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This story is quite possibly my favorite I've ever written. It won first place in a writing contest here, and I was very proud of it. Here it goes!

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The bells ring noon, and I sit and wait, looking around at all the other toys.

There’s a stuffed giraffe standing tall and regal in the center of the room, its fur starting to fade but its eyes still gleaming with a mischievous glow. Over by the toy box there are five dolls, all beautiful, but all different, wearing anything from chopped up curtain to nothing but ribbons to only one who actually has the right outfit on, a fairy outfit to be precise.

Over by the table, there lies a few steadfast tin soldiers, staring longingly at the ballerinas beginning to twirl over by the microwave. And there are so many little cars, so many toys designed for one to think himself, or herself, in the military, as a firefighter, flying the skies on the back of a rainbow-colored dragon....

As for myself, I am a volleyball-sized blue teddy bear, a glorious anomaly for all to behold, and for most who behold me to completely empathize with, since they are all anomalies too.

I look over the room once again, only this time scanning the walls. They are white, pure white, sterile white. There’s not a single tinge of color on those walls. It perturbs me that with everything else in this room, the walls would be colorless.

I’ve heard before that the walls were purposely made that way in order to not disturb the people who come into this room, every Wednesday, from twelve thirty to three. But I wonder... what would be so wrong with a colorful wall, what’s so disturbing about a rainbow, or a flowered-filled hill?

I look at the clock again. It’s twelve-fifteen.

The bells are ringing again, but this time they sound lighter, almost like the tinkling music of children’s voices. I’ve heard children’s voices several times before... they’re beautiful. But the voices I hear now, every Wednesday, from twelve-thirty to three... their beauty shames the choir of nightingales outside these walls.

I’m one of the few toys who looks forward to their arrival every week. The other toys don’t seem to like them very much. I can admit the dolls are justified, as is the toy giraffe. The arrivals can be very creative sometimes, and they are the ones who usually get the brunt of their more... bizarre creativity.

The giraffe often asks me why I don’t despise them... I get as much affection from them as the giraffe does. The giraffe doesn’t call it affection, though, he calls it mauling, smothering, and at rare times borderline-murder. I must really be an anomaly, then, for I regard the mauling, smothering and borderline-murder as a good thing for myself... after all, it is just excessive hugging.

Though I must admit, I really didn’t like the make-up one of the arrivals put on me one week, because it made me look ridiculous, and because I had to go into the washing machine and dryer afterwards. I nearly threw up cotton... I don’t want to have to do that again.

As I stretch my arms, ready to give a hug, I look at the clock... it is finally twelve-thirty.

Moments later, I hear the bus creak to a stop, and the door opens. For a moment I can see the sign on the bus: Bedlam Insane Asylum. After that, the bus leaves, and the patients speed toward the door, where I lay in wait for the affection I so crave.

The moderators try to slow them down lest they crash into each other and cause a fuss, and as I look I can slightly understand. After all, I don’t want them to get hurt. However, the puff of cotton which carries my heart sympathizes with the patients... they’ve been looking forward to this all week, I bet.

And they’re in the building! The doors close, and my mind is filled with bliss. I see them scurry along, picking out the toys they will play with this week. One of them, an older man, with balding blond hair and spry blue eyes, I believe he is called Junkers by the rest, picks a nutcracker from the toy chest, puts on a hat similar to the nutcracker’s, and begins to dance. It is a comical sight, but a glorious one as well.

Another patient, a woman with short dark brown hair and darker brown eyes, Amelia, I think, goes straight for the giraffe... and immediately begins swinging his neck around like it was a cowboy rope. All right, I can see why he wouldn’t like the patients that much, but I’ve been pulled at like that before, and I’ve never been hurt.

A few minutes later, when she’s tired of swinging around the giraffe’s neck, she puts him down, squeezes him into a hug, lays down and falls asleep, hugging him all the while. I think I can almost see the giraffe smile.

Two other women, I believe the two are twins, Jane and Johanna, play with dolls, one of them, probably Johanna, fixing up the fairy doll’s hair and attempting to dye her hair black with the paint she somehow managed to smuggle in.

Jane, however, is trying to figure out why the doll covered up in ribbons doesn’t quite look right... and happily realizes that the doll needs a skirt... and she rips off a bit of her uniform and makes it into a skirt for her doll.

Another man, Christian, holds a tin soldier in one hand and a ballerina in the other. He reenacts the same story every week, with a different pair of tin soldier and ballerina every time... it’s not their fault, for both always end up “destroyed” in an orange cloth of flames at the end. Then he cries, and holds both of them tight... I can tell he sees himself in their eyes. And I long for him to see me, so I can hug him as well as I can, and try to reassure him that everything will be all right.

The moderator is trying to get the sixth patient to do something other than sit and look at the wall. She asks as she touches his shoulder, “There’s a lot of things you can do here, why are you looking at the wall?”

He replies, “I think I’m contemplating life,” and then shivers his shoulder away from her. He doesn’t like being touched. I don’t know why, they never say anything about why in here. They try to get him to forget in here.

He’s the youngest by far. I believe his name is Ron. His hair is brown, like most of the rest of them, but his eyes are green... an anomaly amongst this crowd. He looks at the wall again. And I wonder why nobody’s looked at me yet.

And it’s already one forty-five.

I wonder if I won’t get played with today. It would be disappointing if that happened. It’s never happened before, so it’ll hurt. A lot.

As I think about what would happen, I barely notice that Ron is looking at me, walking toward me, and finally, when he is but a foot away from me, he uses one finger to poke at my stomach. He laughs a little, and I can’t help but smile. I almost think he sees, really. I think he’s the only one who really sees everything that goes on around here.

He picks me up, and shakes me in a motion reminiscent of Elvis Presley, only when the bottom part of my body moves one way, the top part of my body moves the other way. Not quite like Elvis, then.

He smiles, and then talks to me. He speaks of the beauty of the color white, which befuddles me, considering he probably doesn’t realize the moderators did that as a sign of superiority. Or did they? I cannot say anymore, because from what I’ve seen this week, the moderator has been nothing but caring... then I realize that the moderator is different.

This one doesn’t assert superiority over the patients like the previous one did, doesn’t sound condescending when she talks to the patients. This one tries to understand the situation she has been placed in, and empathize with the other people as well. For the last one forgot that they were people. The previous one only saw them as patients, nothing more. And this one is trying to remedy that. By the time I see her pass by, I realize I don’t even know her name yet.

“Miss?” Ron calls, with a smile on his face, and my problem is remedied when I realize her name is Leah.

“Yes?” she answers, with a curious smile.

“Can you ask Jane for some ribbon?”

“Now why would you want that?”

“To make Mr. Blue a volleyball.”

“Wait, as in making the teddy bear-”

“Mr. Blue.”

“-Mr. Blue, a volleyball for him to play with, or turning Mr. Blue himself into a volleyball?”

“The latter one, miss.”

A few awkward seconds later, she asks, “Now wouldn’t that hurt Mr. Blue?”

“No, not really.”

It is only then that I realize what Ron intends to do... and I can almost hear the giraffe laugh at me.

A few minutes later, I am completely tied up into the shape of a volleyball. The ribbon is pink, and for some reason Ron decided to place one hundred tiny bells on the ribbon in order to get me, the newly-created volleyball, to sing.

The other patients, exempting Amelia, who is still asleep on the giraffe, hear the bells and are at once entranced by what Ron has done. Thankfully the bonds on me are loose, maybe I can get myself free with a few well-placed squirms.

The four others place themselves into teams, Junkers and Johanna on one team, and Christian and Jane on the other. Ron has decided to be the referee. They use another piece of ribbon as a volleyball net. A few minutes later, when the makeshift net is completed, the game begins.

And it is two thirty.

I am thrown in the air by Christian, and then... I am hit across the net.

I am flying in the air, inwardly screaming all the while. This is horrifying, I have no clue where I’m going, I’m falling...

Then Johanna bumps me back up into the air, and I find the bonds of pink ribbon are looser than before. As I fly up in the air, I find myself enjoying the experience more, reveling in the upward ascent. Then once again I am falling, and Jane pushes me back up in the air, the bells on the ribbons ringing like a music box gone mad all the while...

And suddenly all I can ever want to feel is the feeling of up, and down.

Junkers jumps in the air and swings his left hand to push me into the air-

Bump.

-And I’m twisting like a spiral in the air, I’m getting dizzy, but wondrously so-

Bump.

-My right arm is free from the bonds, and it is exhilarating feeling it rush in the air-

Bump.

-My other arm is free, so this is what it feels like to fly like a nightingale in the calm outside-

Bump.

-Though I almost think they themselves would envy me this pleasure of up and down-

Bump.

-I spin around like the ballerinas on the microwave, my arms moving akin to the toy helicopter I have seen a few times before-

Bump.

-My legs are free, and I imagine myself as a shooting star, while the ribbons and bells look like the stream that follows every shooting star-

And Ron grabs me and spins around in a myriad of circles, laughing until he finally falls down on the ground and pretends that I’m still flying in the air. He then declares the game over. I don’t know who won, but I don’t care.

It is two fifty-five, and Leah the moderator gathers the patients to her. She is by the front door, and it is only then that I remember the implication of two fifty-five: that they must leave five minutes later.

It is three o’clock, and the bus arrives. Everyone must leave, and once again I am left with an overriding sadness at their departure. However, a small part of me still smiles, because I was played with today, and I think I made him smile. I hear Leah happily telling the other moderators about Ron’s progress, and I don’t know why, but it brings me joy as well to hear the good news.

The bus leaves, and the room is once again empty, except for a few toys and Leah silently picking us up. She unties the rest of the ribbons, and I can finally breathe normally again. I wonder if Leah notices like Ron did.

She puts all the toys away, and turns out the light. She sighs and closes the door to leave. A few steps later, we toys get up and eagerly discuss what happened the previous moments. However, I decide to decline for a few minutes and ponder what happened when I realize I still have a tiny bell tied to my hand.

I decide to shake it and create music... for I find it to be the most beautiful sound in the world.