Once upon a time they said we toys were stitched by hand with love.

But all that has changed with this modern world. No longer are we filled with love and good intentions; instead we are made purely for profit. No longer are we made to last a life time. Instead, we are now so poorly made that just a little rough housing causes us to rip and tear. What child wants a broken toy? What happened to the respect they once had for us? What happened to being treasured and passed through generations? Since we cannot talk or move, we are second class toys. Gone are the days when tea parties were popular. All toddlers do now is watch tv and scribble.

It began when I belonged to a little girl named Alice; whose grandmother and mother I had once belonged to.

The way that Alice played was not the way that her mother and grandmother had; the way they remembered every time they saw me in her arms. They would always smile at the sight, obviously remembering when I had been so dear to them. When I was handed to her, I knew that everything had changed.

Alice's attention span was that of a fly and she only loved something for a short period before replacing it with the newest, biggest, smartest toy. She only kept me because she felt she had to, and as a result I was damaged quite often. As soon as her mother and grandmother would leave the room after seeing her with me, Alice would throw me to the ground. She ripped me multiple times on purpose; pulled at my limbs and tails--and even once tried to eat my eye!

When her mother found me laying there on the floor in pieces she'd just take me to her room and patch me up. Then she would return me to her ruthless daughter who would pout because I was back yet again.

One day, she took me out of the house for the first time. I thought, how wonderful! Maybe she was beginning to change!

I was wrong. Very wrong.

She took me to the park; a place I hadn't seen in years, and was playing with me in the sandbox when the accident happened. One of my stitches got caught on a sandbox nail, and instead of calling her mother--stupid Alice!--tugged hard and shredded my poor arm.

That was the last straw for her. She marched straight to her mother and asked for a replacement; with me wiggling in her hand like a rag doll. Her mother (who was by now, VERY tired of her nagging) agreed and just like that I was abandoned. I was left in the sand like a broken treasure.

What had I ever done to deserve being abandoned like this? What had I ever done that caused such punishment to come my way? Had I been a bad toy? Was I really as useless and unwanted as I was made to feel by Alice?

After laying in the sand for what seemed like an eternity, another little girl found me. In my despair, I feared her; but she did something surprising. Instead of tearing me up, she picked me up and took me home with her. As I lay on her table, she took out a plastic box filled with various sewing supplies.

"You're going to be my new project, Plushie. My mother will help me. I'll learn how to sew and I'll fix you up."

If a plushie could cry, I swear I would have at that moment. Joy would be mine once again, if this girl carried through with her promise. I'd been disappointed so many times before with Alice; but if I could just dare to hope...maybe, just maybe...

Sure enough her mother would sit down with her and start talking. With a piece of scrap fabric her mother would teach her a myriad of new sewing patterns, and as I lay there watching, I began to learn as well.

Soon enough the girl--who I learned was named Tara--became confident enough to fix me up, which she did with the utmost care. I quickly grew to become her favorite toy and we both learned to love each other.

But quite suddenly, things turned dark. Tara became very ill. She scared me one day when she suddenly dropped me, lay down, and began to tremble uncontrollably. After that, she was rushed to the hospital, and I was left alone in her room. Two days later her mother came back to her room and as she was packing some clothes, saw me. And she brought me to her sick daughter.

When Tara saw me she reached out to grab me and pulled me close. She was paler than I remembered, but we stayed there together for quite some time.

Tara, oh sweet Tara, would cuddle me tightly when her doctors came. I never understood what they were telling her (as adults could no longer communicate with toys), but the grimmer their faces, the more tightly she clung to me. But I did know one thing--it wasn't good news, whatever they were saying.

Every day her smile would grow weaker and fainter, until the day she stopped smiling. She still played with me but that was very limited. She was weak, and barely had any hair left on her head. Her mother would look sadder and sadder as each day passed.

Within a few short weeks Tara was with us no more.

Her mother cried for months. The house was so empty without little Tara, and I now became her mother's toy. Quite a reversal on the old tradition. Instead of being passed down, I was being passed up. She would cry with me in her arms, and call out for her daughter.

Time began to pass and Tara was soon nothing but a memory. Her mother had avoided stepping into her old room for years, until one very rainy April day. She stepped into the room frozen in time and caressed every toy. Everything still smelled like Tara and it was as though nothing had changed.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and just took it all in, and after a few minutes spotted Tara's plastic sewing box. She picked it up, blew the dust off, and looked over it. Then, something occurred to her. She brought the box down to the kitchen table, dumped its contents out, and began to think.

Slowly, but surely, she began to work with what she had. The result would be...a toy puppy, which would be placed next to me.

"Tara's Toys for Tots," her mother said, first whispering. She would repeat it a few more times, before giving a shout of joy, grabbing me, and twirling around. "You're going to help me," she said to me.

Over the next few days, she would make a logo which would say "Tara's Toys for Tots".Above it would be me sitting with a smile on my face.

Her mother would take all of Tara's old clothes and use the fabric from them to make more toys. All of them were special, because she poured her love into making them. And because of that love, they had a sort of life as I did.

While Tara's mother continued to make more toys, I would teach the completed ones about children. Strange that I was able to do so without her telling, but I was glad of that. Once I was done teaching them, they would be given to a child.

It got bigger.

The charity got bigger, and fabrics got sent from all over to make more toys--toys that gave hope to children, toys that outlasted their mass-produced counterparts.

Toys that were unique.

Like every child.

Credits:
Profile by Ziva

Overlay by Ink

Original Story Concept by me, Permanent. Rewritten by QContinuum.