Sweetly-Inspired Fairy Tale Writing Contest Winners

After a long delay, I’m delighted to finally present the winners of our Sweetly by Jackson Pearce writing contest. For this contest, we asked you to write part of a modernized twist on a classic fairy tale — much like Jackson does in Sweetly and its companion novel, Sisters Red.

The following three winners will each receive a copy of Sweetly and a special Sweetly lollipop courtesy of Little Brown!

Keep reading after the jump to see the winning entries!

Laura M.’s take on The Emperor’s New Clothes:

My palms start to sweat as I stand backstage, running through the last three months’ events in my head. How did it get this out of hand? As soon as she goes out there, it’s all going to be over. I’m going to have effectively ruined the rest of her high school career. Which, to her—let’s face it—is the end-all, be-all of her existence.

It all started as a simple ploy for my own amusement, but it’s going to end up destroying life as she knows it. And when she finds out I tricked her—that the so-called “vocal cord elixir” I gave her was nothing more than Japanese fruit tea—my life will be similarly in shambles. (That is, at least until college.)

I mean I know I haven’t always been the friendliest person, but this may have crossed a line. Let’s think about this. I have exactly one friend–well, had exactly one friend–and even she’s bailed. Although to be fair, she’s the most sickeningly sweet, positive person I’ve ever met, so she would probably just self-destruct if she were to ever engage in this level of deceitfulness.

“Jessica Bingham!” the stage manager called. “You’re up!”

Oh God. She’s up. In just a few short minutes, the whole school is going to know that Jessica Bingham, Moorestown Academy of Performing Arts’ newest celebrity, sings like a bag full of stray cats being slammed against a brick wall.

This never would have happened if her asinine friends didn’t go along with every lie that rolled out of my mouth just to be shielded from her wrath. “You sound great, Jessica! You have to make a cd, Jessica! Where can I buy those pants, Jessica?” Okay, that last one was beside the point. But if those psychotic clones didn’t worship the ground she walks on and encourage her to sing tonight even though they know darn well she still sounds like a cow being run over by a speeding train, this whole operation would’ve been shut down right from the start, allowing me to go right back to the life of invisibility I always wanted. So really, this is their fault.

Great. She’s at the mic. Maybe I should just sprint onto the stage and slow-motion tackle her, screaming “Noooooo!” for a full 6 seconds. That’s what they would do if this was one of those Disney Channel shows. (Not that I’ve ever watched those to escape my otherwise boring high school experience. I’m just saying—no one at my school ever sees the future or tries out for the school mascot while hilarious hijinks ensue along the way.)

Too late now. The track has started. I can’t look. No–I can’t listen. I need to leave.

As I turn to my left to try to make a quick escape, my face suddenly collides with a cinderblock wall of a man apparently named Phil, according to the plastic name tag that was now endangering my cornea.

“Hey, uh, isn’t that the girl you came with on stage?” he pointed to Jessica, who was busy motioning at the sound guy to turn the music up in the monitors.

“Oh, um, well…” was all I managed to get out, because he spun me around and pushed me towards the side of the stage.

“Good thing I caught ya or you would’ve missed the whole thing!” he chuckled politely then shuffled off, mumbling into his headset.

Awesome. Now I am forced to watch this train wreck first hand. I cover my eyes, leaving only a small crack between my fingers to peer through. Jessica and I simultaneously take a deep breath. Here we go.

Jen B.’s take on Swan Lake:

The moon had never looked this way to her before.

It had been pretty to her Before. And After, she could barely stand the sight of it. But tonight? Phoebe just hadn’t been able to see it properly from behind a pane of glass. She’d padded downstairs, tiptoed past her Uncle Vincent and Aunt Odie’s room, and gone to stand barefoot on the porch. The moon tinted the surrounding sky silver. If Phoebe squinted, it looked like streams of liquid mercury floating towards the stars.

A leaf drifted from the trees to land gently atop the lake behind the house. It sent ripples over the moon’s reflection, beckoning towards Phoebe. She obliged, walking forward and dipping a toe into the waters, testing their warmth. It had been a long time since she’d felt water against her skin instead of– no, she wouldn’t think about that tonight.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late to be contemplating a swim?”

She didn’t turn her head to acknowledge his presence. “No.”

She heard Darren Siegfried plop down– uninvited, Phoebe thought uncharitably– on the grass. “I haven’t seen you since…” he trailed off, obviously discomfited as he plucked a blade of grass from the ground.

Phoebe waited to see what he’d fill in the blank with as she turned to face him. Since you kicked me out of your house? Since you told me I was an idiot? Since I abandoned you?

“Since the funeral,” he settled on, unable to meet her eyes.

Oh, she thought. She hadn’t known that he’d been there. Her mind flashed briefly to that day; the gray sky, the numb feeling pervading her body, Uncle Vincent and Aunt Odie’s hands settling firmly on her shoulders.

“They homeschool me now.” You could call it that, she supposed, casting an anxious glance at the moon. It had already sank so low. The sun would be up any minute now.

“I don’t see you at night either,” Darren said. He stood and dusted the grass from his pajama bottoms.

“My aunt and uncle keep a tight leash,” she said with a bitter chuckle.

Darren walked forward to join her ankle-deep in the water. “I miss you, Pheebs.” His hands settled on her waist.

The sun began to peek over the horizon. Her eyes flicked over to it and closed with dismay. So soon? “You should go inside, Darren,” Phoebe whispered.

“No.” He lowered his lips to hers and Phoebe’s stomach swooped. Darren’s hand was in her hair, his lips were on hers, and she was soaring, flying straight into the sun.

The sun…

Its bottom sneaked over the horizon to rise and Phoebe cried out as a blinding light shot from her skin.

“Phoebe?”

Her body shrank. Her nose, always a little too pointy, sharpened to a beak. Her arm erupted in a riot of feathers and orange webbed feet faced Darren’s. She hung her long, graceful neck at his incredulous “Pheebs?” She couldn’t look up at him, couldn’t dive back below the surface of the water, couldn’t stand the sight of her wings.

What good was having wings when she finally knew what it was like to really fly?

Julie M.’s take on Sleeping Beauty:

In pure anticipation, I stared at the grandfather clock, my eyes chasing after the hands as they swung back and forth, back and forth. The mahogany wooden clock stood tall and proud as it belted out each passing second. Butterflies fluttered in the caverns of my stomach, trying to burst free.

One minute.

Turning my attention to the window, I was awed by the night sky and its masterpiece of twinkling stars that blinked in beautiful harmony. Rays of moonlight filtered in through the maroon drapes and cast my skin in a dazzling white color.

I gazed at the clock for a second.

Twenty seconds.

Bats dipped and pirouetted through the air in an intricate and intimate dance known only to them. The trees rustled, their leaves twirling to the ground before the wind picked them back up and guided them through the empty streets. A lone raccoon scampered in and out of driveways, scouring for a good snack.

Nature at its best.

I pried my eyes away from the amazing scene to watch the clock. Again. My enthusiasm filled every ounce of me with golden warmth.

Five.

Almost time. My grin widened. Tick.

Four. I fidgeted in my plush seat. Tock.

Three. My foot tapped against the carpet. Tick.

Two. Tock.

One! The thought was a gleeful shout. The clock chimed out a song in twelve lingering beats to announce the hour.

Happy Birthday to me. I was drunk with happiness, high with the excitement of the moment.

Jumping up, I kissed the clock’s face, leaving behind a smudge of breath.

Almost old enough to drive.

As I hummed to myself, I rubbed at the foggy spot.

The circle veined out, tendrils of white zigzagging across the surface like cracks. In no time, the whole face was adorned with thin fractures. Spreading my fingers, I pressed my palm of my hand to the streaks.

Smooth but ice-cold. So cold it was almost painful.

Shivering, I traced the strange lines in wonder.

Once my hand was off the surface, what I witnessed stunned me. The tendrils of fog had curved into snaking vines and needle-sharp thorns. At the very edge was a blooming rose, detailed to beautiful perfection. Gasping in surprise, I admired the cold petals with my forefinger.

So-

The glass exploded, sending me staggering. The shards of glass caught the light and glinted like deadly rainbows as they showered the floor. Shielding my face with my hands, I tripped over the couch and landed on the glass-covered carpet.

Tiny pieces of jagged glass bit into me.

Upstairs, I could hear doors fly open and my family race through the hall, a cacophony of voices following them.

Ouch.

My eyes were drowsy, tired. I fought the urge to sleep, knowing there was a possibility of never waking up.

Only some glass….not fatal.

“Rose!” I could faintly hear my mom fretting over me.

Words failed me.

My hand flared with pain; feebly, I raised it to see the injury. A confused fear trickled down my spine at the sight. Blood oozed out of the wounds and-

What?

A single rose thorn was lodged in the palm of my hand. An invisible fire raged under my skin, the blaze shooting up my arms.

How?

My eyes gave up the fight and fluttered shut; the warm blanket of sleep smothered me, throwing me into the world of dreams.