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Welcome back to the BBC's 500 Words Bedtime Stories podcast.
We are positively bursting with excitement to share this week's selection of rambunctious stories.
Each and every one of these stories won the prestigious shiny gold medal at the 500 words final.
Ooh, lovely and shiny.
As this year marks our 10th competition, we wanted to take the time to reflect on the imaginative scope of the stories we've received over the years.
So strap yourselves in, lend us your ears, and get ready to travel back through 500 words history.
We'll see you on the other side.
BBC Radio 2's 500 Words.
Bedtime stories.
All the time in the world.
Isn't time peculiar?
Sometimes it flies free like a bird.
I'll never be free now.
A single envelope changes that.
But sometimes each tick feels like a lifetime passing.
At the moment, I have all the time in the world.
Literally.
I have no age.
That changes today.
March 19th, 2875
Today I get my countdown.
That's where my time starts.
And eventually ends.
According to my mother, they used to measure age as an increasing number, but the population continuously rose until they decided only the most worthy should live.
So now we're tested.
Our intelligence, looks and charisma.
It's great for the rulers who have no issues.
Perfect if you're perfect.
But why should they condemn me because I'm not?
And when that envelope comes, that's when you get your number.
The number is the amount of years you've got left to live.
The highest number I've ever heard of is 256 years.
The lowest is 10 minutes.
Apparently the girl died whilst reading it.
I say apparently, because you never know what's true and what are lies spread by the rulers.
Scare tactics.
I shouldn't speak against them.
The countdown starts as soon as you get the letter, so there's no point in not opening it.
I've tried every option.
There is no way out.
That's the problem with the new life.
There's never a way out.
The testing wasn't what I expected.
We got led into a room where there were lines of desks and booklets.
We were told we had two hours.
I've never been commended for my intelligence.
Too stupid, they all yelled.
Needless to say, I didn't fare too well.
But I'm much more interested in the running of the society than which gracious leader vanquished the rebels.
Then we all got taken into a room and examined.
I'm not ugly.
Five foot four, brown hair and brown eyes, but I'm certainly not ravishing.
I was shoved at the side while supermodel material strutted around.
That's me, always shoved at the side.
The next part was the hardest, the interviews.
The cold air, white tables and stony faces just made me panic.
''Name?'' they asked.
''It's... it's...'' I stammered, trying to put a coherent sentence together.
There were several raised eyebrows as they waited for an answer.
I begged my mouth to work, praying for the floor to swallow me up.
So instead I just ran off sobbing.
I don't think my articulation skills will have rated very highly either somehow.
It's not the end of the world, my mother told me.
But it could be.
It could be the end of my world.
But here I am.
And here's my letter.
I hold the white paper knowing what's inside could change my life forever.
Will change my life forever.
I've had it for ten minutes, so at least I won't have broken the record.
But the importance of this number... My fingers brush it as my nails tear it open.
Congratulations.
You will...
BBC Radio 2's 500 Words.
Bedtime stories.
Dancing on the streets.
On a noisy, dusty road.
A child's bare brown feet are hardly noticed as she weaves in and out of the traffic, dodging castle and halting at taxis.
She presses her nose against the windows of vehicles carrying crowds of tourists.
Tissues, ma'am.
Tissues, sir.
Only ten rupees for a box.
Sita is small for a seven-year-old, but then seven-year-olds from the slums in Ahmedabad are often smaller than other children.
The Bharatanatyam rhythm encourages her to dance.
From car to lorry, lorry to rickshaw.
On Sita's tiny face a smile begins to form.
She is so engrossed in the rhythm that she never misses a beat.
A lady in a rickshaw spots her quick-footed movements and starts rummaging through her purse to find twenty rupees ten rupees for the tissues and ten for your dancing.
Sita is delighted about receiving that much money and dances off to the tailor's to get her Bharathanatyam dress made and her dream fulfilled.
The tailor's fingers work quickly with the silky emerald fabric.
The gleaming needle punctures the soft cotton cloth, creating neat rows of stitches.
Sita watches as the dress is completed.
Sita takes the dress, her eyes wide with excitement, her mouth open in anticipation.
That's 100 rupees, child, the tailor says kindly.
Sita carefully unfolds the notes she has been saving for over a year and, with a hopeful sigh, hands them over.
I'll have that.
Her voice booms.
Sita stands, her back to the stranger.
She strongly smells rum.
Oh, it can't be, she murmurs.
A dark shadow and fiery breath indicate his presence.
Uncle.
His eyes narrow menacingly, sending a shiver down Sita's spine.
I'll have that.
He booms again.
Uncle takes the money off sita.
He turns around and slams the door behind him.
Sita knows it will be the end of her happiness.
It feels like a part of her body is gone, fatally gone forever.
Sita also knows that she should have given the money to uncle, but it didn't seem fair that he sent her to get money to make him a rich man.
On a noisy, dusty road, a child's bare brown feet are hardly noticed as she weaves in and out of the traffic, dodging cattle and halting at taxis.
Tissues, ma'am?
Tissues, sir?
Only ten rupees for a box.
Oh no, oh no.
500 words just isn't enough to prove my innocence, and I'm already down to 482.
Well, my name is Jacob Carter, as you already know.
I'm a young man.
I'm innocent.
At guilty them all.
Cut the lies.
We've all read the evidence already.
This man will repeat his actions if he scores an overall innocent.
We see through you.
Hashtag guilty.
Please don't use up my words.
Now I only have 428 left.
I need my words.
I have a family.
I have a wife.
A son.
I love him.
Little Callum.
He needs a daddy.
He's only seven.
At Tracy spoke, I've got a daughter too.
I love her.
That's why I want her to be safe from people like you.
Hashtag guilty.
Please, please, if your choice is guilty, make that all you say.
My words are precious.
Don't use up my words and waste my jury time.
This system is ridiculous.
I know they change it to save money, but surely a case like this deserves a jury in a room.
I just wish I could afford to pay for the proper trial to prove it wasn't me.
At Gregory Adams If your aim is to vex us, you fail.
Your arguments are inadequate.
I apologise highly for my verdict being hashtag guilty.
Greg!
Listen to me.
I can tell from your words that you're an educated man, so listen to the truth.
I never mentioned this before.
I was protecting him, my brother, Dominic.
I love my brother, but when he's drunk he gets violent and angry.
When he asked me to talk to the police, I said yes because I was scared, but it was my brother who committed the crime, not me.
That favour was the most stupid thing I ever did and I see that now.
Do you understand what happens to me if there are more guilties than innocence?
I will die.
The doctors are in the room next door, ready to inject the poison into my skin.
Please, just save my life.
I want to see my family again.
At Ryan Rocks.
I believe you are being dishonest, but the crimes you committed don't justify taking someone's life.
Hashtag innocent.
Thank you, but I didn't commit the crime.
It was my brother, Dominic Carter.
It was him.
Please believe me.
At Braveheart.
Jacob, I came here today ready for a guilty, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Hashtag innocent.
Anyone else?
Anyone else to vote innocent?
And please save my words.
At James Turner.
I'm on the same page as at Braveheart.
Hashtag innocent.
Yes!
It's a draw!
So it's a hung jury, right?
So I can have an e-retrial?
Then I can bring in the evidence against Dominic?
Oh, yes!
Thank you at Braveheart, at Ryan Rocks, at James Turner.
You guys have literally saved my life.
466 words, nearly there.
Is anyone else online?
Okay, quickly, I'll use up my words so no one else can get in.
Blah, blah, blah, 490.
Blah, blah, blah, 494.
Blah, blah, at Dominic Carter.
Hashtag guilty, brother.
BBC Radio 2's 500 Words Bedtime Stories Fight for life.
The silence was terrible.
I knew it would hit us at any moment.
When it came, the wave was colossal and came crashing down on us.
Two of my little ones clung to me.
They saw their father go under.
He disappeared.
We didn't see him resurface.
Then we went under too.
I was desperate to keep them alive and they clung to me as I fought to reach the top.
The deadly foam made it almost impossible to breathe.
The wreckage was everywhere.
I had heard of the horror of these moments and I knew there would be worse to come.
My children were heaving and fighting to breathe.
Their father was nowhere to be seen.
Most of the others had been massacred by the torturous wave.
The air stank of toxic fumes.
The debris of dead bodies, dead children surrounded us.
Very soon the next wave would come for us.
I wanted to scream but I couldn't.
My young ones didn't know what had hit them.
If we don't move now it will be the sure death of us.
I had to find a way.
I had to find a passageway for us.
The water had gone down a good bit and we could move now.
Those few who had survived were beginning to run.
They were scampering.
We were all searching for passage.
We kept moving.
My children scurried after me, not wanting to be left behind.
Then I saw it.
I saw the way.
There was a way open to us now.
Children, we must move now.
We must leave our home now.
We must find a new home.
The wave, the flood is coming again.
Run with me now as fast as your legs will carry you.
Follow me now.
Follow me.
The passenger was approaching.
This was our chance.
Our only chance to escape, to survive.
The head was so close now.
It had to come closer.
We needed contact to transfer.
We waited and waited.
The new source was close, so close.
The foam had been washed away, but now the huge knit comb was behind us, ploughing towards us, digging up the debris and shells, splitting the bodies and destroying our eggs.
Fight!
Keep fighting!
Fight for life!
This was it.
Contact!
Now!
Now!
Run, children, run!
Cling on!
Go!
Go!
We ran for our lives.
The hair of the new passenger brushed against us.
We clung to it, clinging to the strands, clinging for our existence.
My children transferred.
We had all transferred.
We would survive and multiply again.
It's a wide world.
Midnight.
I look out of my grimy window onto darkness.
The fog is lifted and I know that this is my time.
I slip on a pair of battered old trainers passed down through generations.
They're full of holes and too small but I don't care.
I open our giant front door and breathe in the glorious fresh air.
I run and the adrenaline hits me.
Sweat trickles down my face.
I know I should turn back but this is my guilty secret.
I sprint directionless through damp meadows grass up to my waist, as no human has set foot here in decades.
If anyone knew I'd be arrested.
I race home, exhilarated.
No one has seen me as no one ever leaves their computerised houses anymore.
Everyone is overweight and terrified of stepping outside the world of the internet.
The government uses weight to control society, like puppeteers pulling the strings of their obese, obedient dolls.
Everyone except me.
No one has ever seen me sprinting through the fields, because no one ever looks past their screens.
But tonight I feel like someone is watching me.
Jonathan sat in the middle of his lifeless bedroom with his laptop on his knees.
His face was pale and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
Once again, he was up late, hacking into the government satellite.
A triumphant smile stretched across his face.
He scrolled over England and zoomed in on his local area, feeling like he had a VIP pass into everyone's lives.
Their soulless faces locked onto computer screens made him feel miserable.
Jonathan needed some excitement.
He decided to shift to the countryside, remembering with trepidation the frightening stories he'd read online about this mysterious place.
His speakers began to play a relaxing sound, the wind in the trees.
He was drifting off to sleep when he saw movement and jolted.
A figure, moving swiftly, tall and thin like a character from one of those vintage DS games.
A ghost?
No, a living, breathing, running girl.
Jonathan watched, fascinated.
He began to want this strange world of freedom and movement.
He felt his heart thud against his chest.
He felt the muscles in his legs ache.
He knew he should report her, but he'd be arrested for hacking into their satellite.
His mind repeated the words he sees every morning when he logs on to school.
The government looks after you.
Trust the government.
His conscience fought with his instincts.
He trusted the government, but now they seemed to have become evil.
The report button was just a couple of centimetres from his little finger.
If he pressed it, her freedom would disappear along with his laptop.
When I arrive home from my run I'm exhausted.
I flop onto my bed and breathe sighs of relief, just like I always do when I make it back home and know I've not been spotted.
I log onto my laptop to find one new email.
It reads, You need new trainers.
Daniel was trapped between two commuters as his mummy and daddy jumped off the train and headed out of Piccadilly Station.
As the train pulled away, Daniel felt terrified that he was now alone on the tube train.
Amidst his panic, he tried to remember his mummy's advice, but he simply couldn't remember if he was meant to stay on the train or get off at the next station.
People began to barge past him as the train entered the next station.
Some got off and some got on, but Daniel remained motionless.
He needed to make a decision and made a run for the doors.
He swiftly jumped onto the platform and looked around for his parents.
He recognised no one.
He made his way to the escalator and looked up at the people who were rushing towards him.
It was so busy he could hardly breathe.
Daniel began to run blindly back towards the station.
He had to get away from these crowds.
As a train sped away from him, he found an empty seat and sat down.
He plunged his hand into his pocket and found a packet of fruit polos.
He unwrapped the silver foil carefully and discovered to his delight that the top sweet was an orange one.
That was his favourite colour and he hoped it was a good omen.
He popped the sweet in his mouth and began to think.
He felt very alone and he missed his parents.
They nagged a lot, but he loved them.
He began to look at photographs that he had taken on the weekend in London.
His dad standing outside Buckingham Palace pretending to be one of the guards.
His mum slightly out of focus looking up at Big Ben.
The final picture had been taken by a Japanese tourist of all three of them.
They were huddled together against the cold and the wind of Tower Bridge.
Daniel felt sad and turned away from the picture.
The next train entered the station.
A mass of people were pushing to get off the train.
Then he saw them.
His mum and dad were propelling themselves towards him.
They had come back for him.
He jumped out of his seat, overwhelmed with relief.
But they paid no attention to him.
And then he saw him.
A little boy was standing with his parents looking exactly like he did.
He wore the same coat, the same shoes, and he was offering a fruit polo to his dad.
Who was this strange little boy who had taken over Daniel's life?
Now he was very afraid as he watched his family walk away from him.
He called out to his mummy, but she appeared to hear nothing.
How could she ignore him?
The little boy smiled a strange, eerie smile at Daniel and then they were gone.
He was alone.
Dear Miss, welcome to the woods.
We hope you enjoy living in this picturesque log cabin that the animals have graciously donated to you.
The woods are certainly colder than where you have come from.
I'd like you to accept this red hood and basket of seeds and foodstuff.
Your cabin is as close to your grandma as we could find possible.
As we know, she is the reason you moved.
I'm certain you will adore the woods.
The animals that live here are all pleasant folk and the scenery could be straight from a fairy tale.
Wishing you a delightful day.
Mr Wolf, Mayor.
Mr Wolf, yeah, thanks for the cabin, though it's not the biggest house I've ever seen.
Shame you didn't put us any closer to Grandma.
Dear Miss Hood, I hope you love the woods as much as I do.
A friendly reminder, please don't pick the wild flowers.
They're grown in specific order.
My teams of birds are experts in the botanical business and they ensure the woods look perfect.
If you pick any flower, it ruins the pattern.
Mr Wolf.
Mr. Wolf, I like much more space, so here's your keys back.
By the way, we will be clearing some ground so we can build my pool.
Miss Hood, I implore you not to slay any further trees.
A pool is not a necessity, whereas the trees are important to the well-being of the woods.
If one is felled, there are disastrous consequences.
Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf, since when are you the boss of me?
Miss Hood, the squirrels tell me that you have been shooting at them.
All these complaints are taking up too much of my time, and my job has become considerably more stressful.
Please try not to make the same mistakes again.
Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf, I don't know what the heck you're talking about.
Squirrels are liars.
Grandma says they were rubbish neighbours anyway.
Miss Hood, what a big appetite you have.
Do not kill the animals.
It is strictly forbidden.
I admit to being able to understand about the pheasants, but the rabbits pushed it too far.
When you continue to murder and devour the deer, you make yourself quite a reputation.
Now the boars are vanishing.
Animals are queuing up outside my office to tell me they're scared.
You're making my job very hard.
The system in the woods is surprisingly fragile and it's up to me to stop it falling into chaos.
Don't make me ask you to leave, Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf, we'd like to see you try.
Miss Hood, what a sickening fur coat you wore this morning.
Mr. Wolf.
Mr. Wolf, all the better to keep me warm.
Stop stalking me on my journeys to Grandma's.
It's very annoying.
P.S.
The coat didn't look good on the old owner anyway.
Miss Riding Hood, mark my words, you will not bruise my honour without punishment.
Mr. Wolf.
Poor Pig's Revenge There was once a pig, pink and plump, having a normal life as a normal pig.
He was walking downtown when he walked past butchers' shops smelling of blood and fat as always.
Normally Little Piggy, the piglet this entire story is about, would just walk past pointing his snout away from Butcher's Shop.
But obviously not today.
This was a special day.
For some reason, the Butcher's Shop tickled his fancy.
I know, I know.
It would seem rather peculiar for a pig to go in a butcher's shop, because everyone knows pigs and butchers don't match.
But Little Piggy was only very young.
Poor pig.
He walked past the ox aisle, the pigeon aisle, the chicken aisle, the dodo aisle, and the cow aisle.
One of them didn't seem right, but he was too interested in everything else to worry about it.
He trotted right down to the end of the shop.
If only he knew what was down there.
It was, as you probably guessed, the pig aisle.
And in it were sausages, pork, bacon, gammon, chops, ham, and trotters.
Pigs, of course. all lying there, helpless and dead.
Each pack of meat was labelled with Piggy.
That meant that it was Little Piggy's mum, dad, brother, sister, auntie, uncle, cousins and so on.
He fumed.
He outraged.
He was no longer pink.
He was an angry red.
That is very unusual for a pig to be bright red.
He trotted over to where the old butcher stood, all covered in guts.
Yuck, thought Little Piggy as he tried not to vomit all over Tim Tim the butcher.
Well, here is where it gets awkward.
The piglet was thinking, Why, what do you have to save yourself, butcher?
Whereas Tim Tim was thinking why, what a nice piece of pork and what a nice bottom for ham.
But no, now here is where it goes, vice versa.
The pig raised one muddy eyebrow and let out a squeal that was so ear-piercing it made the dogs that were outside well, he made their ears bleed.
What a rude pig.
He licked Tim Tim the butcher to death and used his trotters to replace all the animal meat with a new butcher aisle, and displayed down there was leg foot eye, arm and toe-slash-finger nails.
Soon the shop got shut down due to cannibalism and mystery.
At least now Little Piggy could enjoy his life without fear of sausages ham bacon gammon trotters, pork and pork chops.
And that was the story of how Little Piggy got his revenge on all butchers across the world and soon became very hostile.
But I think it's best I don't tell you about his meals today, because you never know you could be next.
A cold wind blew and leaves whipped up and danced around the ankles of an old man crouched in a doorway.
His coat, clutched around his shoulders, offered little warmth and he shivered, holding his hand out in the hope of a coin or two.
Around him people hurried by, wrapped in thick coats and scarves, bent into the wind, oblivious to him.
It was two whole days since he'd eaten and his stomach growled with hunger.
Just then, something caught his eye.
His heart leapt at the sight of a coin falling close to his feet.
He picked it up.
Turning the coin over in his hand was enough for a cup of tea and something to eat.
His mouth watered and he pulled himself up from the pavement and turned to the shop window behind him.
Light poured from the window of the tea room.
He pushed open the door and a wave of warmth washed over him.
The woman behind the counter peered at him.
Hungrily, he eyed the food behind the counter.
Yes, came the sharp voice of the woman behind the counter.
Can I help?
He looked up.
A cup of tea, please, he said, and a currant bun too.
Warm, if it's no trouble.
Take away?
The woman spoke the words more as an instruction than a question.
Yes, he replied.
She turned away to serve him, and he looked back towards the window.
He stopped.
There, with her nose pressed against the glass, was a small girl.
Her hair was matted, her hands dirty and her clothes hung like rags on her small body.
Even through the window, he could see the dark circles under her eyes and the grey colour of her skin.
That's one pound, the woman snapped.
The old man handed over the money.
He glanced back to the window and the little girl, shivering in the cold.
Shuffling to the door, he pulled it open.
The girl turned at the sound.
You look cold, he said.
She nodded.
Here, he said, offering out the paper bag.
You need this more than me.
His stomach growled angrily in protest.
The girl eyed the bag, then reached out and grabbed it.
Thanks, mister, she said and ran off.
He watched her disappear into the darkness of the night.
Hey, where you been? a boy called out to the girl.
What you got there?
Some old bloke gave me a cake he didn't want.
She opened the bag and peered in.
Yuck, she said.
Currants?
I hate currants.
Tossing the bag into a nearby bin.
I'm stuffed anyway, she laughed.
I've eaten too many sweets.
Come on, called the boy.
We're not finished trick-or-treating yet.
Your outfit's wicked, by the way.
You look half dead.
The cold wind blew, and leaves whipped round the ankles of an old man, crouched in a shop doorway.
His stomach growled with hunger as passers-by, wrapped in thick coats and scarves, hurried by, oblivious to him.
The Pooh Fairy In a magical land lived lots of beautiful fairies.
There was the Tooth Fairy, the Sugar Plum Fairy the most popular because she gave everyone sweets and plenty of other fairies with perfect hair, pink and sparkly dresses and all different kinds of fairy hats and tiaras.
They wore lots of lipstick and blusher to make their cheeks red and rosy, plus sparkly perfume that smelled like cherries.
Every fairy carried a wand to match their outfit.
Except for Annabelle.
Annabelle was the poo fairy.
She didn't wear pretty dresses or have a tiara or a wand.
Annabelle wore skinny jeans, an old T-shirt and a blue reflective jacket like builders wear.
Annabelle's blonde hair was tied in a bun and she hardly ever brushed it.
She wore green welly boots and always tucked her wings in.
You wouldn't even know she was a fairy.
Instead of a wand, Annabelle carried a box of chalk, a load of carrier bags and a poop scoop.
Annabel worked in Batten Hall, where there seemed to be more dog owners than normal who didn't pick up their pet's mess.
In the morning before school she drew chalk circles round dog poo so children wouldn't step in it or, worse than that, do poo slides.
But also, she knew dog poo can be very dangerous.
At night, when everyone was in bed, she scooped up the mess and took it back to Fairyland, turning it into fairy dust.
The other fairies thought Annabel was ugly and weird.
They didn't invite her to do fairy stuff like dancing round toad stalls and eating fairy cakes.
One day, two younger and very mean fairies, Georgia and Emily, decided to play a trick on Annabel.
They crept to her house and locked her in while she slept.
When Annabelle's alarm clock went off, she got ready, but when she tried to open the door she was stuck.
"'Help!' she shouted.
"'I have to go to work!
It's really important!'
No, we are teaching you a lesson.
You should be like other fairies.
You're not getting out until you have a bath and make yourself pretty.
Brush your hair and wear something nice.
Annabelle didn't want to do this, so she waited and waited.
Two whole days went by and Georgia and Emily wouldn't give in.
Back in Baton Hall, children were late for school because they had to clean their shoes.
The streets were really smelly and poo sliding was happening all the time.
Georgia and Emily felt guilty.
Next morning there was a knock at Annabelle's door, and when she opened it, the other two fairies were there, dressed just like her.
We're sorry Annabelle, they said.
We realise how important your job is and we want to help get things back to normal.
Together they cleared up the mess, making all the children in Baton Hall happy and safe again and even having fun.
Now there are three poo fairies in Fairyland and they are best friends.
BBC Radio 2's 500 Words.
The Bedtime Stories Podcast.
Four.
What a big old adventure through time that was.
Yeah, four.
Quite agree.
Unforgettable.
You know, you can unstrap yourselves now, folks.
We're firmly back in the present day, you know.
Here, Dom, do you know what the best things about stories is?
What's that?
We can travel back in time whenever we want.
The stories are always there.
Well, yeah, kind of.
Well, I'll have to correct you there, old boy.
See, the stories are always there, but only as long as people keep writing them.
Ah, yes.
Good point, my friend.
From all of us here at Radio 2 and 500 Words, goodnight.
Until next week, when we'll be back with more 500 Words bedtime stories.
BBC Radio 2's 500 Words.
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