If you have a Facebook account, click here to continue logging in.


If you don't have a Facebook account, click here to log in with your Neopets information.
Storytelling Competition - (click for the map) | (printer friendly version)

If you have any questions about the competition then read our awesome FAQ!


Week 734
You are on Week 735
Week 736

Every week we will be starting a new Story Telling competition - with great prizes! The current prize is 2000 NP, plus a rare item!!! This is how it works...

We start a story and you have to write the next few paragraphs. We will select the best submissions every day and put it on the site, and then you have to write the next one, all the way until the story finishes. Got it? Well, submit your paragraphs below!

Story Seven Hundred Thirty Five Ends Friday, July 15

“Weary, Worried, did I wander,
Where the shadows cast aside,
Too bleak, the realm in endless sorrow,
And stars behind the clouds had cried.
Wondered, worried, did I question,
Where the bright sun glowed orange.
I sought to turn the moon to silver,
But the…”

But the…

Darn. Nothing rhymed with orange.

With a weary sigh and an enraged squeak of frustration, Alstaf hurled the latest poetic effort into the nearby fire, where it sizzled and flopped. A metaphor for his writer’s block, he mused.

The pressure had gotten to him, he reasoned, standing and wandering to the window of his Terror Mountain cottage. Across the snowy terrain, young pets threw snowballs and built snow-Wockies. The sunlight, chilled by the faint touch of winter, cast dappled patterns upon glittering ivory. The scene itself should have inspired a million poems, but all it made him want to do was vacation somewhere warm. Being considered Neopia’s greatest poet was one thing… He hadn’t let it go to his head, hadn’t gotten uppity, like some might have…

But what good was it when he had lost his gift?

He couldn’t remember the exact second it had happened. Perhaps he was burnt out. Perhaps inspiration had escaped him. Perhaps he was out of apples. It really was time to do some shopping. Perhaps get some bread.

He shook the thought away. Lately he couldn’t focus on poetry to save himself. The last great work he had written had been an ode to Edna. A bit of an odd subject, certainly, but the witch of the Haunted Woods had paid well, so he had bitten his words back and constructed a flowing saga to her grace. Well, nobody said it had to be non-fiction. Since that poem, nothing. Nada. Just words that didn’t rhyme and the occasional odd limerick about Chias from Brightvale. It was as if his own quill had betrayed him.

There it sat, motionless upon the desk where his work had once flowed like a river. Now it just seemed to mock him. The ivory, feathered instrument of disappointment, nestled next to the silent insult of blank paper.

He blinked.

Well, it should have been blank.

The quill hadn’t moved, but the paper itself was rapidly filling…

Author: anjie
Date: Jun 27th
…with words, as though a cascade of ink was…

A cascade of ink was…

…cascading?

The half-spun metaphor faltered and drifted away, a concept brushed against but unable to reach realization, but the words – whatever they were cascading like, they were none so frail. The page was rapidly filling itself with a looping, slightly slanted cursive script, stray spatters of ink appearing here and there to dot the paper as though flung from an invisible, hasty quill. The words were unfamiliar, to say nothing of the invisible hand that penned them, but the handwriting, he recognized immediately.

It was his own, after all.

On a better day, Alstaf might have taken a minute or five to think – how this in and of itself was a metaphor, the way words could flow from mind to page with seemingly no input from the hands. The first drafts were often haphazard and unpolished, but pure in meaning and intent, when words fell freely from the soul and… splattered? Landed? They got on the page, somehow, and… happened, and it was fast becoming clear why those several minutes of introspection on the nature of the creative process weren’t happening.

Today, Alstaf Poogle was feeling about as poetic as a Slorg in a… place with salty things, and so he merely snatched it up, hungry eyes devouring the sudden words without half a thought as to where they had come from.

They widened as he read.

Greetings, my theater, my font of quintessence;
Pardon the meter, but time’s of the essence.
Words carry and wind, but please, tarry not.
These words stand to bind, dare you dig past the rot.

How fallen from grace is the
Endless mind’s drought
Loved things were misplaced, and
Poor Alstaf’s without

Mind separate from matter, except in one thing
Expert thief is the witch; ware the mayhem she brings

This new malady
Has unnatural causes
More dire than you know

How black, consider, is the night
Untouched by even trace starlight
Regret for the words yet unsaid
Regret for fountains dried and dead
Your eyes are open without sight

I beg your pardon, Alstaf dear;
I cannot speak in simple prose.
My efforts yet have yielded null,
And my brief time draws near its close.
Circumstance is rare our friend
And inward digs its claw and tooth.
I spin my words in desperate strings
And hope to capture, here, the truth.

Consider this verse, consider this flow,
Consider the gift you’ve lost brokenhearted,
I am your muse, and fast should you know:
Three weeks ago were we roughly parted…

Author: dianacat777
Date: Jul 11th
...Then it abruptly ended.

Alstaf turned the paper around, turned the paper on different angles, but the message didn't continue onto anything. Nothing. The message had ended in the middle of a prose - nothing bothered Alstaf more than an unfinished poem. He almost crumpled up the paper. He was as frustrated as a...

As frustrated as a...

As a kid who didn't get his way?

No, that didn't work at all. The Poogle knocked over the ink bottle in a fit of frustration. He didn't mean to, but he felt better after the ink spilled. Though when the ink started going everywhere, he became concerned after the ink spread like a...

Like a...

Now was not the time for half finished similies.

"No no no, this ink will make a mess, it'll never come out," Alstaf said to himself as he rushed to clean his desk of the dark blue ink. "Ink stains are as stubborn as Skarl, maybe even more stubborn if a thing existed." He stopped as he thought about the sentence he had just said. That was the first poetic thing he had said in a week.

While Alstaf was focusing on the similie he just spouted, the ink went all across the table. The feather of the quill went from ivory to midnight blue. The paper soaked up the ink without hesitation, rendering the message that had just appeared unreadable.

Alstaf groaned as the paper was ruined by the ink. He just stared in defeat at his ruined desk. That defeat was slowly washed away as the ink was repelled by some of the letters. As the paper was soaked into the paper, outlines of a few letters remained untouched. Alstaf read the outlines of the letters. He recognized that they were all in a neat column. They were all the first letter of each line.

H
E
L
P

M
E

H
U
R
R
Y

Alstaf couldn't believe his eyes. He wasn't sure if this was nonsense or a fluke. He picked up the ink soaked paper, being sure not to get his fingers stained. It wasn't a trick of the light, the letters were still there. But what could have caused this?

Alstaf just did what he thought would lead to some more answers. He cleaned off his desk and put a fresh sheet of paper on the wood surface to see what happened...

Author: chasing_stars44
Date: Jul 12th
But still there was nothing. Alstaf huffed to himself. He had to be imagining things. In his frustration at trying to complete more of his poems, he must have been thinking that his very talent and inspiration itself was a sentient force and had been reaching out to him. Truthfully, it was a rather interesting thought. If he was not having such terrible writers block, it would almost be worth making a poem based on that. Or perhaps a story that his good friend The Storyteller could weave a tale from.

"No, I just need to calm my mind and collect my thoughts." Alstaf said to himself, tapping the pen to the paper that he had just laid out.

His gaze turned upward, thinking of what he could write about, his pen slowly slipping from his fingers. And then his ears perked up when he heard the sound of the pen scratching along the paper once more.

a Poet's mind is a prize
for secrets and truth it beLies
Even when a thought is dull
inspirAtion can soon be full

so even if a tale is Short
all their words are worth Effort

there is MAGIC in their writing
beauty, Truth, it's sO exciting
Or darkness, fear, emotions dwell
Keeps the reader under the spell

TALENT? No, all have the gift
some just must develop it.

At that point the pen stopped writing. This time the message was clear to him. But it didn't make sense. How? Or Why?

He did not have much time to think about what just happened. As he stared at the ink-covered paper, a soft, delicate knock rapped about the door to his study.

"Alstaf? It's me. The Storyteller..."

Author: dr_tomoe
Date: Jul 13th
A hint of panic coursed through Alstaf at the sound of the familiar tenor – his house was a mess, to say little of himself, grimy and tear-streaked. It was hardly a state he wanted his old friend to see him in. But if the Storyteller had come all this way to see him… well, he simply couldn’t turn him away.

“Come in,” he called wearily as he hurried to the door, the sheaf of paper that may-or-may-not have contained his trapped muse clutched in hand.

A green Eyrie stepped into his cottage gingerly, brushing snow from his broad wings. A thick, tattered tome was held in one claw; the other cupped his chin thoughtfully as he surveyed his friend’s abode.

“My, Alstaf. Forgive me for saying so, but you’ve seen better days.”

Alstaf grimaced; he could hardly deny it. His studio was a mess, half-eaten food forgotten on the table and scribbled papers strewn everywhere. Ash dotted the rug around his hearth, the grave of a dozen poems-that-weren’t.

The Storyteller took a step closer, expression turning a shade mournful. “What has happened to you, my friend?”

The Poogle sighed. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

The Storyteller scoffed. “Why, Alstaf! You should know how deeply I detest the concept of making a long story short. It’s nothing less than sacrilege! So much is lost! So much is… is that page writing itself?”

Alstaf looked down. Yes, yes it was. “It would seem so,” he sighed, laying the sheet on his desk. A new poem had appeared, which he proceeded to read aloud.

Enter Storyteller, the poet’s old twin.
Duet of the pen and potential within.
Neither poem nor prose can triumph alone,
Act together, perhaps, and bring me back home.”

It was short, and he stumbled over the ending, expecting more words to spin themselves beyond the short stanza – but nothing came. He lifted his eyes back to his friend. “It indeed is self-writing; this is the third time it has chosen to create something. The implications of such a thing are staggering, to say the least.”

The Eyrie gave it a sidelong glance that almost seemed… trepid? “Well, yes, Alstaf, but this… perhaps not the first time I’ve seen works that write themselves. Some more literal than others.” He rubbed his beak, looking sheepish. “These are powerful forces you toy with. Perhaps dangerously so. Be careful, old friend.”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Alstaf said grimly. “If these verses are to be believed, this is none other than my muse – stolen from me. I have little choice but to get involved.”

“Is that so?” The Storyteller tilted his head, looking a little more invested. “The literal embodiment of such a banal, yet crippling, malady. The muse, lost and alone, calling out to its soul – or perhaps its heart. How very… curious. How did this come to pass?”

“I know you asked for the long story, but the long story involves little more than three dreary, dull weeks of the most terrible writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. I can scarcely string together a functioning metaphor these days.” Alstaf gestured to the page. “Until today, upon which something has chosen to write to me – something that claims to be my muse.”

The Storyteller picked it up, reading and turning it over. “The capital letters… ‘please… magic took talent.’ Hmmm. I must confess, it is strange to see such things in your own handwriting. Though I am not certain what the more recent one hopes to convey – unless it is simply cementing the call to adventure, now that your characters are assembled. For the record, Alstaf, I’m with you. Something most curious is afoot here, and I will not rest until my part in this tale is done.”

“It’s an acrostic,” Alstaf said, realization dawning. “Edna…”

The Storyteller’s beak scrunched. “Edna? A most unpleasant character, to be sure, but why…” He trailed off.

“Three weeks ago, I wrote an epic for Edna – self-aggrandizing drivel, just a tribute to egomania – and ever since, I haven’t been able to finish the hastiest of sonnets. Nothing comes.”

The Eyrie’s frown deepened, but instead of disbelief, he merely looked pensive. “Actually, that explains rather a lot. A month ago, I received a rather unusual request…”

Alstaf felt his stomach beginning to… drop? Curdle? Curdle was a decent word, albeit difficult to rhyme, but it wasn’t quite encompassing the sort of nauseous déjà vu he’d probably have some really good words for on a regular day.

“Let me guess. Edna wanted a story?”

The Storyteller puffed out his chest. “I did not accept, of course – I am no common author, and my works are not things to be peddled. Whims do not come when called; I answer to my muse alone. Ah, no offense to you, of course, my friend. Yet, I wonder…” He scratched his chin. “Had I accepted, what might have become of me?”

“I think you can see the answer,” the Poogle replied dryly, gesturing to the messy cottage around him. “But this doesn’t make any sense. “It… it’s like…” Alstaf struggled and frowned when once more, suitable words failed him, dancing on the very edge of his perceptions. “Edna’s a witch. What would she want with muses? Is she looking to get into the Neopian Times?”

“I do not know, but I do know this.” The Eyrie’s eyes glinted. “Whatever schemes Edna has brewing, a fantastic story is afoot, and I’m not about to let it pass me by. Let us be off, Alstaf. The Haunted Woods awaits…”

And that was how Alstaf Poogle found himself dragged out of his misery and halfway across the globe, with an eager green Eyrie in tow and a sheaf of papers in hand…

Author: dianacat777
Date: Jul 14th
...this trek was certainly not the sunny and sandy vacation Alstaf had been dreaming about. Had he still been able to write on a whim as he had three weeks ago he'd certainly whip up a tale of irony, but it seemed he and The Storyteller would be living it instead. Sometimes, pondered the Poogle, truth was stranger than fiction.

Chilling laughter and creeping creaks broke Alstaf out of his musings and suddenly he was aware of just how close to the Haunted Woods they were. Lush leaves and cloudless skies quite suddenly turned to darkness and bare and gnarled trees.

The Storyteller's eyes and mind remained glued to the latest issue of The Neopian Times. Alstaf nudged The Eyrie just as the carriage they'd traveled by came to a halt.

"Sorry," said the rather slight-looking Gelert minding the carriage, "I don't go any further than this..."

"Right, of course," said The Storyteller tossing a few coins into his paws.

"Come, comrade!" exclaimed the Eyrie, fearlessly. "The story has just begun!"

Alstaf hesitate, looking back and forth. The carriage had already disappeared through the Deserted Fairgrounds and out of view. There was no going back.

"Well...do we just charge into Edna's Tower? Certainly there's a more diplomatic approach we can take?" questioned the Poogle, who grew wearier by the minute.

The Storyteller shook his head in deep thought before his eyes lit up with an answer.

"Of course! The gypsies. They love a good story..."

Author: prettyobscure
Date: Jul 14th
"Did someone say a good story?" Two Neopets appeared from behind the trunk of a pathetic dark tree. The bells on the Aishas' headwear and bracelets and ankles rang creepily in the dead silence of the Woods.

"Oh yes," the Eyrie piped up. He then whispered to Alstaf, "leave things to me," before he stepped forward to converse with the gypsies. Greetings first. I'm the Storyteller and this is my dear old friend, Alstaf Poogle, the Poet."

"We know -" One of them said.

"And we're huge fans!" The other finished.

"That's great to hear!" exclaimed the Storyteller, spreading his wings in a proud manner but making them droop helplessly by his sides as he continued in a dejected voice. "But you see, Alstaf's talent has been stolen. Without that, he won't ever become the grand poet that all of us have adored."

The Aishas gasped in unison.

The Eyrie nodded. Alstaf inwardly thought that he was putting up a brilliant act, like a shining star. "Most unfortunately, it has been taken away by a powerful witch by the name of Edna. It is paramount that Alstaf get it back or else..." He left his sentence hanging.

"We can help you!" said the gypsies at the same time.

"Will you?" the Storyteller flapped his wings gleefully. His face beamed as bright as a shining beacon. "Would you possibly know the location of Edna's castle?"

"We do," one of the Aishas replied with a grin, "we can lead you there."

As Alstaf followed the gypsies, he noticed that the paper in the Storyteller's claw began to fill itself up with the same loopy font as his muse's." He nudged the Eyrie and pointed at the paper. Together, they read the message:

Trust, must you know, is not easily got
Random strangers, follow you must not
Allies with the witch, dangers lurk
Possible ones await, it is no perk

Alstaf knew by now that this was another acrostic. "It's a trap..." he muttered. "We must not follow them."

"But they can bring us there," the Eyrie said, "we'll think about what to do later."

And so they followed the gypsies up the spiral staircase to Edna's tower...

Author: azusa_k
Date: Jul 15th
..."So," Alstaf began, "What are your names, anyway?"

"Fellow gypsies call me 'The Storyteller'," started the Red Aisha. "But in your presence, my actual name might be preferred." She giggled and shook the paws of the Poogle, then Eyrie. "Maria."

"And I'm Rene," replied the yellow Aisha before a similar exchange of paw-shaking pleasantries.

"You know," said Rene, "we've been up here a lot. Traveling about the Woods, Edna's tower tends to be on our stops." She grinned mischievously.

Alstaf cast an uneasy glance at The Storyteller.

"We're quick on our feet. We like to taunt her, move around her things, etcetera," Maria finished.

"That's... good," Alstaf said hesitantly.

Their feet made echoey, almost distant clicks as they continued their climb. The atmosphere made even The Storyteller nervous.

The Aishas turned around to face the artists they were guiding. "You two look so uncertain," Maria started, concerned. "Would you like us to take your paws?"

"Er, that won't be necessary," the Eyrie replied quickly. And then, noticing a small custodial door about 15 steps up -- an escape route -- The Storyteller formed an idea. "Hey," he continued, "how about... well, how about you tell us a story?"

"Gladly," Maria replied with a huge smile. "One day, in Neovia, Bart couldn't find his stock of apples -- you see, he places about 10 new apples in his bin every hour -- and naturally he was in a frenzy..."

The Storyteller, meanwhile, lightly tapped the shoulder of his poetic counterpart.

"Hm?"

The Eyrie pointed at the fastly approaching door.

Alstaf understood and nodded.

The paces of the two Catacombers slowed in comparison to that of their Aisha guides, and when the gypsies had their backs turned Alstaf and the Storyteller quickly opened the door and locked it behind them.

"And so Sophie--Hey!" came Maria's muffled voice from the other side of the heavy wood door. "Why'd you guys go in there? Come out!"

"No, go away!" Alstaf shouted back at them.

And then came the jingling of keys. The two were going to open the door.

The Storyteller and Alstaf the Poogle ran fast as they could away from the Aisha TRAP and toward the other side of the long, dimly-lit, curving corridor.

Alstaf noticed something, however. "Storyteller, the floor seems to be sloping."

Indeed it was. "Indeed it is," the Eyrie replied.

And then the corridor abruptly ended, with a single closed door.

Hearing footsteps behind them -- the Aishas -- the two knew they had no other choice, and entered, closing the door behind them.

They appeared to be in... Edna's study. There was a neat little leather chair, a cauldron-table with a single melted green candle beside it; and tons of books lined the shelves lining the wall. Naturally, the two were interested in the lattermost and scanned the tomes.

They were mostly books of magic, but also the odd book of poetry and prose, which Alstaf and The Storyteller were extremely surprised to see.

Alstaf read the titles aloud as he brushed over them with his paw. "'Compilation of Tuskaninny Day Poems Vol. III', 'Storytelling Competition Weeks 500 through 599', 'Turning Neopets into Toads for Beginners'..."

The Eyrie shrugged. "Well, where there's turning Neopets into toads, there's--"

"EDNA!" the witch cackled as she jumped out from behind her chair.

"EDNA!" Alstaf exclaimed with a start. "Unhand my muse!"

The Zafara grinned widely just before the corridor door burst open, two rather unamused-appearing Aishas emerging.

The Storyteller spun around. "I think we have greater problems to deal with..."

"And why did YOU two run off like that?!" Maria shouted while still keeping her body composed, which impressed Alstaf.

Alstaf then noted that, while he and his longtime friend were surrounded, neither the Aishas nor Edna were encroaching closer towards them.

The seconds ticked awkwardly until Alstaf could take it no longer. "OK, who's in cahtoos with who here?"

"I work alone," Edna returned, staring at her reflection in her fingernails.

"And we two gypsies are together and we thought we were going to help you sneak up on Edna," Rene replied, her irritancy softening.

"But how did you have the keys to open the door?" The Storyteller asked.

"I told you," Rene continued, "we like to mess with Edna. We've swiped her keys on more than one occasion."

"I should turn you two into Mortogs," Edna rebutted. "But here I thought I was getting forgetful," the witch mused with a light chuckle.

"Speaking of muse," interjected the storyteller, "there's a task at hand here." He gently pushed Alstaf forward.

Alstaf swallowed and mustered the courage. "Edna..." He paused to regain his composure. "I would like my muse back."

"You and what army?" She narrowed her eyes.

The poet kind of looked around. "Er... isn't it obvious?"

A thin smile spread out over Edna's lips. "Much as I'd love to give you back your muse Alstaf honey it's hard to give what one doesn't have."

"You sold my muse?" the Poogle said, gaping.

"Are you kidding I never stole it in the first place," the Zafara retorted. "I don't even have the power to, that's more of a Fyora thing." She frowned spitefully.

"But... but..." Alstaf was at a loss for words.

"All I wanted was something genuine written about me to add to my library -- Neopians write about me all the time, but always such vicious things." She folder her arms.

"After being turned down by the green guy over there, I commissioned you, Alstaf, to write about to me." She pointed to him. "Reading back the epic -- if you can even call such condescending drivel as that you penned an epic -- I realized your judgements of me were so over-the-top and blunt that there's no way you could have believed me to be any sort of literary critic in any way whatsoever, that there's no way you could have believed me to have any appreciation of the written word whatsoever, that you thus must pass similar judgements about others you believe are beneath you, and that maybe you needed to be taught a lesson as a result."

Alstaf paused and attempted to absorb this. "So where's my muse?"

"You've had it the whole time you dunderbrain!" she scowled, throwing her arms in the air. "All I did was put a spell on you, a simple writer's block spell. It should have worn off after two weeks."

"But I've had writer's block for a month!" the Poogle pleaded.

Edna grinned mischievously. "Then it's your lack of confidence that's preventing you from writing, nothing I did... except for, of course, pretending to be your muse." A sort of condescending innocence spread over her face. "I did a pretty good job, eh, Alstaf? Tricked you something good."

This realization dawned on the poet. Had he been so caught up in not writing poetry, not writing poetry came to consume his being? Had he spent his entire poetic career as of late trying to be better than all other possible poets, and thus the knowledge he might not all the time be destroyed his power to writer? Where had the young, carefree, free-flowing Alstaf gone, who wrote for the sake of writing? Poeticized for poetry itself.

"And come on, think about it," Edna interjected, cutting off the Poogle's train of thought. "You know no magic at all. Do you really think the side of you whose job it is to write words could have figured out how to perform any spells?"

"She speaks with strands of truth," The Storyteller agreed. "To assume your muse could do magic would be a poor plot point. It also assumes the readers aren't the brightest to even go along with it."

"Not helping," Alstaf replied, shooting his friend a dirty look.

"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson, Alstaf. Take every opportunity to write not as an obligation, but as a treasure." She smiled almost kindheartedly, sagely.

And then she cackled, "And now that that's over and done with... BEGONE! BEFORE I TURN YE ALL TO TOADS!"

The four left Edna's study pretty quickly.

"Well, now that that's over and done with," Maria said, mimicking the witch, as they all walked through the corridor and down the Tower steps, "Shall I continue my story?"

"I'd love if you do," the Eyrie replied.

"I on the other hand, should probably return home," Alstaf said. "She calls to me, long-forgotten refuge as I stand, cold, in the darkest of woods, darkest of places... darkest of times my soul has seen."

Rene smiled and shook the Poogle's paw. "Good to have you back Mr. Alstaf."

The Poet... yes, that's what he was, smiled. "It's good to be back."

The Aishas and The Storyteller walked toward the gypsy camp.

Alstaf walked the other way. He'd get home, make some Earl Grey Tea, and write some poetry.

A perfect Friday night.

THE END.

Author: rielcz
Date: Jul 15th



Quick Jump

Week 1Week 2Week 3Week 4Week 5Week 6
Week 7Week 8Week 9Week 10Week 11Week 12
Week 13Week 14Week 15Week 16Week 17Week 18
Week 19Week 20Week 21Week 22Week 23Week 24
Week 25Week 26Week 27Week 28Week 29Week 30
Week 31Week 32Week 33Week 34Week 35Week 36
Week 37Week 38Week 39Week 40Week 41Week 42
Week 43Week 44Week 45Week 46Week 47Week 48
Week 49Week 50Week 51Week 52Week 53Week 54
Week 55Week 56Week 57Week 58Week 59Week 60
Week 61Week 62Week 63Week 64Week 65Week 66
Week 67Week 68Week 69Week 70Week 71Week 72
Week 73Week 74Week 75Week 76Week 77Week 78
Week 79Week 80Week 81Week 82Week 83Week 84
Week 85Week 86Week 87Week 88Week 89Week 90
Week 91Week 92Week 93Week 94Week 95Week 96
Week 97Week 98Week 99Week 100Week 101Week 102
Week 103Week 104Week 105Week 106Week 107Week 108
Week 109Week 110Week 111Week 112Week 113Week 114
Week 115Week 116Week 117Week 118Week 119Week 120
Week 121Week 122Week 123Week 124Week 125Week 126
Week 127Week 128Week 129Week 130Week 131Week 132
Week 133Week 134Week 135Week 136Week 137Week 138
Week 139Week 140Week 141Week 142Week 143Week 144
Week 145Week 146Week 147Week 148Week 149Week 150
Week 151Week 152Week 153Week 154Week 155Week 156
Week 157Week 158Week 159Week 160Week 161Week 162
Week 163Week 164Week 165Week 166Week 167Week 168
Week 169Week 170Week 171Week 172Week 173Week 174
Week 175Week 176Week 177Week 178Week 179Week 180
Week 181Week 182Week 183Week 184Week 185Week 186
Week 187Week 188Week 189Week 190Week 191Week 192
Week 193Week 194Week 195Week 196Week 197Week 198
Week 199Week 200Week 201Week 202Week 203Week 204
Week 205Week 206Week 207Week 208Week 209Week 210
Week 211Week 212Week 213Week 214Week 215Week 216
Week 217Week 218Week 219Week 220Week 221Week 222
Week 223Week 224Week 225Week 226Week 227Week 228
Week 229Week 230Week 231Week 232Week 233Week 234
Week 235Week 236Week 237Week 238Week 239Week 240
Week 241Week 242Week 243Week 244Week 245Week 246
Week 247Week 248Week 249Week 250Week 251Week 252
Week 253Week 254Week 255Week 256Week 257Week 258
Week 259Week 260Week 261Week 262Week 263Week 264
Week 265Week 266Week 267Week 268Week 269Week 270
Week 271Week 272Week 273Week 274Week 275Week 276
Week 277Week 278Week 279Week 280Week 281Week 282
Week 283Week 284Week 285Week 286Week 287Week 288
Week 289Week 290Week 291Week 292Week 293Week 294
Week 295Week 296Week 297Week 298Week 299Week 300
Week 301Week 302Week 303Week 304Week 305Week 306
Week 307Week 308Week 309Week 310Week 311Week 312
Week 313Week 314Week 315Week 316Week 317Week 318
Week 319Week 320Week 321Week 322Week 323Week 324
Week 325Week 326Week 327Week 328Week 329Week 330
Week 331Week 332Week 333Week 334Week 335Week 336
Week 337Week 338Week 339Week 340Week 341Week 342
Week 343Week 344Week 345Week 346Week 347Week 348
Week 349Week 350Week 351Week 352Week 353Week 354
Week 355Week 356Week 357Week 358Week 359Week 360
Week 361Week 362Week 363Week 364Week 365Week 366
Week 367Week 368Week 369Week 370Week 371Week 372
Week 373Week 374Week 375Week 376Week 377Week 378
Week 379Week 380Week 381Week 382Week 383Week 384
Week 385Week 386Week 387Week 388Week 389Week 390
Week 391Week 392Week 393Week 394Week 395Week 396
Week 397Week 398Week 399Week 400Week 401Week 402
Week 403Week 404Week 405Week 406Week 407Week 408
Week 409Week 410Week 411Week 412Week 413Week 414
Week 415Week 416Week 417Week 418Week 419Week 420
Week 421Week 422Week 423Week 424Week 425Week 426
Week 427Week 428Week 429Week 430Week 431Week 432
Week 433Week 434Week 435Week 436Week 437Week 438
Week 439Week 440Week 441Week 442Week 443Week 444
Week 445Week 446Week 447Week 448Week 449Week 450
Week 451Week 452Week 453Week 454Week 455Week 456
Week 457Week 458Week 459Week 460Week 461Week 462
Week 463Week 464Week 465Week 466Week 467Week 468
Week 469Week 470Week 471Week 472Week 473Week 474
Week 475Week 476Week 477Week 478Week 479Week 480
Week 481Week 482Week 483Week 484Week 485Week 486
Week 487Week 488Week 489Week 490Week 491Week 492
Week 493Week 494Week 495Week 496Week 497Week 498
Week 499Week 500Week 501Week 502Week 503Week 504
Week 505Week 506Week 507Week 508Week 509Week 510
Week 511Week 512Week 513Week 514Week 515Week 516
Week 517Week 518Week 519Week 520Week 521Week 522
Week 523Week 524Week 525Week 526Week 527Week 528
Week 529Week 530Week 531Week 532Week 533Week 534
Week 535Week 536Week 537Week 538Week 539Week 540
Week 541Week 542Week 543Week 544Week 545Week 546
Week 547Week 548Week 549Week 550Week 551Week 552
Week 553Week 554Week 555Week 556Week 557Week 558
Week 559Week 560Week 561Week 562Week 563Week 564
Week 565Week 566Week 567Week 568Week 569Week 570
Week 571Week 572Week 573Week 574Week 575Week 576
Week 577Week 578Week 579Week 580Week 581Week 582
Week 583Week 584Week 585Week 586Week 587Week 588
Week 589Week 590Week 591Week 592Week 593Week 594
Week 595Week 596Week 597Week 598Week 599Week 600
Week 601Week 602Week 603Week 604Week 605Week 606
Week 607Week 608Week 609Week 610Week 611Week 612
Week 613Week 614Week 615Week 616Week 617Week 618
Week 619Week 620Week 621Week 622Week 623Week 624
Week 625Week 626Week 627Week 628Week 629Week 630
Week 631Week 632Week 633Week 634Week 635Week 636
Week 637Week 638Week 639Week 640Week 641Week 642
Week 643Week 644Week 645Week 646Week 647Week 648
Week 649Week 650Week 651Week 652Week 653Week 654
Week 655Week 656Week 657Week 658Week 659Week 660
Week 661Week 662Week 663Week 664Week 665Week 666
Week 667Week 668Week 669Week 670Week 671Week 672
Week 673Week 674Week 675Week 676Week 677Week 678
Week 679Week 680Week 681Week 682Week 683Week 684
Week 685Week 686Week 687Week 688Week 689Week 690
Week 691Week 692Week 693Week 694Week 695Week 696
Week 697Week 698Week 699Week 700Week 701Week 702
Week 703Week 704Week 705Week 706Week 707Week 708
Week 709Week 710Week 711Week 712Week 713Week 714
Week 715Week 716Week 717Week 718Week 719Week 720
Week 721Week 722Week 723Week 724Week 725Week 726
Week 727Week 728Week 729Week 730Week 731Week 732
Week 733Week 734Week 735Week 736Week 737Week 738
Week 739Week 740Week 741Week 742Week 743Week 744
Week 745Week 746Week 747Week 748Week 749Week 750
Week 751Week 752Week 753Week 754Week 755Week 756
Week 757Week 758Week 759Week 760Week 761Week 762
Week 763Week 764Week 765Week 766Week 767Week 768
Week 769Week 770Week 771Week 772Week 773Week 774
Week 775Week 776Week 777Week 778Week 779Week 780
Week 781Week 782Week 783Week 784Week 785Week 786
Week 787Week 788Week 789Week 790Week 791 


IMPORTANT - SUBMISSION POLICY! By uploading or otherwise submitting any materials to Neopets, you (and your parents) are automatically granting us permission to use those materials for free in any manner we can think of forever throughout the universe. These materials must be created ONLY by the person submitting them - you cannot submit someone else's work. Also, if you're under age 18, ALWAYS check with your parents before you submit anything to us!