Creative: Produce a contemporary version of a folktale or fairy tale (in any genre).

Rosie's red rucksack thuds to the floor the second she slips through the bedroom door. Tapping a button on her computer, she takes a minute to unravel her pigtails- school rules demand that long hair be tied back, even though the bunches make her look like a toddler. As the screen pings the little lady picks up the teddy from her bed, cuddles it to her chest, then stuffs it under the pillow, blushing at the thought of Peter finding out she still had teddies at the ripe old age of eleven. Relieved, she sits herself down and beams at the screen, her gnawed fingertips bouncing on the keys.

Hiya Peter!

Hi babe. :) How's your day been?

Babe. Her blood burns with embarrassment and excitement. She smiles secretly to herself. He always says 'babe'. She always blushes at it. He's older than her- fourteen, he says- so she's glad he can't see her blush. What a baby she'd look like!

I've been okay, thanks. I got paired up with Violet for my English project. We're doing war poetry. What about you? You didn't tell me what school you go to.

Not done much today. Just listening to music. What bands do you like? You don't like Justin Bieber, do you? :P

Just a little bit.

No! That's for little kids, lol.

He'd been talking to her for about a month before he started asking what she looked like. How tall was she? Did she wear makeup? For the most part she complies to his questions, offering up any detail he requests; blue eyes, freckles, scabs on her knees, four feet ten, two baby teeth left, never been kissed.

Can I see a picture of you?

Her fingers hovered like puppets' hands . The people who'd came into school had said that she shouldn't give photos to people she didn't know. It could lead to… They hadn't said what it could lead to exactly. Their expressions made invisible hands twist about in Rosie's stomach, and the vague comments about 'dirty old men' were enough to tell her that it wasn't something very nice. She wouldn't give photos to people she didn't know. But she did know Peter, didn't she? Not face to face, but still…

She'd have known if he was one of those. She was smart, sensible, protected by an unseen talisman of maturity, she was sure of it. The only girls who got caught by horrible old men were the stupid ones- innocent schoolgirls who didn't know any better.

I don't know…

Aww. L Don't you trust me? :( x

Of course.

Well, why not? It's only a pic. :) Have you got a webcam? x

Yeah.

Mine's broken. :( Switch yours on so I can see you? Please? It's only me. :) xx

Biting her lip, the girl shifted her mouse to the little cartoon of a camera. A breath in. Click. Sighing, she tried not to think about what her mum would say. After all, it wasn't as though she'd murdered someone. It was only a picture. It was only Peter.

Happy birthday, gorgeous. :) I've got you a present, btw. Xx

Really? :) What is it? x

I'll bring you it. Do you want to meet up near the park? I'll walk you home if you like since it's dark nights. Don't want you to get attacked walking home, what with weirdos about and all that. :P Xx

The park smells of rotting leaves and cold air, a ribbon of wind running around her legs and tangling her hair as she attempts to apply the cheap 'young blood' lipstick she bought with her pocket money. As always, she strays from the pink lip line without noticing, convinced that more will make her look older. Will Peter want to kiss her? Her blood surges to her cheeks at the thought.

When she looks up, it's not Peter who advances towards her. He's older, with brown hair that sticks up like fur. His eyes are grey and glisten like wet cobwebs, the pupils fat like flies trapped in the middle. He smiles, baring sharp, white, glinting teeth.

"Rosie?"

Stupid as it sounds, her name sounds wrong in his voice. She nods anyway.

"You're Peter's friend, aren't you? He said you'd be here."

Without a word the girl listens as this strange man explains that Peter is in bed at home with the flu. Maybe she could walk down to the house to get the gift? Peter's been really excited about getting to meet her properly, you see, and he'll be disappointed. She can even phone her parents when she gets to the house, if she wants; they'll want to know she's safe. Peter was really worried she wouldn't want to talk to him if he didn't show- that's why he's sent his brother to explain.

Will she come down and see Peter, then?

Glancing at the blackening sky, she nods, pulling up the hood of her favourite hoodie.

Only when the child-lock clicks do Rosie's thoughts start running rings around her. What will her mum say when she phones? How is she going to explain how she knows Peter? Anyway, why didn't he text her? She gave him her mobile number. He never really mentioned an older brother before either. Now that she thinks about it, he didn't mention a lot; he asked more questions than he answered. Clutching her seatbelt with one hand, she turns her neck in time to see the road vanish, replaced by trees and grass and blackness. What's happening? The driver's seatbelt unclicks. Oh God oh God oh-

Scream stab the dead air, unheard over the traffic. There is nothing we can do for her now.

When he has moved what is left of Rosie to a safe place, he will sit satisfied for a week, gorging himself on the memory, devouring every detail, sucking at the bones until he finds himself hungry again, more ravenous than before. He will stride to his computer.

Finally his glinting eyes will settle on the perfect piece of prey. His paw will reach for the keyboard. He will tap a message out. He will think forward to what he has planned, and it will be all he can do to keep himself from drooling on the crumb-covered keyboard.

He will hit the 'send' button and waits, a thousand rehearsed conversations ready in his head.

Hi gorgeous. I'm Peter. :) xx