Author's Note: Gah, I hate school. I've been too tired to update this story for weeks. Yet I had an amazing visit from my muse shortly after going to see Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. If you liked CatCF, then you will WORSHIP Corpse Bride. It is the BOMB DIGGITY. Ah, Tim Burton… I envy thee creativity…. But good news! I actually got reviews this time! And thank you, dear reviewers, for brightening my dreary writer's life by giving me your praise. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

To Cheorl: Oh dear, I hope I didn't sound pushy in my review. I hate it when people do that. So rude. My apologies if I sounded pushy, and my sincere thanks for your reviewing!

To angil: Ew. Sandwich. Don't worry about spelling. Who needs it anyhow:) Thank you for your enthusiasm!

To ILoveLock: Yes. Chelsea is a Mary-Sue. How bright of you for noticing. Perhaps that was my intention, for later purposes in the story, no? And don't worry, I am capable of creating characters that aren't Mary-Sues. Look at Sarah Bucket, for Wonka's sake. She's off her rocker. (Sarah babbles to herself in background) Shut up, you. (Throws dead chicken at Sarah.)


Charlie returned home from school exhausted. First there was that amazing chemistry incident with Chelsea, then there was history where his teacher loaded him up with homework just because she was going through some menopausal crisis and needed to make herself feel empowered, then his Trigonometry teacher decided to do the same thing, only he was a man and just needed to fill the empty hole in his life by grading senseless amounts of homework. Charlie was getting the feeling that when one wishes to rule the world one day; he or she should start off by becoming either a political dictator or a high school teacher. Finally, though, the bell rang shrilly, and he was released from the prison of an educational facility. Waiting on the outside grounds for his ride, he pondered on whether or not he could dig his way out of his school using sporks like his barmy aunt did in the-

Suddenly, Charlie spotted a sleek purple car resembling some sort of convertible swerving down the road. It twisted and curved wildly, knocking into mailboxes and nearly running over some old lady, who hardly noticed (they never do.) Charlie sighed as the plum automobile screeched to a stop by the drop-off section of the parking lot. A curly silver "W" hood ornament which looked like something Tim Burton would've designed sparkled at the front. The dark, tinted window rolled down and three Oompa-Loompas wearing shades stared back at him. The one driving sat above a pile of books on violet leather interior. Two other Oompa-Loompas sat in the front, sipping what looked like a latte from Starbucks (all rights reserved). There were probably some Oompa-Loompas in the back too.

Charlie rolled his eyes. "You know, I really wish Willy would just lend me the car so I can drive home by myself. It would be a lot safer for everyone. Move over," he got into the driver's seat, pushing the Oompa-Loompa on top of the books aside. "You better throw those lattes away on the way home; Willy shall kill you if he catches you with them. You know how he feels about 'traitors'." He chuckled, gripping the clutch and thrusting it forward. The Oompa-Loompas nodded, collecting the cups and dispensing of them in a built-in trashcan in the back. Charlie supposed some of the other students might think it odd that Charlie drove an extremely stylish purple car, (after all, most still thought him to be of middle-class,) but he pushed it out of his mind. It was better than the glass elevator. He remembered when he got his permit he asked his mother if he could drive to school with his dad in the morning instead of always having to walk. Willy was there, and had interrupted, "Why on earth would you want to ride with your d-d-dad in his old car when you can take the glass elevator to school, dear boy?" and then Mrs. Bucket and Charlie had to explain to Willy that one does not normally take glass elevators to school, because glass elevators are so uncommonly rare. Willy was only convinced when Charlie put out that people would most definitely suspect something fishy if he rode to school in a glass elevator. Who knows, maybe one of those awful cads that stole his recipes might still be around and steal the idea of a glass elevator too. He or she might even make it better. Better, Willy said, raising an eyebrow. Yes, Charlie said, he or she might even make it out of candy glass. Or lollipop. Or flan. At this, Willy immediately told him that he was quite right and to never ride to school in a glass elevator, and to take one of the cars instead. After that, he exited the room with an Oompa-Loompa, to oversee the building of a flan-made elevator.

Charlie slowed the car to a smooth stop, letting an elderly man hobble across the street. He was lost in thoughts of how the flan-made elevator had proven too messy, when he had a revelation. Flan-flavored things could work! There could be flan-flavored desks that you licked in Chemistry when you were bored with nothing to do. Or flan-flavored paper. Or flan-flavored lunchboxes. Or flan-flavored lollipops. Yeah. Lollipops. The old man had passed now, but Charlie didn't notice there was a runny-nosed little kid sticking his face up to the window and peeking inside. The Oompa-Loompas stared in horror back at him.

"Hey look, Mommy," the kid said, "Little people! I want a little person, I want one!" and at that, he began banging on the window. The Oompa-Loompas twitched simultaneously with each bang. "Open up, little people!"

"Billy, stop banging on that window! We might be sued for tampering with personal property. Hey wait… what are those things in there?" she stuck her head up with her son's and peered inside.

The Oompa-Loompas were now quite terrified, and had been trying to get Charlie's attention for a while now by poking him in his side. Charlie stared at the road, mumbling about lollipops. Finally, the one who had been driving whacked him upside the head, snapping him back to reality. "Wha-"

"Hey you, kid!" the obnoxious mother with the even more annoying brat banged on the window, "Open up in there!"

Charlie slammed his foot on the gas, whizzing down the road with admirable speed. The Oompa-Loompas were still twitching. "Sorry about that," he smiled apologetically. The Oompa-Loompas nodded, putting their shades back on. Charlie looked for more obnoxious pedestrians. It seemed that everyone these days were getting more and more politically correct and impolite and less moral. He was beginning to understand why Willy had locked himself up for so many years. However, locking yourself up for a decade-and-a-half did have its ups and downs. The ups: no more bothersome pedestrians. The downs: after a couple of years you find yourself saying things like, "Good morning, starshine, the world says hello," and acting like a combination of Mr. Rogers and Michael Jackson. Charlie tried to imagine himself striding around in a purple suit, giggling highly and cutting his hair in a ridiculous bob. He laughed at this. The Oompa-Loompas chuckled too; Charlie didn't know if they were just laughing because someone else was, or if they could actually tell what he was thinking and thought it funny as well. Oompa-Loompas are weird like that.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Gray.

Gray rooms.

Gray uniforms.

Ice gray eyes.

Gray tables, gray chairs, gray sheets.

Gray sky.

Gray sun.

There is nothing but gray here. I cannot stand it any longer. I can't even hear myself think anymore among the shrieks and howls of my cell mates. God, I hate this place. I feel as if gray is the only color in the world. The lack of vibrancy is tricking my mind into thinking that there was never any such thing as color, that it had all been in my head. But I know it's out there. Somewhere. Just not here. I ask my nurse where the color is, but all she ever does is give me shots. Imbecile. I don't belong here. I belong to colors- red, orange, yellow, blue… just not gray. Gray is here.

Gray.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Sarah's eye flicked open and she sprung up straight from the couch with a gasp.She breathed in and out as the wretched sounds still echoed in her head. She breathed in slowly, sucking in air, and let it out in a whistling blow. Just a dream. Not anything real. No more gray.

"Sarah?" Grandma Josephine called. "Sarah dear, are you awake?"

"Yes," Sarah called back, getting up. She went to the seniors. Grandpa Joe was reading the paper, sitting by the bed in a chair.

"We heard you gasping. Were you having a bad dream?"

"Just the side affects of a few too many of those little red candies growing outside of this house." She smiled.

"I always find that the best thing for after a bad dream is a glass of warm milk and a teaspoon of honey," Grandpa Joe smiled.

"Your mother does that too, you know," her father (whom I shall call Grandpa George so as not to confuse anyone,) said, nodding to Grandma Georgina. "Charlie was telling us earlier about how he read that certain types of madness affect only the female generation. Did you know that?"

"I like pickles cut into shapes resembling llamas," Grandma Georgina giggled. Sarah patted her mother on the hand.

"Where is Charlie, by the way?"

"He's probably working with Willy in the factory somewhere." Grandma Josephine nodded her head towards the window.

"Rather strange character, don't you think?" Sarah thought aloud.

"Who?" Grandpa Joe asked.

"What?" Grandpa George asked.

"Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Weiner…" Grandma Georgina sang.

"Mr. Wonka."

"Oh. Yes, he's very odd, but very brilliant." Grandpa Joe smiled. "Did you know I used to work for him, in this factory?"

"Really? Do tell." Sarah smiled. (The truth is that Sarah had in fact heard this story many times; but whether she was just being polite, or, as she had a rather slippery mind, she had forgotten again- I cannot tell you.)

"Well, it all started in a little chocolate shop on the corner of 54th street…" he began.

Obviously, dear readers, you are all quite familiar with this story line, so I think I will skip ahead a half hour when Grandpa Joe finished his story. If you aren't, please see my rather lengthy summary in chapter one.

"…And that's when he invited us to live with him here, and here we all are now." Grandpa George finished.

"Fascinating." Sarah said, rubbing her eyes.

Grandma Josephine was snoring. Grandpa George had dropped off when Grandpa Joe was talking about the Persian Prince. Grandma Georgina all this time had been babbling about the outcomes and losses of the 2nd Crusade. Then, the door opened, and Charlie walked in.

"Hullo, everyone." Charlie greeted them.

"Hullo, Charlie," everyone said, almost simultaneously but not quite so everything came out rather off-beat and muddled.

"Did you have a nice day in the factory, Aunt Sarah?" Charlie smiled, opening the cabinet and grabbing a pack of Wonka's Amazing Strawberry-Flavored Peanuts, and devouring them.

"Yes. We were just hearing a lovely story on Mr. Wonka."

"For the fortieth time." Grandpa George added, awaking from his snoring.

"I've never heard it before," Sarah retorted.

"Yes you have. You just can't remember because you're daft like your mother."

"Pocahontas died in 1617 of smallpox." Grandma Georgina shook her head. "Poor thing."

Charlie gave his batty grandma a kiss on her crinkly old cheek. He tromped up the stairs to drop off his backpack, and headed down to the door.

"I thought you were supposed to do homework before business," Grandma Josephine raised an eyebrow.

"Willy needs me. There's something wrong with the taffy machine again. The taffy isn't coming out right- it tastes like cabbage." Everyone gave an involuntary twitch at the c-word as Charlie exited the house.