A story about... A Wish c. 1999/2000 Mark Frey, Tymme Laun, Christine Schwab, and Sally Treanor	CHRISTINE
			TYMME	MARK & SALLY
				SALLY & MARK
			SALLY
				TYMME & MARK

Then he thought a little more. "Wedda minute, now, I bet ye ken turn this place into a nice little gold factory, wot with all the little kiddies lovin' te pay te get creeped out these days. I wanner who owns the rights ahn tis here place?"

The rope continued to play out and play out some more, as Louie the Leprechaun drew and drew from his hip flask some more as he descended and descended some more. Then, just as the well seemed it would never end, it didn't. It kept going and going, until it seemed like it would *really* never end, and then (perhaps just to be contrary, as wells often are) it did.

None of this really surprised Louie, who was rather intent on the fact that he had continued to draw from his flask for what seemed like hours, and yet it was still full. The leprechaun couldn't decide if he had had too much or not, as he couldn't really remember which end was sober and which was drunk. So, just to be sure, he had another pull from the flask and stepped gingerly onto the spongy turf at the bottom of the well.

"Well, now. Whot's this?" Louie mumbled, as his legs seemed to shorten and lengthen as he made his way through the turf. The sponginess seemed to have something to do with color. As the shades of the turf turned from a mossy gray, to green, to blue, to violet, to red, its texture and temperature changed too. Louie just sunk into the gray; the green added a little spring; the blue was sort of gooey and cool; the violet had a wave motion; the red, which glowed a bit, seemed to elevate his every step.

"Begorrah," whispered Louie, as he moved along this strange surface. He found that if he just tapped each color, it also emanated sounds-some tinkly, some drum-like, some chirpy. His feet were starting to take on a life of their own, tapping and tinkling out a colorful melody.