As promised, here are the winning entries for our Tokidoki Mimobot contest:

Winner, Timothy Nakayama

This is my story, about what happened to my friends and I, the day when our island sunk into the realm of dreams and almost disappeared from reality.

This is my story, written by me, Pirate Nero.

It was like any other day on our island, with a bright blue azure sky, and the sun beaming at us from above.

Meletta, and her sometimes-too-clever-for-its-own-good monkey, whistled cheerfully as they made their way up to our favourite spot on the grassy hill.

Pastaio was soon to follow, still wearing that ridiculous chef's hat with the little Italian flag on it. Not that I am one to talk, seeing as how I was wearing my pirate hat on such a balmy day.

"Something is not right," I said, motioning for them to stand by my side.

"What is it, Pirate Nero?" Meletta asked, petting her monkey with tender affection.

"Partially close your eyes," I told them.

"Why?" Pastaio replied.

"Just do it!" I shot back.

And they did.

And they saw it.

I was not the only one, then.

With our eyes partially closed, we saw ... things ... in the sky, in the sea, in the very grass of the hill itself ... unexplainable things ... ethereal creatures that seemed born of dreams and imagination, smiling, waving, winking, at the three of us.

"What the …?" Pastaio stammered in disbelief.

"You see it now, don't you?" I said.

"Smiling, waving, winking things" Meletta chimed in, with her monkey howling in agreement.

"What are they?" Pastaio asked, scratching his head.

I smiled grimly. I alone knew the tale of this island, and its secret.
"My uncle, Pirate Shake Spear, once told me the secret of this island," I began. "This island that we all live on was created from the wishes of a dreamer, somewhere in the world. For some reason known only to him, the Lord of Dreams himself liked the dreams of this particular dreamer, and he built this island, out of a mixture of dream-stuff and reality. The Lord of Dreams placed this island in reality, rather than in the Dream World, for hope that one day, this favoured dreamer of his would come to this island, and see that dreams, can indeed come true."

"Every 100 years, the island feels an urge — a pull if you will — back towards the Dream World. If no one is there to stop it, it will return to dreams, for The Lord of Dreams has matters elsewhere to take care of, and has thus left the guardianship of this island to its inhabitants."

"So these things we're seeing ... these undeniably silly faces of creatures in the sea, skies and in the grass of the hills itself ..." Meletta said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded. "They are the dream-stuff from which this island was built, and now they feel that yearning to return to the Dream World. That urge that comes every 100 years."

"Why," Pastaio roared, "This cannot be! We must not allow this! Where shall Mimobots live if not on this island!"

I nodded. "These creatures that we see, we must make them want to stay in reality. It is the only way for our island to continue on in this reality."

"And how do we do that?" Meletta asked, clutching her monkey tightly.

I smiled. "The tale says that three people must gather above this hill, ruled by the hand of Destiny itself, and we must hold hands and believe. We must want to believe that this island is real. That we live, breathe, eat, dream and are wholly of this reality."

"We do not fight then?" Meletta said, clutching the pineapple grenade that seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

I shook my head. "No, we don't."

"Oh" she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

And so, the three of us stood there and held hands. And we believed in reality, that we, Mimobots, really did exist and that we enjoyed every single day of our lives on this island, and that we were not merely figments and creations of someone else's imagination. It was tough, and it was tiring, and during all that I couldn't help but think of a name. It was a name that just appeared in my head, but I had no idea who it was.

"Simone Legno," a ghostly voice spoke in my head. "Simone Legno," it repeated. Words seemed to trail off in the wind, barely audible beyond the sea's soft susurrus.

I took my pirate head off, so that I could hear better, but the ghostly voice had stopped. Had I imagined it?

We took in a breath of wind, and beams of sun, and we stood upon our hill.

Partially closing our eyes, we saw those incredibly cute ghostly faces. They were smiling and laughing and cheering now, and they faded softly into nothingness.

And our island remained.

Wiping the beads of sweat that had formed on my metallic head, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

Meletta still looked grim and wary, as if she had expected more, but she seemed to know — just as I did — that it was all over. The monkey certainly did. It was eating into a banana.

Pastaio looked nonplussed, with a dumb-founded look on his face.

"It's over?" he asked hesitantly.

"It is," I said, as I reached out to grab my pirate hat.

"Well, then," Pastaio said, a devilish grin plastered on his cherubic face.

He reached out from behind him and produced a bowl of steaming pasta, complete with authentic bits of bacon, aubergine and zucchini in it.

"Who's up for some pasta?"

THE END

Second Place, Emi

That cute jungle gal
says quietly to herself,
“I’ll get that monkey.”

A devilish cook.
Trade your soul for some pasta?
It’s sinfully good.

Sailing the high sea,
a cut-throat pirate questing
for cutest treasure.

Second Second Place, Kary

Meletta is mad because she wants the damn monkey off her head, so the devil brings this knockout spaghetti and meatballs, but it doesn’t work. So the pirate says, “I will smack that monkey in the booty. That still doesn’t work so they start singing:

devil pasta is red,
mad pirates are black,
poor meletta cant get the monkey off her back
That is what they were up to when I last checked in.