Disclaimer: The Author of this fanfiction is not using this story to gain money in any way, shape, or form, nor does the Author claim ownership of the fictitious characters created by Roald Dahl, used most recently in the 2005 Tim Burton film Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Summary: A stupid little impulse story the Author simply had to give her mind time to write, for otherwise it would continue to plague her brain until she did. The Author has written a story about what would happen if a girl with her own frame of mind happened to 'gain access' to the amazing Chocolate Factory of Willy Wonka.

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"But Pa," I urged, bouncing seventeen-times-per-second, "Willy Wonka is sending out a chance for random little girls and boys to go into his factory! Can't you spare even a little bit for me to at least try?" Oy. That's me. I'm such a whiner. At least, that's my opinion of myself, which is odd, seeing as how most kids would say they're the least whiniest people they know. But then again, I've never exactly been the same as everybody else. In fact, I'm the least normal person I know – doesn't that sound so much like a cliché?

"No, Lisha! I told you, we don't have a lot of money to spend on the foolishnesses of… dare I say it, chocolate. There. The awful word is out of my mouth. Now, er… go find something else to do, sweetheart." My father rolled his eyes and shook his paper with an over-loud rattling noise, the kind of noise that clued me in to the usual 'that's-my-last-word-on-the-subject-now-go-away' attitude of my father's.

My name is Alisha Stantford. I'm tall, and gangly, and my hair is chocolate colored – isn't that ironic? My father hates chocolate, I long for chocolate – no, dare I say it (yet another cliché. Argh and double argh. A well used cliché by my father.), I crave chocolate. Chocolate is a substance so sweet and decidedly addictive, and yet it's a substance that I rarely get once a year, if I'm lucky, and only in very small pieces – every once in a while, a small morsel slipped to me by my dear mother, who thinks my father's view on chocolate is slightly irrational, and yet still, she takes Pa's side most times on the issue of what it does to your teeth. Surely, even if I only got possibly even only one Wonka bar a year (Wonka bars being the apple of my eye, for ne'er have I loved anything more, except for my dear parents, whom I love to death, even if their stale views deny me many pleasures of life), I would not get tooth decay – I floss and brush my teeth every day, like a good child!

So why should I be denied the sweetness of chocolate? I have not an inkling, but enough of my wistful thinking – I'm sure you all have heard children's pleas for chocolate, however much they lack the money to get it. But just to add, we have plenty of money. So there, Pa.

My sigh of what I'd hoped to sound like denial, in hopes of moving my father's steadfast view on the issue of getting me at least one Wonka bar, even one, for a chance to be one of the lucky ones – but alas. He simply grunted and rattled the paper harder, and I knew that that was as far as I could ever hope to get.

Shoving my hands angrily into the pockets of my dark blue jeans, I screwed up my face in what I assumed was a horrible expression – when I sulk, I sulk, and everybody in my house, around it, and visiting it know it. I gave a snort like a bull with an enormous pain and went tromping noisily up the stairs to my room. I refrained myself from slamming the door, however mad I was or could have been. My parents didn't take well to door-slamming, and that could further worsen the outcome of my argument. As it was, I was probably going to get lectured later for the stomping up the stairs.

I paced my room, using both hands to pull back my long, near-straight chocolate brown hair into a makeshift ponytail as I paced, my mind racing rapidly as it always seemed to do on these clear mornings. I was almost thankful of the open window, which blew a chilly breeze in along with bits and flakes of snow that flew in and melted. My thought processes cleared considerably, and I closed the window with a light snap, my hands resting gently upon the windowsill, not leaving it; I had no desire to pull away anymore, as I stared longingly down the street towards the amazing chocolate factory that even as I stared I was sure was at work preparing for the five lucky kids who were going to be entering that factory, and I counted myself out. No force in the world could now get my father to change his mind.

I watched, almost as if I was having an out-of-body-experience, as people flooded around the electronics store on the corner of Cherry and Maple, near our house, where Willy Wonka used to keep his first shop. Mr. Hornbe took over and turned it into an electronics store, and I watched as people flooded around the multiple television screens in the window. I managed to catch a glimpse of the channel, and flipped my own ancient black-and-white TV on to that channel to catch the news.

My first thought of the repulsive, chocolate-faced fat child standing in front of the news reporters munching chocolate so gaily was to gag. My second thought was loathing, pure loathing. Especially when his mother launched into a speech about how Augustus Gloop (what a funny name, don't you think?) ate so many candy bars a day that it was impossible for him not to find a Golden Ticket. As I eased myself down onto my bed, I sighed deeply.

Glumly I placed my chin into the palms of both hands and rested my elbows on my knees. Finally my troubled mind rested on sadness. Here was a child who got as much chocolate as he wanted during the year, and here 'twas I, barely getting more than a chocolate chip on a rare occasion. I glared at the TV screen before finally getting so unbearably angry that I switched off the set with such force that I nearly ripped the knob from the surface.

I stared at the ancient set and blinked, then reached out a thin and spidery hand (people think I'm undernourished. It's not that I don't get enough food, it's just that I never seem to gain any weight, don't you see) and tried turning the knob. It clicked as it usually did, but the TV didn't turn on. I clicked it off, waited a few minutes that seemed to bring out an annoying throbbing in my temples, then tried it again. When it didn't work, I gave a silly little low-pitched giggle that, if I would have known it at the time, most likely would have made Willy Wonka proud.

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Some minutes… some hours? I don't know, I lost track of the time after the TV broke. I simply sat on my bed for what seemed like an eternity and didn't move an inch, aside from breathing and blinking when necessary.

Anyhow, some period of time that I never kept track of after leaving my bedroom I found myself glued to the spot just outside the enormous Chocolate Factory, the object of my longing, the place I so desperately wanted to enter but was denied; and, ne'er would I admit to anyone, I desperately wanted to look at Mr. Wonka himself. I had never seen him in the flesh, you see, never had the chance to take in what was certain to be the wonderful features of the man who made such dazzling candies and treats.

I sighed. My father's unwillingness to buy me even one Wonka bar, perhaps one would even get me inside the fabulous factory of my dreams! But of course, I never would. No one but those lucky kids would, those five lucky kids that I most certainly would not be one of; perhaps – and this thought lifts my mind most pleasantly – perhaps one of the lucky kids will be from this very town, perhaps even a child that I know and am accustomed to? One that could describe to me the wonderful fantasies of that amazing place?

But of course, I should never allow my hopes to rise, for the chances of something so far fetched as what I just explained to you, dear listener, were very, very slim. So slim, in fact, that I resigned myself to brooding and trudged through the heavy snow towards the corner of Cherry and Maple.

The onslaught of people racing to purchase Wonka bars of all kinds and wrapper-hues caused me to be swept, rather than ushered, towards Cherry and Maple; for directly next to Hornbe's Electric Electronics (as the store was so funnily named) was a Wonka candy bar supplier.

I was kindly deposited at the end of the rush into a rather large and forbidding snowdrift. I sat up, spitting ice and wiping my face clean of the chilly, light frozen crystals that iced my face, like delicate icing on a pale cake. I shook my head violently like a dog's to rid my hair of most of the snow, then crawled out of the snowdrift, thankful for my warm coat. As I stood up on the sidewalk, just off to the side of the still ever persistent traffic rush, I shook my whole self as hard as I could, out of spite and just to clear myself of snow. A woman paused for a second, looking outraged.

"You got me all snowy!" she screeched, outraged, then leapt into the crowd like a salmon attempting to head upstream against a strong current or possibly a waterfall. Yes, she did look ridiculous, and I had to laugh, so glad that I wasn't caught up in all that. I burrowed my hands into my coat pockets at my side to warm them up, the tips of my fingers numb from all the snow-contact they had received.

I turned my attention to the television sets in the window of Electric Electronics and watched dejectedly as it showed another Golden Ticket winner, a spoilt little girl who apparently got everything she ever wanted. I kicked at the snow in front of me, watching Veruca Salt and her father and mother stand and smile broadly at the news reporters.

"When my little girl said she had to have one of the Golden Tickets, I started laying my hands on every Wonka bar I could get," he boldly stated, his face smug. After that bit I basically lost interest and kicked at the snow again, my eyes focusing on something on the ground. Hmm. I bent over and picked it up, and was delighted to find a coin of enough value to possibly buy a Wonka bar!

As I was about to consider the options of where I might get into the crowd at a break, a couple went past me that I recognized instantaneously.

"Hi Mr. and Mrs. Bucket!" I exclaimed jubilantly, clutching the coin steadfast in my cut-off-fingertip-gloves.

Mrs. Bucket gave a startled yelp at being addressed so suddenly; Mr. Bucket had to steady her to keep her from falling over, but darn near fell over himself. "O-oh, hi Alisha," Mrs. Bucket stuttered, flapping her hands at her husband to let him know she was fine and dandy. "You startled me for a minute there."

I grinned and shrugged. "Sorry, Mrs. Bucket. How's Charlie?" I was fairly well acquainted with the Buckets' son, Charlie, as he went to my school and was in my class. Most ignored him, and it's partially my fault that I never paid much attention to him, either. I was the hardworking student, what most called 'Teacher's Pet', and was usually busy with my nose stuck to the grindstone, so to speak.

"He's fine, dear. It's his birthday tomorrow, and, well, we've been doing a bit of… birthday shopping." They held up a little package. I nodded.

"Tell Charlie Happy Birthday for me!" I said, and they both answered with a timely "We will", even though my request was farthest from their minds. I could tell. I'd simply have to wish Charlie a happy birthday to-morrow when I next saw him, if I did. As it was, he kept to himself mostly, especially in school. The bullies ne'er left him alone if he didn't. And I always feel awful for ne'er having the time to help him out.

Long after they had gone, I still stood and stared at the ne'er ending line of ongoing traffic of people in the mad rush to buy Wonka bars. A thought crossed my mind, unbidden and unwelcome; What if there are no more Wonka bars when it's your turn? the voice in my head taunts, What if they're all out? Then what? To which I steely reply, thinking myself near the brink of insanity to be arguing with mineself; Then I'll just wait until they stock Wonka bars again. And what if they – The voice attempted to intrude again, but I simply shoved it with a willing force of mental power. Shut up.

I saw a break in the line and dived for it, but was instantly knocked back into the snowdrift from whence I had come so many hours before. It didn't seem much like hours, but I was sure it had been. I lifted up that had once clutched so dearly the coin I had luckily come by, such as a dragon would clutch dearly at it's beloved hoard of stolen treasure and ill-gotten wealth.

It wasn't there. I couldn't believe it. I'd lost it! Those stupid – those idiotic – they made me drop my coin! Now all my hopes were definitely smashed, smashed and dashed like crashing forceful waves against a sea rock. I picked myself up soberly and marched myself home, tired and cold and wet from being outside so long.

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The rest of the day passed uneventfully. I watched the unveiling of the third and fourth Golden Tickets, and by bedtime word had been spread of the last Golden Ticket found in Russia. I had to marvel at how fast the tickets were found, but then again – the human race could be very determined when they set their minds to it.

Resignedly I trudged up the stairs and cuddled down deep into the warmth of my blankets, ready for a good night's sleep. Ne'er had I dreamed that the fifth ticket found in Russia was truly a fake, and that little Charlie Bucket would get his lucky chance the very next day.

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A/N: Gah, don't kill me! It's an impulse story. Maybe it'll get off the ground, maybe it won't, but I was fairly pleased with the first chap. It's the longest chapter I've ever done on ANY of my stories, and I'm quite proud of it. Especially seeing as how I typed it all up in about an hour. Interesting, when my mind gets to work. Anyway, I know most of you reading this will know my other work-in-progress, Whisper of Evil, and yes, I'm still working on that – but I'm delaying chap. section updates to every other day or so. This will be the other every other day, if you get my drift. Hehe. This story is modeled after me, but of course, the names are fictitious and the setting isn't my actual setting… it's just the way I like to think and act. So yeah.

Reviewers: As I've always said, I'm open to praise and flames. Just don't banish me to the Eternal Stove. Argh. But also as I've always said, flames just force me to build a barrier, build my character, and hone my writing skills. So there. –Wink.- And I can rhyme, too.