it several times over,
but his experience has helped him to understand what kinds of men can be trusted and what kinds of
men cannot. Each of the men approaches him, and he hands each of them a single watch.
Finally, after the seven watches are distributed, Wilhelm reaches inside his cloak and pulls out a last
watch. It is the same gold as the others, but the watch is frozen in time, just as Wilhelm III.
Wilhelm looks out the window. The sun has almost reached the peak of the sky and the time is near.
Synchronize your watches, Wilhelm III says softly to the seven assembled men. Well only get one
chance.
The men give silent nods. They carefully move their clocks back. The hands on the clock whirl
excitedly, eagerly even.
10

The hands on the emperors watch is stubborn. It moves deliberately, each twist of the knob a
Herculean effort. But it eventually is moved to the same time as the other watches. Each is set 520 years
back in time.
The sun gives a final rise, its rays now shining more fully into the emperors throne room. The
solstice has arrived. Wilhelm III gives a small smile to his men, one that simultaneously portrays a deep
sadness and a hard determination. Some of the seven men look uncertain; others, frightened. A few
have tears in their eyes.
Goodbye, Wilhelm says, releasing the dial on his watch. At his signal, the other men likewise
release their dials. The room is enveloped in the sound of whiling clocks, and the colors blend into one
another until everything disappears.

Will is a farmer.
He is humble. He is poor. He is wise to some things and utterly ignorant to others. He has a wife and
four children.
He has everything a man could want.

11

Jonathan Keenan
Half Past Twelve

Sounds of a music box danced through the air

Yes, we have captured the last of the 12, Jacob Stelling said over the sound of clamoring reporters.
The confirmation rode upon a wave of elation around the crowd. People hugged and cried. It was
finally over. Jacob felt no such joy. Hed been running and chasing for years, and he was tired. One
reporter got his attention Sir, was anyone killed in the assault? Names flashed through his head.
Hannah, Drew, Harry, Justin, Aaron, Steven, Emily, the Cane family, most of New York. No, Jacob
said numbly. No one had died in this altercation.
There were twelve of them. There would always be twelve now. Kept in near death. A tempting prize
for anyone.
Officer, what do you know about the governments plan to study these powers?
Jacob stopped breathing. Study them. Study them? Were twelve not enough? All the death and pain.
Can you imagine what this could do to advance our world? his wife had said after a breakthrough
in the technology. Forests reclaimed, diseases eradicated, peace brought, her smile was the widest he
had ever seen. He had been proud of her.
Now she had dozens of tubes leading from her body as she floated in a solution she had invented
herself. Jacob had laid her drugged body in front of the president. He smiled and shook his hand, gave
him a medal.
Once alone, Jacob shot the medal. Again and again and again.
How could this have happened to Shannon? How could they have done this to her? He put his fist
through a wall.
How could he have done this to her? Broken window.
How could she have done this to him? Clothes ripped and thrown out the window.
Then he had gotten the call. The 12th has been spotted, this can end now. Emotions hidden.
Repressed. The 12th hadnt fought back. He had just sat there as he was shot again and again. So tired,
he had said.
He was shot with darts, not bullets. Never bullets. The man who killed one of these 12 took their
powers upon him. And their corruption.
Jacob remembered his honeymoon. He remembered dancing with his wife and then listening to her
talk about Mans potential. The music was left playing. He can still hear the sounds of the music box
dance through the air. He doesnt listen to music anymore. It reminds him of that night. The night he
had told her to continue, and not give up her experiments.
She didnt.
She and 12 others had brought powers to themselves. Each was different, but each was basically the
same. Godlike, powerful. Monsters. Jacob walked into the government building, flashing I.D. though
everyone there recognized him. He walked deeper into the building, past concrete and steel, deep into
12

the ground. He saw the 11. Immobile and silent. Floating. Monsters. They were being studied by men
in lab coats.
Men who were trying to recreate it.
Trying to recreate what killed Shannon.
No, not killed. Worse than killed. She was forced to stay alive in a dreamless sleep.
The 12th was not yet in stasis. He was lying on a metal table, hooked up to machines.
Jacob walked up to him. He stared at his weary eyes, his sad eyes. This man just wanted peace. Jacob
could give him that. He did not have his gun, so Jacob wrapped his fingers around the mans throat.
The scientists were watching the other 11, and they trusted him implicitly. The man died.
Jacob was filled with power. And anger, and pride. With a wave of his hand, he shattered the other
pods, killing the 11 instantly. Rest well, Shannon. The scientists scrambled and started their emergency
plans, but they were too late. Jacob was a god now. He could see all of reality. He could shape this world
into his will. He could do anything. This world was his and he could have whatever he wanted. Except
Shannon. He couldnt have her. He knew that that was one thing this power could not do. He couldnt
do this. He had to end this power. No man should have this.
Before he gave into corruption, Jacob stopped his own broken heart.
I come, my love.

13

Katherine Keenan

When Fairytales Come to Life

The clock strike 12. Well, thats not clich.

Let me first explain how I got into this mess. It wasnt my fault. It was Jakes. Sure, I was the one that
got Prince Charming to race down the steps after me. And sure, I did wear stupid shoes, but I never
expected to change history.
Lets start over. My name is Ella, though commonly in fairytales, which Im not normally a part
of, you would recognize me as Cinderella. Yes, I, a normal girl from upstate New York, found myself
tumbling through the pages of a book and into the land of fairytales, where I ran into a plump lady
in blue rags, with a glowstick-looking-thingamabob, and she gave me a blue dress. Then, with some
horrible advice, she gave me glass slippers. I didnt question it. I thought they were rad. Cuz, like, how
often do you get to walk in glass shoes? Anyway, I was completely unaware of what story was unfolding
around me (Looking back, how did I not see that I was Cinderella? I have no idea. I guess I was too
caught up in the magic). It was only until the moment that I lost the glass slipper at the stroke of
midnight did I realize what was happening. Let me just start at the ball to make sense.
I sigh as I fidget with my dress. Quit it, Jake says beside me in a white suit-tuxedo-looking outfit.
You look like a dork when doing that.
That boosts my confidence, I mutter. I tuck a strand of loose blonde hair behind my ear, glancing
around the room as everyone was dancing. I lean over to Jake. So, do you think you know where we
are? Or how to get home? That fairy from earlier didnt really do anything, but fix my prom dress and
make it into this . . . blue gown. Honestly, I prefer pink, but whatever.
Jake shrugs, his eyes scanning the ballroom. I have absolutely no idea. Are you sure you cant
remember which book weve fallen into?
Ive told you before, I whisper, I had, like, five books open on the table. I dont know which one
weve entered, though they definitely were all fairytales.
It looks like Jake is about to say something, but someone beats him to it. Excuse me, a smooth
voice says, but may I be honored with a dance, milady? I turn and see a man in a white, goldtrimmed outfit standing next to me, smiling gently. His blue eyes stare at me intently with his black
hair smoothed back. I smile, blushing furiously. I shrug, accepting his hand. He slowly guides me out
to the center of the ballroom. I am a little slow since my feet hurt so much from these stupid shoes.
Why would anyone want glass slippers?
The man begins to dance slowly with me, making it the most romantic thing a girl could ever want.
I seriously hope Jake is taking notes, because he could seriously woo a lot of ladies this way. The man
smiles at me. May I know your name, milady?
Certainly, Ella.
Cinderella? the man asks. Thats a beautiful name.
There is too much chattering. I frown, not really hearing him clearly. Sorry, but whats your name?

Prince Charming.
I freeze and stop dancing. What? It took me all a matter of seconds. I glance down at my blue
dress, glass slippers. I look back at Prince Charming. My name is Ella and I have blonde hair. I think,
realization finally dawning on me. Oh, no. I know what story were in. I smile awkwardly at the prince,
pulling my hands away from him. Oh, I say dumbly, backing away. I just realized that I have to
go. I spin away from the prince, scurrying as quickly as I could away from the ballroom to Jake. Hes
casually standing where I left him. I grab his wrist and race out the doors of the palace, running down
the steps.
I suddenly hear a loud clang and pause on the steps, looking up to see a large clock towers hand
ticking. Suddenly, the clock strikes twelve. What a clich, I mutter.
What is going on? Jake says quickly, standing on the steps with me.
I know which story were in, I explain quickly.
Which one?
I point at my dress. Cinderella! Jake looks up with wide eyes and I can see that he finally caught
up. The clock rings again and I hear a voice call out my name. I look up at the palace and see Prince
Charming running down the steps.
Oh no! I gasp, grabbing Jakes wrist again and sprinting down the steps. I trip and glance behind
me to see the slipper on the steps. Typical, but I ignore it and hurry away from the prince. I always
thought this scene to be romantic in the story, but now that I am actually living, it was kind of creepy,
like stalker-level creepy.
I glance up and slowly see something that looks like a swirl of faded colors. It slowly forms in front
of us. Jake! I scream, pointing at it. Run through that! I think thats how we get out.
You sure? he screams.
Nope! I scream back, but I pull his wrist and dive headfirst into the swirl of colors. I landed on
rough carpet of my library back in New York. I look around, and suddenly jump to my feet. Dude!
Were home! I cry, only to look around the second later and see the whole library staring at me in my
Cinderella dress. I drop my arms slowly, blushing. I tuck another piece of hair around my ear, staring at
all of the people in the library.
You guys believe in fairytales?

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