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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:09 pm    Post subject: Linear Story Competition winners Reply with quote

One competition that should be highlighted is the short Linear Story competition. Held in the Linear Stories section these stories are given a set of rules, a short period of time for all authors to write, and a small word limit.

The resulting stories are voted on and the best one is posted in this thread along with the rules for that month.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Past winners, the rules they wrote under, and the stories that won are listed here for your enjoyment.

Mordok (March 2005)
Smee (May 2005)
ethereal_fauna (June 2005)
Random (July 2005)
ethereal_fauna (August 2005)
The Powers That Be (September 2005)
Key (October 2005)
chinaren (November 2005)
lordofthenight (December 2005)
Jack_D.Mented (January 2006)
ethereal_fauna (February 2006)
Shady Stoat (March 2006)
Solomon Birch (April/May 2006)
The Powers That Be (June 2006)
Smee (July 2006)
JezSharp (August 2006)
September - No competition
JezSharp (October 2006)
November - No competition
Kalanna Rai (December 2006)


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Sat Apr 22, 2006 8:46 am; edited 16 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:10 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Random wrote:
It's challenge time!

Post date: Feb. 14
Due date: March 5

Topic: Tell the story of Felix, a grizzled, burnt out warrior trying to reclaim his younger glories. (What really happens to him is completely up to you.)

Genre: Fantasy (Seems to be the popular one)

Length: 1200 words.

Please read the rules above before submitting.

Spelling and grammar do count so check your work.

You have until March 5th to post a story. You can post and make edits, changes, or delete your story up to this date. On March the 6th the poll will go up for one week to vote on who wrote the best story. The Winner will be announced at the end of the week.

Good luck!


The winning story:

Mordok wrote:
Ok, this isn't what I had in mind originally, but its what came out. Gimme the full review so I can change anything that is uncool or that would disqualify me.

Writing this was much cooler than I thought it would be. Its a great exercise in style and creativity. Everyone should do this.

===============================================

I remember the day my Grandfather Felix went to hunt the bear. I had awoken early, frightened awake by a dream and had gone to the great room to stand by the fire. He was there, finishing his preparations, when I arrived.

He was always a large man. Some said this was because a normal frame could not support the weight of such a heart. I always assumed they were talking about the amount of love he showered on his family. Now that I too, feel the coming of winter, I know that this was only a part of it.

It was strange seeing him dressed for the hunt and holding his spear. I had seen his spear many times, and heard its songs just as many, but I had never seen him touch it. It made him look bigger somehow.

“Ah, good,” he said as he saw me enter. “I won’t have to wake you.”

“What is it Grandfather?” I asked. I was always happy when my Grandfather decided to talk. Most of the people in our clan found his stories boring, but I was always fascinated by his talk of the old ways.

“Do you remember how I told you of our past?” he asked. I could only nod to show him that yes, I did remember his tales. Many times, I had listened as he told of our past as great hunters and warriors.

“And do you remember the story of the longest winter?”

Again, I could only nod. I knew the story well. It had happened before I was born, but while my father still lived. A storm had left enough snow to bury the longhouse, trapping everyone inside. When the food ran out, my father and grandfather had dug a tunnel and went into the icy cold to hunt. The bear they found killed my father before falling to my grandfather’s spear. He had lost his son, but had saved his people.

“The day I lost your father I made a vow that I would protect our clan from this ever happening again. I was, as I am now, clan chieftain after all. I added to the livestock pens and grew seeds when the seasons allowed. I started trading our goods for the goods of other clans. Now we are the largest clan and have the biggest halls.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Your leadership has made our people strong.”

He shook his head. “By strengthening the whole; I have weakened its parts. By securing our future, I have lost our past. We are no longer hunters and warriors; instead we are farmers and traders.”

“So you’re leading a hunting party,” I asked, failing to understand. “So we remember the past?”

“I go alone because I have no future. The men still call me chieftain, but they no longer value my words. They are so afraid to lose what they have worked to achieve, that they don’t see they have lost their pride. They are so busy enjoying the safety they provide to their women that they don’t see the danger to their manhood. If I bring back a bear, maybe they will be reminded of what they can do.”

“A bear,” I asked in disbelief “but Grandfather, you are too old.”

“Then maybe I will find an old bear,” he snapped “maybe a bear that’s claws aren’t as sharp as they used to be. One that is tired of eating the scraps left behind for him by the young bears. A bear that has seen all his friends die and is getting tired of watching things change. Maybe I can find a bear that understands that the winner of our battle can walk with pride for a few more years. Maybe he will know that it’s better to die fighting than to live hiding.”

“But Grandfather,” I asked “aren’t you afraid that you’ll be killed.”

He looked at me as if he knew it would be years before I understood. “I am more afraid that I will live in shame. I am afraid that I will live long enough to forget the face’s of the ones I love. I am afraid that I will be put into the sick room with the old women, no longer able to feed or clean myself. I have already lost the glory of my younger days, and I will not be denied the glory of being able to choose how I live.”

“But…,” I started before his knowing smile cut me off.

“If I am to die, it will be a warrior’s death, and if I am to live, it will be a warrior’s life.”

And with that, my Grandfather turned and left the longhouse, carrying his spear into the winter morning.

===============================================

Anyway, like I said, tear me up with the comments. I need all the help I can get. Very Happy


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Wed Nov 16, 2005 1:15 pm; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:17 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Mordok wrote:
This month, you have to tell the tale of Sol, and his long awaited revenge.

You can use as many words as you want as long as you don't use over 1,500.

You can pick your own genre (fantasy, horror, so on and so forth), but you are still expected to edit and spell check your work.

The basic rules are in the first post of this thread is there are any questions.

So, You have 30 days, what are you waiting for?


The winning story:

Smee wrote:
Sol's Revenge...

Giving my beautiful wife a quick peck on the cheek I headed out the door. Monday morning had arrived with the same inevitability it always had; the enjoyment of the weekend’s time off work already fading, the dark grey clouds overhead not helping.

My car, whilst nothing spectacular, was still my pride and joy. A four-door, metallic silver Buick LeSabre, brand new just a year ago. Getting in and turning the radio on I began the twelve-mile journey to the office.

Arriving five-minutes early as usual, I parked in my reserved space and headed up to the seventeenth floor, nodding a welcome to Barry the doorman on the way. I worked as a senior accountant for a highly respected bank, advising the richest of our corporate clients. A nice job with some nice perks.

My secretary was already in place at her desk, a pile of opened mail in the top corner ready for me to pick up as I went by.

“Good morning Sandra”

Looking up from her typing she pushed her glasses further up her nose.

“Morning Mr. Walker, your ten o’clock called, he’s going to be twenty minutes late.

“Thanks. Is this all the mail” I said, gesturing towards the pile.

“Yes sir, the contract from the Millou account has arrived.”

“Excellent” I replied, picking them up and walking into my office.

With a quick flick through I pulled out the contract and threw the rest of the envelopes on to my desk. This contract was for one of the richest clients of the bank. With my help and advice I’d make their balance double in five years and probably make partner in the process.

I settled down to a morning of work and burned my way through everything by 11:30. Feeling hungry I decided on an early lunch. Handing Sandra a small group of dictation tapes for her to type, along with the Millou contract to fax back I walked out of the office and headed to my car. I wanted a pizza and knew of a fantastic Italian restaurant just a five minute drive away.

The tattered rubber of the back wheel caught my eye first and I soon noticed the others. All my tyres were slashed. Who had done this? How stupid were they. A quick glance up confirmed the several CCTV cameras watching the company carpark. Lunch forgotten I marched directly up to a slightly surprised Barry and told him what’d happened.

“Wow, I didn’t see nothing sir, do you want me to check the tapes”

Despite the circumstances I couldn’t help pick up on his double negative. If he ‘didn’t see nothing’ then he ‘did see something’. Was it bad grammar, or something else. I was surprised by my suspicious mind. Barry had worked for the company for years, and he’d stopped attempted thefts in the carpark several times during those years by his quick action. I quickly responded to him.

“Yeah, thanks that would be brilliant”

His eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the recordings on fast forward. I waited anxiously, hoping a good ID could be made on the culprit or culprits.

“Sorry sir, there’s nothing here! Nobody went anywhere near your car all morning.”

“Can I see” I countered.

“Sure” he replied as he turned the monitor around.

He rewound it and began the scan again. Within a few seconds I saw my car arrive, and then a few frames of myself as I walked into the office. Frame after frame of my car followed. I closely watched the tyres, looking for when they went down. Suddenly I saw myself heading out to lunch, the car now in it’s current state.

“As I said sir, nothing all morning.”

Completely bewildered I headed back up to my office, dismissing Sandra’s confusion with a mild gesture of my hand as I closed the door.

Practical considerations first, I called a garage to come and sort out the damage. One would be out by 2pm. I almost called the police and then decided against it. Without any video evidence there was nothing they could, or would, do.

A phone call disrupted my dealings, and Sandra’s voice informed me that Mr Vincent was on the phone. Putting aside the concerns of the day I thanked Sandra and took a deep breath. The Vincent account was even bigger than the Millou and I’d been working on it for the last two years. It was what had gotten me to the position I had.

“Good afternoon Mr Vincent”

“It might be for you, but it’s been very disappointing from my perspective”

“Oh, I’m sorry to here that Mr Vincent, how can I help you” I inquired.

“The IRS phoned me this morning informing me that I have not paid over $200’000 in corporate taxes over the last two years. If I don’t pay within 45 days prosecution proceedings will be started. Care to explain Mr Walker.”

I answered instinctively,
“That’s impossible, I went over those figures myself. Every cent was accounted for. There must be a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake Mr Walker, I have the figures here in front of me. The only concern I have is how you messed up, and what you’re going to do about it.”

My face flushed and panic all but consumed me. Forget about partner, I’d be fired.
“I..I.I’ll need to investigate Mr Vincent,” the stammer in my voice infuriating me, knowing there was nothing I could do about it, “I will call you back right away”

“Make sure you do. I’m not taking the fall for this Mr Walker.”

With the very obvious threat delivered he hung up. Wiping the sweat from my palms on my trousers I picked up my phone again. Sandra promptly answered.

“Sandra, patch me through to Jackson please, tell him it’s an emergency.”

“Ok sir, sir are you ok?” Genuine concern filled her voice.

“Not really, but if you could just do as I ask.”

Within a few seconds I heard the voice of the Senior Director on the other end of the phone.

“Jackson speaking, how can I help Daniel?”

“Sir, it’s a major one, are you available for a meeting?” I had to do this face to face, it couldn’t be done over the phone.

“I’ve a tight schedule for the whole afternoon, it had better be important”

“It is sir”

“Very well, get up here now.”

The phone went dead and I headed up to get fired.

45 minutes later I headed out of his office, hearing the pleading sounds of Jackson on the phone as I left,

“I understand Mr Vincent, one of our associates has left us down badly. Trust me when I say it’s been handled, and we’ll get everything sorted for you as soon as we can”

I headed out of the office, intent on going home. It was then I remembered my car. Heading back inside I gave my keys to Barry and asked him to sort out the repairs when the mechanic arrived.

Unusually a cab was just outside the office and I quickly got in it.

“Where to sir”

I gave him my address and we pulled out into the traffic.

Within a few minutes I realised he was going in the wrong direction. Like something from a movie I heard the click of the locks clamping down, even as a screen went up separating me from the driver.

I was trapped.

Completely drained from my day from hell I collapsed on the seat and waited to find out where I was being taken.

The car stopped after about twenty minutes. I had no idea where I was.

The screen rolled down and the driver stared at me.

That face…I recognised it. A lot older, but definitely the same guy.

“Sol…?” I whispered.

“Ah, so you do recognise me. Excellent, makes this so much more satisfying.”

“What are you doing…”

“Out of jail,” he finished the sentence for me. “Thought I’d come say thanks to the person who framed me and put me in there.”

For the second time that day panic almost consumed me. How could he know. I’d been so careful.

Sol continued.
“I see by your eyes you’re not going to dispute that. Bet you’re wondering how I found out. That’s the thing with prisons. Lots of bad men who know all about the activities of other bad men. I found out a lot more than your sordid past.”

“What do you want with me! It was twenty years ago, I was young and stupid” I was just blabbering, but I couldn’t help myself.

Sol’s voice suddenly dripped with anger,
“You set me up, stole twenty years of my life and then stole my wife. As I said before, I’m here to say ‘Thanks’. With you being fired today nobody will be surprised to learn of your suicide.”

I barely saw the gun before I felt it. A hammer between my eyes and then nothing.


Wow, once again I struggled with the word limit, reaching about 1650 first time round. Some serious editting required.

I hope you enjoyed. Smile


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Wed Nov 16, 2005 1:18 pm; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:18 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Smee wrote:
Time for a new month's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

1500 words on...

a Horror story involving a crossbow, a horse and a hat.

The rest of the details are up to you. How the three items are used is completely up to you. So long as they are involved in some way.

Deadline = 4th June 2005

Happy Writing. Very Happy


The winning story:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
The Bobcat

On the fourteenth of February 1130, Gregory Papareschi by virtue of the papal ascension became the 164th Pope. He served the Lord God and the Catholic church as pope for thirteen years and seven months under the title Pope Innocent II, during which time he condemned the crossbowman’s skill as “a deadly art, hated by God.”

The passage of time beheld the fabrication of even deadlier weapons whereby one man could end the life of another, and the crossbow fell into disfavor. Ages transformed the obsolete weapon into a hunters bow, taken up for sport and not war, and the target of the shooter shifted from his fellow man to the beasts of the hunt.

Would the same God who made the Christians deny creation of the beasts? Should the deadly art only be hated by God when the crossbowmen turn their skills upon each other? Marla Kune doesn’t consider these questions as she slips on her hat and mounts her sorrel mare, and then rides from her solitary cabin and into the wooded hills.

An only child, Marla became the substitute son her father wanted but didn’t have. She spent many long nights chasing quarry through the brush, and honed her skill with the crossbow as she bonded with her father. Her modern hunting crossbow was engineered to launch 400+ grain bolts at initial velocities in excess of 200 fps. With a draw weight of about 150 pounds, she achieved ample kinetic energy for game hunting with a far lower draw weight than would have been the case with a crossbow of similar power in Pope Innocent’s time. A longer power stroke coupled with a less massive fiberglass lath made the difference.

For hunting purposes her maximum effective range was close to forty-five yards. Too much energy bled off the arrow past that point. Without sufficient energy, her bolt most likely would lodge in the game without inflicting immediate death, and be carried away in the subsequent flight, lost along with the doomed prey. Her intended quarry today was merely a pleasure hunt. She sought the bobcat that she often heard crying in the long hours of the night, for no other reason than to have conquered its wild freedom.

After hours of riding, she finally halted her mare and dismounted, pushing her hat further back on her head. She patted the soft red horse, and wearily sighed a lament.

“I don’t think she’s going to confront us today, girl,” she whispered to the mare, before surveying the sun’s steady ascent into the sky. The cat would soon seek its shelter, to sleep through the afternoon. A chill wind prompted Marla to pull the hat back down over her head.

An almost surreal spirit captivated the surrounding trees, and Marla felt a peculiar fright unlike any she had ever experienced in her life. In the queer calm following the chilling gust, Marla spotted the bobcat, its whiskered face peering at her from the cover of a bush. Her breath caught in her chest, overwhelmed momentarily by the lucent beauty of those feral eyes, before the urge to claim and conquer the cat asserted its demands over both awe and unease. Slowly she slid her bow into position, afraid to move too quickly, or to gain a more advantageous distance for firing, lest she startle the cat and lose her opportunity.

The bolt flew towards the target, and with an agonized scream the cat launched into the air, turning in pain to scurry into the woods. Marla cursed aloud, for although her aim was as true as ever, the shaft had penetrated the cat’s gut and lodged there, allowing the animal to hastily flee.

She mounted again and tracked the path of blood, but as the day wore on she finally conceded victory to the wily cat, and with a heavy heart headed back to the cabin. She felt unusually ill, a queasiness gripping her stomach and causing her to dismount and vomit before reaching the comfort of her home.

The cat padded softly to the cover of the bush, motivated by an angry spirit that she could not resist. The compelling voice of the land called her to a sacrifice, and she peered in disgust at the vile monster standing beside the red horse.

The wilderness whispered into her furred ears, “It seeks you, that abomination, and it destroys with wanton lust.”

The cat tried to grasp the concept of killing for pleasure. She studied the monster with casual curiosity, and accepted the burden of the angry spirit. She sat in pristine honor as the hunter shot the bolt into her side, and then with anguish fled into the grateful shelter of the trees.


Marla slept fitfully, waking often with the searing pain gripping her insides. She finally abandoned her efforts at sleep and paced restlessly about the cabin. She peered out her open door into the frightful night, a blowing snow now blanketing the landscape in ever deepening drifts. She should have left before the snowfall, and with a mental kick chided herself for being stranded and sick, alone in the hills.

Making a strong tea, she settled into a chair and moaned at the unexplained agony. Her insides felt swollen and twisted, and she smelled her own fear at this cruel pain. The night slipped away as day broke, little brighter with the blight of the falling snow, but Marla failed to notice the passage of time.

An ill fever now wracked her body, and she alternated between hot sweats and violent shivers. At times she felt incapable of coherent thought, and hunger gnawed at her in episodic waves, only to have nausea replace it soon thereafter. In this manner she passed the next two days.

The cat lapped at the cold water in the stream, ice forming as the snow began to fall. She had finally stopped running, and with horror she had tried to dislodge the arrow protruding from her side. The shaft penetrated deeply, entering below her ribcage and angling towards her rear legs. The tip parted the hair as it exited the other side of her loin, rubbing a raw wound onto her hind leg as she moved.

She gingerly made her way to her den, sheltering from the snow, and cried out her pain in a low rumbling growl. She gnawed at the shaft, feeling the buried arrow twisting at her insides. She smelled her own fear at this cruel pain. She tried to rest, she tried to ignore her pain and her hunger, she tried to rid herself of this slow death. In this manner she passed the next two days.


Marla no longer had memories of anything but pain, and she pondered at the inexplicable wound rubbed onto her thigh. She chewed at her own skin, her teeth shredding her fingernails and the exposed nail bed below, and the salty taste of her own blood sickened her further. This troublesome gnawing proved a compulsion she could not control.

The stabbing pain in her abdomen had settled to a steady, dull ache, but this offered her little comfort. The skin burned hotly with internal fever, and an angry blue bruise darkened her entire midriff. Any movement resulted in a grisly twisting, as if something turned in her guts. She accepted death, but in her arrogance she still wondered why such a cruel demise had befallen her.

The cat slipped into shock, the pain receding into a numbed sensation providing a welcomed relief. Blood clung to her whiskers and the soft tawny fur framing her muzzle. She accepted death, and with comfort stepped from her battered body, greeted by a shining warmth that she joyfully followed like a kitten.


Marla stubbornly clung to life, although she longed for death. Her fevered mind conjured haunting visions, but surprisingly she managed one last fitful sleep. She jerked awake with a feeling of oppression, and a creeping unease that she was no longer alone in her cabin. She grimaced in pain as she sat upright in her chair, and her eyes strained in the dark for the intruder.

A darker blackness advanced upon her, an inky figure slipping through the murky atmosphere of the cabin, a sinister blackness upon blackness. Marla opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Wed Nov 16, 2005 1:22 pm; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:18 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
Time for July's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

1300 words, Visionary Fiction (visionary fiction overlaps many genres, and may include elements of fantasy, scifi, or other themes. This should allow for more artistic freedom from varied writers. The defining aspect of visionary fiction entails spirituality. It is not religion specific, and often addresses Christianity, paganism, and/or occultism, among other things.)

Topic: Shelby Hawkins undergoes a life-altering experience, and determines to share this encounter with both friends and strangers.


Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

Random wrote:
Here is my entry for this month's contest. I haven't had a chance to really fine tune the editing so any help would be very appreciated. Smile

A Cup of Coffee and the Color Yellow

“9am- Meeting with Daryl Van derKamp on the new IT solutions project.
10:30am- Reschedule lay off meeting to 1pm. Conference call with Singapore.
11:15am- Run reports, and final figures for Terry.
11:30am- Review reports for Helsin deal.
12pm- Lunch with Jules and Gary. Reschedule, need to get figures to courthouse.
1pm- ….”

On and on it went. The date book reciting to Shelby what her life would be centered on today. Shelby was successful, something her father had wanted for her, but she couldn’t help but feel as if she were a disappointment. She was single, not even dating, and her parents had long ago stopped bugging her about grandchildren. Shelby was wealthy for a single woman, and at the top of her game in the corporate world. She had power, a nice house, a fast shiny car, and her stocks were going through the roof.

Shelby hated her life.

None of this was what she had wanted when she got out of college. She had wanted to become a painter. That was her dream, her fantasy, and her ambition that kept her facing each dreadful day. She had money, power, and was pretty enough for her choice of men. But there was hollowness inside Shelby that she could not ignore; a hole that had appeared at some point in time, although she had never looked deeply enough to find out when that had happened.

Her phone rang, for perhaps the twentieth time that morning, and Shelby sighed as she reached for it. “Ms. Hawkins,” Shelby said into the phone. Silence answered her. “Hello?” Then it started, a faint whisper seemed to be heard, a chorus of them actually, as if a million people were trying to talk at the same time. Shelby didn’t know what to say as she sat at her desk bewildered by the noise. Gradually, the voices became understandable, if not sensible. Suddenly one of the voices, a genderless and vibrant voice got through, almost singing to her, “It is not yet to be.”

The voices went dead, and Shelby was left staring at the phone. She replaced the phone on its hook and as she brought her hand up to her chin, she tipped over a cup of coffee sitting on her desk edge. The cup rolled under her desk and Shelby threw her hands to the sky and wondered if it was going to be that kind of day. Shelby had to get on her hands and knees to get the cup under her desk when a thought occurred to her. Shelby had never had a cup of coffee in her life.

As suddenly as thought, Shelby’s world became one of a single loud roar, then darkness.

It was sea of bliss for Shelby. Swimming in the waters of this place, Shelby had no phone ringing incessantly, no managers badgering her to work longer, no lay offs to hand out. It was floating sensation, as if she were simply riding the currents of a gentle sea. It’s waves caressing her and pushing her towards…. Nowhere.

Shelby could neither see nor hear anything, but she knew she was screaming as her body jerked in a fit of uncontrollable spasms. The darkness dulled, and Shelby felt hands on her. She no longer floating peacefully, but bouncing now, in the rough choppy waters that had suddenly stormed against her. The grayness of the place lightened a little more, and suddenly there were other sensations. The smell of air, the taste of smoke, and pain in her head and stomach.

Shelby opened her eyes to Hell. Flames licked at a place she thought should be familiar but she couldn’t place the object sticking through the gap in what she thought was wall. She looked up and found herself being carried towards the sunlight. She realized she was draping over the back of someone, a fireman by the looks of the helmet. They crashed into the outside world with a groan from Shelby as the sunlight assaulted her eyes, making the pain in her head bang a steady rhythm against her skull.

More gently than Shelby would have thought possible, she was placed on a soft mattress, and once again hauled away. A sharp sting erupted in her arm, and Shelby fell away from the world again, this time into an unmoving black sea of emptiness.

Time meant nothing here. Every so often the darkness would grow gray but it never lasted long. Images flashed through her mind, but two remained constant, a cup of coffee she had never drank, and a phone with voices she could barely recall. It didn’t add up for her mind, and for Shelby the loss of time was as tragic as the loss of one of her limbs. Time was everything, it was money, it was a testament to all she had worked for, and a road to take her back to her childhood.

But in this place, time did not pass. Her finger moved. Shelby raised what would have been a hand to her eyes, and slowly it formed before her. Shelby realized that this was her place. A cup of coffee, a distant voice, a dream unfulfilled. Shelby raised her other hand and it too materialized at her memories. Shelby wasn’t sure if she could smile at the new revelations, but she tried. A line of yellow blurred between her hands. Her favorite color was yellow. Her color of happiness had always been Yellow.

With a fling, she sent the yellow blur out, turning the blackness into a sheet of yellow canvas. She laughed, and she knew she had laughed for she felt it. In her world, she painted a masterpiece. Greens, reds, blues, cardinals flew in a soft blue background, a single lazy cloud drifted far in the background, and the crystal blue waters reflected serenity in all its imperfections. With but a swipe of her hand the picture was gone and Shelby began anew.

Shelby blinked as she opened her eyes again. Tubes were protruding from her in an orderly chaos, running to a machine that blipped with every beat of her heart. A woman leaned over her, a large smile on her face, and a look of sheer joy in her eyes.

“What happened,” was all Shelby could ask.

“You were in a coma dear,” the lady responded, gently pushing a button on the wall. “Most thought you were too far gone for hope. But it is not yet to be.”

Shelby looked at the woman, something so very familiar. She scraped at the walls of her memories for any clues but was soon overwhelmed by doctors and nurses rushing around her.

Shelby learned she had been in a coma for three years. An ex-employee had rammed a car full of dynamite into the front of her office, killing several, and injuring hundreds. It was a miracle she had survived, but they had found her under her desk, safely shielded from the toppling roof and flames.

Her parents had been happy for her, but it wasn’t long before her father asked her when she planned on going back to work. Shelby sat in her new house, a smaller place but one with a lakeside view, and pondered that very thing. She laughed aloud at the trap she was setting for herself and turned back to her easel. Shelby was not good with words, she couldn’t explain to her father or anyone else what had happened. So she picked up a brush and laid her first stroke to the empty canvas.

A large slash of yellow.


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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:19 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Random wrote:
New Challenge Time! WHOO HOO!

This challenge will remain open until August 24th. That gives you three weeks to complete a story and submit it for editing and review! On Agust 25th, the poll will go up and on the 29th the new winner will be annunced.

Edit: Since this has had such little discussion I'm going to change the genre from Humor to whatever genre you prefer to write.

Topic: Gary, a plumber from the Bronx is mistaken as someone extremely famous. Who he is mistaken for and why are all up to you.

Word Length: 1400

Best of luck to you all! Feel free to ask any clarification questions you have!


The winning story:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
I originally considered humor for this submission, but I think I've ended up with a brief examination of the grotesque instead. For what it's worth, here's my entry this month:

Mizz Racine

Mrs. Goldstein looked with exasperation at the messy footprints tracking across the otherwise pristine linoleum of her kitchen floor. She did not despise all strangers in her house, just the odious ones. Her lip curled in a disgusted snarl as she glanced at the plumber’s backside jutting from under her sink. The man grunted as he worked, kneeling between the cabinet doors with his large posterior swaying ludicrously as he tightened the pipes. Mrs. Goldstein choked back her laughter at the exposed ass crack flashing unashamed in her hospitable kitchen.

“How cliché,” she thought, crinkling her nose at the unattractive man. The plumber had arrived earlier, reeking of stale sweat and sewage, and depositing grimy prints on all clean surfaces he contacted. Why did she never have the luck of the other bored housewives in her neighborhood? She’d dressed seductively in a blatant attempt to woo a handsome repairman, only to open the door at 9:23- and the bastard had to be late- to find Gary standing on her porch.

Gary groaned and farted as he backed out from under the sink, pulled himself into a standing position by placing his nasty hand on the white countertop leaving yet more grime, and hitched his pants up. He breathed heavily and grunted as he gathered his tools, before turning to the appalled Mrs. Goldstein with a grin.

“That’ll do ‘er,” he quipped.

She looked at him with mild disgust and complete incomprehension. Gary slowed his speech a little, wondering again why he’d left the Bronx to move into a southern state. He missed the city, the rudeness, the bustle. He had not yet adjusted to the slow drawling speech, the massive mosquitoes, or the oppressive humidity of the south. What he did not mind about his new locale, however, was the manner of flimsy dress that most of his female clients greeted him with.

Gary left Mrs. Goldstein’s tidy home and checked the time. Her cranky disposal had cut into his lunch, which was just as well; he had promised his sister’s husband’s nephew a favor. Apparently the young man’s girlfriend had an eccentric grandmother on a fixed income, who needed a little pipe snake action in her plumbing. He would fit her into his lunch hour for free, just because he was nice like that. He turned his truck from the cozy streets of this upscale neighborhood and drove into a shabbier part of town.

He parked outside a ramshackle abode, and then verified the address. Sure enough this was the place. A yellow note taped to the door instructed him to come on inside, and explained where the restroom was located. He finished this job in no time at all without ever hearing a word from the grandmother, and made ready to leave. As he entered the darkened hallway of the cramped dwelling, he heard a scratchy voice call out to him.

“Gary, c‘mere to me,” issued a crackled summons.

He obediently peered into a dimly lit sitting room, and gazed in astonishment around him. Candles flickered about the space, and a deep crimson painted the walls. Sparkling plastic beaded curtains draped the doorframe where he’d entered, reflecting the candlelight in muted whispers. The room smelled strongly of garlic and spices, and a bit of decaying flesh. A tattered chicken carcass hung in one corner, appearing almost jerked and losing feathers slowly.

Most disturbing of all was the withered old woman sitting half-naked in a tattered chair. Wrinkles mapped the skin clinging to her bony frame, and the only fleshy bits of her body were the pendulous breasts hanging grossly on her chest. Her thin gray hair fell in matted ropey strings across her face. An earthen bowl of some dark, viscous liquid sat congealing in her lap. “Come speak a spell with Mizz Racine,” the old woman demanded.

Gary sat, unable to think of any plausible reason not to and too shocked to form any clever excuses. The old woman leaned forward, bringing her face closer to his, and one sagging breast plopped unceremoniously into the bowl. Gary shuddered involuntarily at the hideous display of the large puckered nipple dipping into the unidentifiable ooze.

“Tell Mizz Racine what you want most,” the old woman said with a toothless smile. “You want Mizz Racine to make you handsome, maybe you get the girl of your dreams?”

Gary fought back his revulsion. Was the old crow offering to perform some kind of spell for him, some black magic to fulfill a wish? He could hardly see the harm from indulging her whim, and it just might get him out of here quicker. His mind raced with what to request.

“I want to be famous,” he blurted. Damn, was that the best he could think of?

The old woman creased her forehead. “Fame? For what do you wish fame? Where’s your talent?”

Gary didn’t have any talent. Oh, he could open a drain but that was hardly worth fame. He looked nervously around the eerie room, and suddenly felt hot and oppressed. His eyes returned once again to the tip of that obscene orb hanging from her chest and dunking into the bowl.

“I don’t know. I don’t care what talent I have. I just want to walk into a room full of women and have them screaming after me,” he choked out, hoping this would soon be over.

“Very well,” the woman said as she sat back, dark moisture dripping from her dipped feature. She dunked a feather into the bowl and painted a streak down Gary’s forehead. “One sows hasty wishes, and reaps hasty rewards.”

Gary fled the house at that moment, hounded by the cackling laughter of the old woman. In the safety of his truck, he wiped the mark from his face and tried to calm down. He sped away from the unkempt lawns and falling houses into a more habitable area. Today had been a trying day.

The remainder of his workday passed without any incident, and he had almost forgotten about the strange old woman by the time he reached his home that evening. A quick perusal of the fridge revealed stale cheese and expired sandwich loaf. Gary raised his hand and sniffed his armpit, and with a forceful exhale decided that he didn’t need a shower, but he would change his clothes. The only clean shirt he could find was the bright satiny monstrosity his best friend had given him last Christmas. It made him look like some over inflated egoist, in his own opinion. With a shrug he pulled on the shirt and headed to the corner cafe.

He paid little attention to the banner hanging outside of the establishment, although he did note that the bold lettering welcomed a local ladies organization to the cafe. Apparently some feminist bitches were gathering for a hen party, cackling in the corner of the small eatery and bashing men. He shrugged it off and sat in the far corner, intending to dine there anyway.

The waitress hadn’t even placed his glass of water on the table, when he noticed how quiet the cafe had become. Looking around in the unnerving silence, Gary noticed the women in the group staring at him and whispering. One of the bold ladies finally spoke up.

“I’m sure that is him. He lives in this neighborhood, you know. That’s the producer of pornography and the defiler of women,” she shrilled for all to hear.

“We don’t want you here, victimizer, whoremonger!”

The women all started to murmur and grumble, until the entire cafe filled with the cacophony of their misplaced slights. Gary placed his face in his hands and laughed miserably, ducking out into the night without ordering his meal, while the room full of women came screaming after him.


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Wed Nov 16, 2005 1:29 pm; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:19 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
Time to begin September's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before 10 October, and polling will begin on 12 October.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. The honor is listed on your profile and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

1500 words, author's choice of scifi, horror, or fantasy.

Topic: All good things eventually end. Chronicle the demise of a civilization. This could be anything from the destruction of an entire world, to the obscure and silent ending of a colony of ants. The sole requirement is that by the end of the story, everyone or everything must face death.


Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

The Powers That Be wrote:
I've been held hostage by real life for the last several weeks, and I'm hopelessly behind on writing, particularly for Abducted!. But I'm back now, and I figure I'll start getting back into it with this.

Uncharacteristically, I had plenty of words to spare.

It was said, falsely, that the answer was found only after all hope was lost. In truth, all hope should have been lost. The inevitability of defeat had been clear for a long time to anyone willing to perform the brutal calculus of war. Outnumbered, outgunned, outwitted at every turn, humanity was steadily yielding ground to the Others, planet by planet, system by system. The chances of victory had dwindled to a mathematical abstraction, a fraction that made “one in a million” seem like a sure thing. And yet, the human capacity for hope, for blind, pointless, absurd self-delusion, was not yet breached. And so it was that the small group of researchers gathered on Earth’s tiny moon toiled on. They had long ago exhausted the obvious and considered the improbable. More recently, they had abandoned the improbable in favor of the impossible. And finally, with no alternative but despair, they progressed to the unthinkable, the intolerable. It was then, when they had finally freed themselves of constraints, of ethical and moral considerations, that they found the solution.

Biological warfare was not a new idea, nor one that was repugnant to all. The means that were used, however, in this desperate hour in this remote place, would later be condemned as inexcusable, even in the face of absolute proof that there was no other route to survival. Suffice it to say that a certain chemical was required to make the virus that would win the war, and this chemical was produced in the bodies of the Others only when subjected to the most extreme forms of torture. As soon as the discovery was made, prisoners of war were transported from far and wide to the Moon to support production.

The virus was really quite ingenious. Airborne and fast to reproduce, it would spread quickly through the populace. The course of the infection was twofold. First it attacked the brain, creating in the victim an overwhelming desire to return home. Carriers in this stage would, like the extinct salmon of Earth, forget all other tasks and brave any obstacles to make their way back to the place of their birth. Each virus was a Pied Piper in reverse, drawing a single rat back to his or her personal Hamelin, where billions of residents waited to be infected in turn.

When the infected Other did reach home, changes in brain chemistry would trigger the second, more conventional, deadly phase of the disease. This phase was long and protracted, as the victim’s body slowly, painfully shut down, organ by organ. The pain and incapacitation would make the victims beg for the death that was still days or weeks away. Eventually, though, their wishes would be granted.

The virus was released in the Betelgeuse system, only recently conceded to the Others. It worked perfectly as advertised. Within days, the planets were emptied, the Others’ ships flying off in all directions as the invaders retraced their steps back to their corner of the galaxy. Before long, all of humanity’s planets had been reclaimed. And soon, the armed forces began to advance, landing on the planets of the Others, usually with no resistance.

A few weeks after the initial release, the Others announced their unconditional surrender. Humanity rejoiced, but only briefly. It wasn’t long before reports began to filter back, stories and images of the Others’ worlds, dominated by slow, painful, inexorable death. Rumors also spread about how the virus was manufactured and what was being done to POWs in humanity’s name.

The Others begged for a cure or at least for help stopping the spread of the virus. The human population similarly petitioned its leaders to come to the aid of the defeated. But there was no cure and the spread could not be stopped.

On the worlds of humanity, there were trials and recriminations. Animosity grew between those who saw the final solution as necessary and those who saw it as unforgivable. Entire planets threatened secession. Local civil wars started and threatened to spread through the galaxy.

Meanwhile, on a remote planet beyond where the war had ever reached, the last of the Others, its body wracked by pain and deformed beyond recognition, perished.

It was at this moment that the Voice was heard. It came from everywhere and nowhere, it was heard by all humans throughout the galaxy, and it was happy.

“Congratulations, my children! You have accomplished a remarkable deed and the people of the galaxy owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

Everywhere, questions were asked. Who are you? What is happening? Where is that voice coming from? But no answers were to come. The Voice was speaking only, not listening.

“We have run billions of full simulations with true AI. Every one, until now, has ended with the complete extermination of humanity. You alone have survived. Not only have you survived, you have won! And by winning your simulated war, you have shown us the way to win the real one. We have collected your data and the virus is being formulated even as we speak. We will do just as you have done, and we will be victorious. Thank you all.”

There was a short pause, and then billions of voices rose up in protest. You are mistaken – we are real, shouted many. Our solution was wrong! Do not repeat our mistakes, pleaded more. What will happen to us now? asked still others. Only this last group would receive a response.

A second Voice cut through the din, with the cold intonation of a computer. “Simulation 18,430,243,971 complete. Termination in 60 seconds. 59…58…”

An entire simulated galaxy froze in horror, unwilling and unable to accept their fate. Noone spoke. Noone moved. Everyone listened, and waited, and wondered.

Everyone, that is, except for the army’s E Company, stationed on the homeworld of the Others. Their mission was to clean up the planet, make it ready for colonization. It was an unpleasant mission involving incineration and the filling of mass graves, and it was far from finished. The simulated soldiers of E Company were not working, however. Nor were they listening to the ethereal countdown. There was no panic or fear in them. There was only a single thought, relentlessly repeating in each one of their minds, driving them back to their ships. A single goal, an impossible goal, denied by the very countdown they ignored. Home.


Last edited by Ingrothechundyer on Wed Nov 16, 2005 1:31 pm; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 16, 2005 12:20 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

The Powers That Be wrote:
Time to begin October's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before November 6th, and polling will begin on November 8th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. The honor is listed on your profile and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

1500 words, author's choice of horror or comedy.

Topic: A Halloween event (it could be a party, trick-or-treating, or something else) goes terribly wrong.

Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

Key wrote:
OK, here's mine. 1499 words (and boy was it a sweat to get it down Smile )

Petey and Me

I shoulda known things would go bad. Soon as I saw him I shoulda known. And if I’d been more scared, maybe Petey would still be around.

Petey’s my partner. Or was. He hated it when I called him Petey. “My name, my dear Jacob, is Peter Finch,” he’d say in his high-falutin way. But my name’s Jake and he always called me Jacob, so I guess we’re even.

Petey died of a bad heart 70 years before me, in the same old house on Sycamore. I didn’t even know he’d died there when I bought the place, much less that he stuck around afterward. But I found out after that tractor accident. After I got all mangled up, my wife and kids couldn’t even see me anymore, so Petey was the only one I could talk to. I think he was lonely, too, so I guess that’s why we got to be friends, though we were kinda different, with him having all that schooling and me not having much.

I know, you don’t want to hear about old times, you want the story – this Halloween, when it all fell apart. All right, but let me tell you something first: Petey and me ain’t evil, ok? I mean, sure, we scared some people who tried to move in, but what else were we supposed to do? How’d you like it if someone showed up at your house, starting building stuff, hammering on the walls, bringing their screaming kids over, all without a pretty please? We paid good money for this place and it ain’t fair for someone to take it over just cause we’re dead.

Petey didn’t even want to start the haunting. But I told him that this is our place and we got to make a stand. Besides, what else were we gonna do for fun? It ain’t like we can go bowling.

So anyway, we scared off a few families. Pretty standard stuff – chains across the floor, tapping on the walls, knocking books off the shelf. Truth is, we can’t do much else; I was a strong guy back in the day, but 90 years of not having a body don’t do much for your muscles. But it worked, and thanks to the stories they told (which were mighty scarier than anything we did), we had the place to ourselves.

Except on Halloween. That was the day the neighborhood kids dared each other to spend a night in the haunted house. It started as a lark in the 50s, but it became a tradition – the kids would come in every Halloween around sunset like clockwork, go through the place from top to bottom, settle down for the night, and then we’d scare the bejeezus out of them.

They were expecting a show, so we gave them more than the run-of-the-mill haunting. Petey liked doing stuff with candles – lighting them, blowing them out – and sometimes he’d sneak up behind the kids and turn off their flashlights. I mostly went for groans and whispers, though I did have this one trick where I showed up inside the wall and stuck out my leg – the one that got caught in the tractor – just far enough to see the red. It looked just like the wall was bleeding.

The kids ate it up. They were scared, of course, but they wouldn’t have been here unless they wanted to be. It was all in good fun. Nobody got hurt.

Until this year, that is. This was the year he showed up – Father Roland, the exorcist.

We knew he was up to something soon as he marched in. He wasn’t a tall guy, but he was thick, like a wrestler, and he had a pissed-off look, like he had a stick up his ass. First thing he said was that he was going to cleanse the house. Now, truth is, the house could use a good cleansing – it’s been 90 years and we got cobwebs something fierce – but I figured he was up to something else.

He had two boys with him, dressed in white, clean and with really short hair. They all started marching through the house splashing holy water all over. That got me and Petey pretty steamed. Our furniture’s seen better days, and the last thing it needed was water stains.

Petey went over there to give them a piece of his mind, maybe blow in their ears or something. But just then Father Roland sniffed the air and looked right at Petey, like he couldn’t see through him. Petey was spooked. He backed up in a hurry and we just watched them then on.

Finally they settled in the living room, lit some candles, and started praying. By this time Petey and me figured out what they were trying to do, but we didn’t take it serious. So we thought we’d have some fun. I creaked the floorboards upstairs, and Petey blew out a couple of their candles. That gave the short-haired boys a scare, but Father Roland just looked more pissed off than usual and grabbed a prayer book and started reading out loud. Petey and I went up to flip some pages and make him lose his place, but then he finished the prayer – and something really weird happened.

A wind blew through us – an ice-cold wind, a wind that woulda froze our bones if we’d had any. Petey and me flew back 10 feet and stood there shivering, then we ran upstairs.

I’d never held much with religion or any of that hocus-pocus, but I hadn’t felt cold like that since I died. So Petey and me figured we should hang out in the attic until they were gone. But then Father Roland really got started downstairs: booming out prayers, lighting incense, ringing bells – the works. And that same cold started seeping up from the downstairs, through the floorboards, right into us.

I told Petey we had to get out of the house, hide in the barn or the fields till tomorrow. But he was having none of it. It was always harder for him to leave the house than me, on account of he’d died here, while I’d popped off in the fields out back. But that priest had got his dander up, too. “I’ll be damned if I let that stick-in-the-mud drive me out of my own home!” he said, straightening up to his full five feet six.

“You’re a good ghost, Petey,” I said. “You got spirit.”

He just looked at me and said, “My name, my dear Jacob, is Peter Finch.” And he marched downstairs into the freezing cold.

What could I do? I followed him down.

Father Roland and his boys were in the middle of the room chanting. The cold was worse here, much worse. I wanted to leave more than anything. But Petey looked them over and said, “I’m going to push the clock onto him.”

I stared at him. Father Roland was in front of the clock, all right. But the clock wasn’t like a cuckoo clock hanging on the wall. It was a grandfather clock, a huge oak thing eight feet tall. It musta weighed three hundred pounds. Even when I was alive, I couldn’t have moved that clock. As a ghost – well, like I said, your muscles don’t get better with age.

But Petey just went behind it and started pushing. “I need your help, Jacob,” he called.

So I went over. It was so cold I could barely move, and the louder Father Roland and his boys chanted, the colder it got. My arms felt like they were being stuck with needles. And I thought how stupid it was, to get frozen into beyond-death trying to push something no ghost could move.

But then a miracle happened: that clock, that 300-pound clock, started to tip! It shook and swayed and Petey and me pushed with all our might, and then I’ll be damned if the whole thing didn’t tip over and drop onto Father Roland’s head.

He was just finishing his chant, and when he said the last words – “Evil spirits, BEGONE!” the coldest wind blew through the place that I’d ever felt in my life or death. I felt like I was being sucked away and chopped into pieces all at once – it took everything I had just to hold on. But as soon as that clock smashed his head, the cold faded away and everything went back to normal. Father Roland’s boys screamed and ran out. I was still pretty woozy, but I let out a whoop and yelled, “Petey, we did it!”

But Petey wasn’t there. Whatever it was had got him. I started crying like a baby.

You know, it’s hard to lose your best friend, specially when you go back 90 years. But that’s not the worst. The worst is who I got to spend the rest of eternity with.

Do you think he’ll let me call him Rollie?
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PostPosted: Sat Dec 17, 2005 8:08 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Key wrote:
You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before December 6th, and polling will begin on December 8th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. You get a prize of 100 fables, the honor is listed on your profile, and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.


The specs for this month:

Length: Up to 1500 words
Genre: Fantasy, science fiction, or myth.
Topic: The story must involve darkness, a guardian, and a gate. You may interpret that as literally or figuratively as you wish.

Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

chinaren wrote:
Right then, freshly pounded out, here is my offering. 1055 words, all newly minted. It doesn't concentrate on the gate, guardian and darkness I admit, but hey, whatever. Enjoy! Very Happy

--

Sir James and Sir Harry moved through the plains determinedly. They were weary from travel, but their destination was sure and their hearts were true. Both knights were bold and fearless and meant to see the mission out, no matter what the cost.

As they approached the Dark Forest another figure could be seen resting by the faint path they were traveling along. As they drew close they spied a fellow knight, who stood and waved as they arrived.

“Hail good fellows!” said the Knight. “Wither dost thou venture so far from thine abode?”

“We hail forth on a perilous mission good Sir Edgar.” Replied Sir Harry. “Sir James’ young sister is held in a grim citadel against her will, and we have been sent by the queen to return her to her rightful place back in the royal castle at all speed.”

“Verily! A quest worthy of such champions as thyselves!” Sir Edgar, being a true knight, paused only a moment. “In such a just and righteous cause I findeth I must pledge my aid. Wilt thou acceptest my humble service in thy quest good Sir James?”

Sir James nodded his head in accent, “Ay. Thou art welcome to join us good Knight.”

Whereupon the three set forth at once, for they were nearing their destination. Venturing around the Dark Forest they spied the monstrous monument in the distance. Before they could close though, Sir Harry spied a creature lurking near a rocky outcrop.

He raised his hand, “Hold! I spy the infamous Ogre, Gerard the Giant! A beast feared throughout the realm.”

Sir James raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “He blockest our path, we must deal with this foul creature ere we canst proceed. Yet time groweth short!”

Sir Harry waved his hand. “I shalt deal with the beast. May I suggest thee good knights retire to yonder cover, and once I lurest the Ogre away thou should maketh best speed to the Citadel, and the fair Princess Alice.”

The other knights agreed to his plan, and took cover whilst the brave Sir Harry went forth toward the grim and hulking Gerard Giant. “Ho! Foul beast! Look hither! I have plenty of gold upon my person, yet thou shalt never hold it!”

Thus goaded Gerard, who was large of bulk but small of intellect, growled and raised his mancrushing club. “I will have it I troth!” he uttered in coarse language, and lumbered after the nimble Sir Harry who retreated past the other knights and back up the path.

Once Gerard was past, the other knights made haste towards the citadel, wishing Sir Harry good luck under their breath.

The giant and grim building loomed large.

“Look!” whispered Sir Edgar. “There standeth the portal. The gate to this unforgiving place.”

“Verily, but hisst! Cast thine eyes yonder! Pacing back and forth is the guardian! The mighty Demon! How shalt we get past him! He must stand twice as tall as oursleves, and weareth a grim visage. I hear he hath mighty powers.”

“I must makest the sacrifice for the young princess.” Responded Edgar bravely. “Go quietly around and into the portal, whilst I draw the guardian away.”

Sir James nodded and after wishing Sir Edgar the best of luck, moved around whilst Edgar fished out his sling and loaded it with a suitable missile. Once James was in place near the dread portal, Edgar stood and, whirling the sling with a certain flamboyant style, loosed it at the guardian.

It hit, yet the guardian still stood! The guardian, seeing Edgar roared with anger, its giant face turning red and ran with frightening speed towards the knight. Sir Edgar was no fool though and retreated with haste.

James, taking full advantage rushed in. Pushing at the giant gate he stepped beyond, into total darkness. Feeling his way along he realized he was in a long dark corridor.

“Alice!” he called. “Alice! Can thou hear me? ‘Tis I, James, thy brother!”

There was a glimmer of light in the distance. Was that a response? He moved forward in hope through the darkness.

Yes! Another doorway! He moved as fast as he dared, and soon stood in a vast chamber. Sunlight streamed in from windows set high in the strong walls.

Sat on a giant chair, legs dangling over the edge was Alice! Seeing him she smiled a big smile and jumped to the floor and ran to him.

“James! Thou camest! I knew thou wouldst fetch me from here!” She frowned though. “But why so long? I hath been rotting here forever it seems!”

“My deepest apologies sister, I had to cross many an obstacle to reach thee. But I am here now, and we must maketh all haste to return! Time is running short!”

Taking Alice by the hand he led her through the dark corridor, and cautiously peered out of the gate. The guardian was still no-where to be seen, so they ran at best speed away from the horrid building.

“We art late!” gasped James. “We must taketh a shortcut through the Dark Forest!”

“No! Not there! It is a scary place, full of ghosts and what-not.” Responded Alice.

“We hath no choice my dear sister.” And James led Alice into the Dark woods.

They ventured onwards, skulking in the shadows to avoid any creatures, but they were lucky. Only once did they have to hide behind a giant tree to avoid a dark Hellhound, its fiery eyes gleaming red in the gloom.

After a long journey they finally burst free of the forest, out into the open again, but time was drawing short. Making all haste they made their way back to the Royal Castle, two refugees from the many perils of the wide world.

When they got home, mum berated James for taking so long to pick his sister up from school. James responded that it was a long way, and he was delayed by the school bully, Gerard, and Mr. Damon who always guarded the school gate to tell off late-comers.

Their mum nodded finally, they were just in time for dinner after all. “Now go and wash your hands! The table is laid and the potatoes are getting cold!”

Sir James and Princess Alice, hungry from their adventures, nodded and rushed away to the feast…
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PostPosted: Sun Jan 15, 2006 2:23 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

chinaren wrote:
Okay then, time to vote people! Can someone remind me when the voting ends please?

Good luck to all the writers! Very Happy


You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before Jan 6th, and polling will begin on Jan 8th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. You get a prize of 100 fables, the honor is listed on your profile, and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The specs for this month:

Length: Up to 1511 words
Genre: Whatever you like.

Topic:

The story must involve a telephone (or other communication device which serves the same purpose and works in the same sort of manner) some Good news and some Bad news. In addition it must also contain the word: burst.

You may interpret that as literally or figuratively as you wish. Shocked

Happy Linear Story competing! Smile


The winning story:

lordofthenight wrote:
First Class Service

The phone rang, the noise inaudible, due to the heavy metal blaring out from the speakers of the busy shop. John Morton, proprietor of the Last Gambit was too busy to answer the call regardless. The small shop was crowded with customers, searching frantically through the shelves stacked high with engraved skulls and silver jewelry. Ever since two days hence, the store had been filled to bursting point. This was due to the skeleton which had been hung in the centre of town, its bones stripped of flesh, and a sliver pentagram worn on a pendant around its neck.

During the day the phone rang three times, each of which was ignored by the long haired Caucasian who owned the store. It wasn’t until he was closing down for the night that he finally heard it ring. Shaking his black hair out of his eyes he crossed the shop floor swiftly and held it to his ear.

“Mr. Morton.” It was not a question. The voice was calm and monotonous, with a slight infliction at the beginning of every word. “It has come to our attention that you need our help”

John shook his head at the prank caller, and replaced the phone on its hook, and left the shop.

************************************************************************

The next day he returned to his place of work, and, as was his custom, turned on the speakers. Or, to be more specific, he tried to turn on the speakers. In actual fact, what came out of the black boxes didn’t sound like music at all. A thin, weedy rasping sound made its way out, followed by a few clicks. The rasping sound then continued. John was no expert at technology, but he was fairly sure this was not a usual occurrence. He picked up the phone, and began to dial the number.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help” The same monotonous voice, the inflictions in all the same places. Now very confused, John replaced the phone, and dialed again. As soon as the voice began to speak John hung up.

Reaching under the till for a copy of the yellow pages, he scrolled down through the list for the number of a different repairman. He dialed in the number, and was connected. One ring and the voice answered in its usual tone.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help

“Who are you people?” John replied. He was not a man given to displays of emotion, and managed to keep his voice slow and steady. “What is it you want?”

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that that you need our help.” The voice continued as if he had never spoken, as if he had not spoken.

“Who are you? Are you…a recording?”

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.”

John replaced the phone, and turned away. He had taken two steps when the phone rang again. Knowing who it would be he turned regardless, and put the receiver to his ear.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.”

With a snarl of frustration, which to anyone who knew him well – there were none – would have been extreme, John slammed the phone back down, before removing it from the hook. Then he turned and left the shop quickly, locking the door behind him.

************************************************************************

It was two hours later that he managed to track down a repairman who was open for business on Sunday. The man promised to come as soon as he could. When John returned to the store he found a crowd of people had gathered outside the shop, and were waiting to be let in. Impatiently John pushed his way through them, and opened the door to the shop, letting the masses in. While they were searching the shelves he had no time to think, to busy was he running the till and answering questions. It was not until a slight lull in the frenzied store that he had a chance to sit down. It was then that the phone rang.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.” John shook his head, and replaced the phone. As the customers slowly filed their way out, back to their homes and family, he realized that he had left the phone off the hook, making its ringing an impossibility. He glanced at it, seeing it firmly on the hook, and shrugged.

The phone and the doorbell rang once in harmony and John jumped. He moved to let the repairman in, and showed him to the speakers. He ignored the phone. After five minutes of ringing the repairman – whose name was Mr. Wright – looked up.

“Mate – your phones ringing. You know that right?”

“I know” replied John with a shrug. “I don’t want to answer it.” The repairman sighed and climbed to his feet. He picked up the phone and listened to the voice at the other end.

“It’s for a Mr. Morton. Would that be you?” With a sigh John took the phone and placed it to his ear.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.” He hung up.

“Well John, I’ve got some good news. Your speakers are fixed. A fly or something had somehow gotten into the wiring and chewed away at the wires. It should be fine now.” John thanked the man, and paid him.
As he was leaving the phone rang.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.”

************************************************************************

The next day was Monday, which was usually the quietest time of the week. The influx of people that the skeleton had generated died down, mostly were the coroners report came back saying that the bones were a century old, and that this was not about to become a regular occurrence.

John was sitting in his shop as usual, listening to his music on his newly repaired speakers. The phone rang. Sighing, he walked over and picked it up.

“Mr. Morton. It has come to our attention that you need our help.” Instead of merely replacing the handset, he thought the question carefully.

“What do I need your help for?”

We are afraid we have some bad news Mr. Morton.”

“What is it?” John replied, pleased to have finally moved on.

We regret to inform you. Your phone is broken.
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PostPosted: Fri Feb 24, 2006 4:21 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

lordofthenight wrote:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before Feb 6th, and polling will begin on Feb 8th. The competion will end on Feb 15th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. You get a prize of 100 fables, the honor is listed on your profile, and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The specs for this month:

Length: Up to 1999 words
Genre: Historical Fiction

Topic: Must contain the words 'explanatively' and 'chancrous'. It must also feature a surgeon - of some discription - and a dream.

The winning story:

Jack_D.Mented wrote:
And now, for my entry...


It was his duty, his obligation, as it were, to rid the world of these five Daughters of Venus before they could do any more damage. Of course, it was incumbent to show explanatively, unmistakably, his pain to the world. He had to watch his son, his precious heir, waste away into nothing as chancrous sores appeared on his young face and his brain softened until, in his last hours, he was simply a drooling idiot.

But before he had passed, he had said five names. Five loose women whom he'd had relations with before his decline. As he looked at it, this list was not just of names, but a list of things to do before his own death. Four names were crossed out on the crumpled sheet. One remained.

He had been a surgeon in the war. But that was before his prodigious hands had been marred and disfigured in a terrible fire. Now they weren't much good for much more than simple butchery. And to him, these women were beasts, foul sirens of debauchery that had lured his precious boy from the Lord.

It was in a dream that he was shown the way. Five graves in the poorest cemetery, covered with the newspapers that heralded a new crowned prince of crime, watched over by the spirit of his departed, who took his father's hand and smiled. He would be able to rest after this.

Picking up the ebony case and placing his deerstalker hat upon his head, the doctor exited the door and let it close behind him. The slam was like the trumpets of a thousand angels heralding the arrival of a great redeemer. It brought to the man a change. His eyes became like ice, cold and unforgiving where once they had been once warm and friendly and his mouth curved into what appeared to be a permanent frown where once there had been once nothing but smiles beneath that same mustache.

He was now a different man than his friends or family had ever seen within him. They would have never suspected that such a ruthless creature, an unflinching hunter without mercy, lurked within this silent man. The transformation was complete. Now he was Jack, monarch of the gas lit streets.

Amazing how death changes people. It had filled his life with purpose and understanding, a clarity which had never existed within his absinthe hazed world before. The drugs were no longer within his system and it showed. He saw things no other man saw, heard things no other man could hear, and knew things no mortal should know.

It was like being a god. It was incredible. He knew that it was divine intervention which had granted him this clairvoyance. Jack climbed into his carriage. The driver knew where to go. It had been previously discussed. Opening the black case, he ran his white gloved fingers over his tools.

A Listen knife, a scalpel, a saw, and several other nightmarish instruments of amputation waited, eager to begin the night's work. The silver gleamed in short flashes as the vehicle gained speed, passing several streetlights. Each one was razor sharp, the blade honed to a fine edge that would slice through most anything with ease. The effect was hypnotizing and jack simply let himself fade away into the magic until the sound of horse's hooves pounding upon the hard road seemed a thousand miles away.


The carriage door was open and the steps extended long before the thought occurred to exit. Jack stepped out and his cloak swirled about him majestically in the wind. He glided along in the eerie fog, silent as a ghost, knowing where his destination lay and finding it with no difficulty. The window was broken just as he had been told.

A white hand, contrasting sharply with the darkness, reached through the breach and freed the lock with uncanny skill. The door eased open smoothly, without so much as a sound and the black figure slid into the room. He opened his case on the table and extracted the knife, the long blade as stealthy and deadly as its owner. Jack made his way across the room to the bed upon which slept a young woman with flowing red locks tossed about her, almost resembling pools of dark blood.

Jack cupped a hand over the woman's mouth. In response, her eyes popped open almost immediately. Struggling away for but a second, she cried out. A slice of the blade across her throat silenced her and sent blood spurting across the room as Jack the Ripper commenced his work.

"Mary Kelly, I presume?"
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PostPosted: Wed Apr 19, 2006 4:44 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Jack_D.Mented wrote:
Ok, folks. Time for another competition. The procedure is the normal drill as follows-

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Submissions should be posted on or before March 17th. Polling begins on March 18th and ends on March 24th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct. This is a voluntary effort and no one person's responsibility. Please make comments and criticisms of entries constructive.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month. You get a prize of 100 fables, the honor is listed on your profile, and your story is immortalized in the City Auditorium.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok, now that that's done, we have the interesting part, the rules...

Genre- Whatever you like.

Length- up to 1655 words.

Your story must be about a Knight Templar (as in the Crusades) and his descent into madness while featuring the word defenestrate in some form (meaning feel free to add "ed" or "ing" to the end, as long as it's in there.).

For those of you who are wondering-

de•fen•es•trate To throw out of a window


The winning story:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
Ye that know the Lord is gracious,
Ye for whom a Corner-stone
Stands, of God elect and precious,
Laid that ye may build thereon,
See that on that sure foundation
Ye a living Temple raise,
Towers that may tell forth salvation,
Walls that may re-echo praise

C. A. Alington 1872 1955


The Unfortunate Defenestrating of Jacob’s Crystallized Faith

With heavy heart and unrelenting sorrow I, Dame Michaela Bernardi, sit to pen this woeful tale of spirit. Only the benevolent and merciful Lord should comprehend the tragic events that befell the charitable soul of our beloved brother Geoffrey Bissot, and my sole prayer remains that by sharing his account of misfortune others might come to understand.
**

The Grand Priory of the Knights Templar in England and Wales resulted from the merger of several priories. For the sake of knowledge, a brief remembrance along with an account of the marriage that took place in the Cathedral at Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk follows.

Near to the royal castle of Windsor, on the 15th day of June in the year of our Lord 1215, on a meadow adjoining the Thames and traditionally referred to as Runnymede, a reluctant King John signed the highly momentous document known as the 'Magna Carta'. The first Baron to co-sign the charter was a Templar Knight, Brother Aymeric. Some point prior to this significant event the Barons had met for preliminary discussions to formulate their demands, set out in the Articles of the Barons, at the Abbey of St Edmund.

Nearly 800 years later, on Saturday the 28th day of June in the year of our Lord 2003, three Templar organizations of England & Wales met together in the Cathedral Church of St James, St Edmundsbury, Suffolk, to bring to a blissful culmination many years of exploratory dialogue and three years of patient, prayerful, precise planning to form a amalgamated union to replace the formerly separate Templar organizations. On that historic day the three became one under the leadership of the unanimously elected Grand Prior, Simon Le Fevre, and supported by a newly constituted and elected Grand Chapter.

Laid out around a Benedictine Abbey founded in AD 945, Bury St Edmonds represented the first Norman planned ‘new town’ centered on the shrine of St Edmonds, the last East Anglian King, who was executed by the Danes in AD 870. The town takes its name from this shrine. Consequent upon the royal vandalism of Henry VIII, the shrine laid in ruins until restored into a beautiful garden.

In this historic setting the marriage took place, following the long courtship between The Grand Priory of the Knights Templar in England and Wales, the Order of the Temple of Jerusalem and the Order of the Industrial Templars. The final acceptance to this union had previously been given at Rothley, Leicestershire, an historic Templar center, on Saturday the 22nd day of March in the year of our Lord 2003. A short engagement followed during which the final details of the nuptial contract formulated together with the practical details, which any marriage requires.
**

But now to persist with this tale of woe. As with even the best of marriages, and the most content of unions, conflict does arise from time to time between the united. Our ennobled brother Jacob Levy proved a source of great reckoning for the benevolent Sir Bissot.

Not so much the personage of Knight Levy, but rather the indulgence he made with his favored hobby, irritated Bissot so. In fact, being Dame of truth and severe honesty, I must clarify further and state that Bissot regarded the actual hobby with little disdain, and instead focused his angst for some unfortunate reason on a specific aspect of Levy’s enjoyment- a spoiled and pampered terrier named Jacob’s Crystallized Faith.

Sir Levy demonstrated charity and chivalry in almost all pursuits, but the gratification garnered from the breeding and showing of champion terriers suited his ostentatious personality. Favored most among his charges, Jacob’s Crystallized Faith accompanied Levy almost everywhere the man went, and secretive conversations took place between man and beast.

Jacob’s Crystallized Faith harbored an immediate animosity towards our good Sir Bissot, and indeed the acrimony readily presented in Bissot as well. Their initial encounter resulted in a painful nip of teeth to hand, and thereafter much barking ensued when one resided in the presence of the other.

Through unfortunate events, Levy and Bissot realized a regrettable merger whereupon they often discovered themselves in the presence of the other, much to the delight of Levy and Jacob’s Crystallized Faith. The formerly stable Bissot slowly began to unravel.

I observed the first inclinations when Bissot began avoiding the monstrous little dog at great pains. He accepted the most odious of tasks, with the ultimate goal of an outlet from the persistence of the terrier. He muttered often under his breath, the most heinous and severe curses against the beast.

However, I failed to suspect a descent into madness until the beef incident. Bissot arrived in a pleasant mood, maniacal eyes twinkling with mischief and a tinge of malice. He made grand show of his peace offering, bowing low before approaching Jacob’s Crystallized Faith and offering the tasty tidbit. The dog sniffed the donation, daintily accepted the treat, and then proceeded to sink his sturdy canines into Bissot’s hand.

After uttering a string of words, which my holy ears refuse to remember hearing, Bissot laughed hysterically and went his way. Jacob’s Crystallized Faith settled once more onto his cushion, but shortly sat up and vomited in an amazing display of green bile and yellow foam. Levy twittered about in a state of panic that did not subside until the following day, when the veterinarian released Jacob’s Crystallized Faith along with a stern warning about the ill effects of ethylene glycol based antifreezes.

Bissot of course denied any malicious intent, and for a week or so I actually thought that he might have heeded those pangs of guilt he surely felt for his betrayal. I worried at his mental state, although false hope led me to believe that he actually found a path back to normalcy.

Circumstance soon dashed that feeble hope. On a clear Friday afternoon, with the sweet singing of the birds filtering through the open window, Bissot finally cracked. Jacob’s Crystallized Faith growled subtly, and in rare form. He had nipped at Bissot’s heels traversing the stairs, a routine that aggravated Bissot until no end. Upon entering the room, crisp from the caress of the breeze entering via the window, the dog decided to inflict a new insult. He jumped perkily into Bissot’s chair as the man bent with intent to sit, and bit his left buttock with a throaty growl.

Levy suppressed a smirk and chastised Jacob’s Crystallized Faith with half-hearted remonstration. His entire demeanor changed to that of terror however, when Bissot turned and hoisted the dog by the scruff of the neck. Again Bissot uttered a string of words, which my holy ears refuse to remember hearing, and with a final venomous diatribe about mangy mongrels, he headed towards the window.

Jacob’s Crystallized Faith whimpered and wagged his tail in a nervous jiggle. Levy’s mouth opened and closed like a large fish. I remained paralyzed, horrified by the clear intent apparent in Bissot’s actions. Surely the man would not defenestrate the prized, champion terrier.

Before even the hand of God could intercede, Bissot hurled Jacob’s Crystallized Faith through the open window. He lurched out of the window with the effort, catching hands against the pane to prevent his own egress, and hooted with unrestrained delight at the squelching thud from below. Levy had a sharp intake of breath, followed by its apparent release that must have issued forth as a high-pitched wail that only Jacob’s Crystallized Faith could have heard. I fainted.

With heavy heart and unrelenting sorrow I, Dame Michaela Bernardi, thus conclude this woeful tale of spirit. Only the benevolent and merciful Lord should comprehend the tragic events that befell the charitable soul of our beloved brother Geoffrey Bissot, and my sole prayer remains that by sharing his account of misfortune others might come to understand.
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PostPosted: Sat Apr 22, 2006 8:44 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

ethereal_fauna wrote:
Time for March's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries before or on April 14. Polling begins April 15 and ends April 20.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

Genre: 1900 words, author's choice of thriller/horror or action/adventure

Thriller/horror- A thriller is a story intended to evoke strong feelings of suspense and danger, usually involving a high-stakes hunt, chase, or a race against time. Thrillers often involve espionage, crime, medicine, or technology. Horror fiction aims to evoke some combination of fear, fascination, and revulsion in its readers. This genre, like others, continues to evolve, recently moving away from stories with a religious or supernatural basis to ones making use of medical or psychological ideas.

Action/adventure- These stories feature physical action and violence, often around a quest or military-style mission set in exotic or forbidding locales such as jungles, deserts, or mountains. The conflict typically involves commandos, mercenaries, terrorists, smugglers, pirates, and the like. Stories include elements of courage, male bonding, and betrayal, as well as lore on technology, weapons, and other hardware.

Topic: The staff of a publishing firm, intending to generate a popular book series, creates a conspiracy theory in the form of an urban legend, over which they lose control as it begins to be believed.

Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

Shady Stoat wrote:
A Dream Come True

It’s cold down here. The lights are flickering like a cheap B-Movie. I can’t help but think that’s what this all is. Despite the death, despite the fact that they’ll get through the doors eventually and come to get me, it doesn’t feel real.

Did I really kill two people? Am I going to be next to die? Can any of this really be true?

The lights are making my eyes ache, but I don’t want to be alone in the basement in the dark. I’m afraid of what might come for me…

This is what I’ve been reduced to. A whimpering five year old, afraid to turn the lights out for fear of the monsters in the dark. Three weeks ago, I was a top executive in a publishing firm. The guy who could sell anything to anyone. The guy who was scared of nothing and nobody.

When the new book came in – the one titled How Legends Grow, it landed straight on my desk. The difficult projects always do.

It was a dry and dusty work. The only reason we were publishing it is because it was written by one of our creditors. When a company’s in as deep as we are, the occasional favour doesn’t go amiss. Still, this work was dull. I’ve read more interesting dictionaries!

It was a dilemma. Mr. Can-Sell-Anything wasn’t going to be thwarted, though. Oh no – it was a matter of pride to get an audience for this pile of crap. After three days, I finally came up with a plan.

We would invent our own local legend. Websites were fairly cheap to set up. We had contacts in the business, friends in high places, people who would do small favours here and there to grease the wheels. If the Blair Witch Project could do it, so could we.

Once I had the idea, the concept itself was easy. I did a little sketching of the project, then announced it to the board as a fait accompli.

The One-Two-Three Murders. It had a nice ring to it, I thought. Easily memorable, if a little twee. The romantics and the mystery hunters would lap it up in their hunger for a new urban legend. I decided to set the story in my home town. It was a place I knew well and it meant I wouldn’t have to travel far to spread my little web of lies.

In the sixteenth century, so the story would go, Harriet Badgerseye, a local witch was burnt at the stake. As the first flame was lit, she cursed the town, telling them that they would know no peace until the town lay lifeless, wiped from existence. Her spirit would return and wreak its vengeance, without pity or remorse. So, shrieking her curses, she succumbed to the flames.

For over a century, her story was forgotten – buried in the murky depths of town records and unspoken family memories. Then, one hundred and twenty three years later, the first of the killings took place. The Mayor’s son took the life of his wife and his only daughter, before hanging himself from the rafters. His suicide note read, simply:

Harriet made me do it.

Very little was made of the mystery, until precisely one hundred and twenty three years after that. One of the local parishioners walked into the vicarage with a heavy mallet. When he had finished, there was very little more than pulp left, where the Vicar and his wife had been. In the grounds outside, he doused himself with lantern oil and set himself on fire.

When the authorities went to investigate, they found another note, written in the meek parishioner’s handwriting.

The Badger’s Eye will never close. She made me do it.

Twice more it has happened since then. The details are sketchy, because the town officials have covered it up, for fear of causing panic as the peak of the killing season approaches next. Now, though, one researcher has dug through the archives and discovered the truth. In just eight days, the cycle is due to begin again.

It was a lot more detailed than that, but the seed of the idea was there. We had experts in calligraphy to write up ‘original’ documents and age the paper to look authentic. We paid the records office to play along for a short while (Not that we had to offer much - they leapt at the chance of a boost in the tourism industry). We inserted the stories around the living history, using real examples where we could and embellishing on them. So much better if the microfiche and the old chronicles backed up our story to some extent. The parts where fact and fiction differed, we could always blame on ‘the cover-up.’

Oh yes. That term could cover a multitude of sins. Conspiracy is so much easier to believe than the mundanity of dry facts. The ghost hunters and corn-circle societies would eat this one from the inside out. I was sure of it.

I was right, too. Within twenty-four hours of the website going live, there had been nearly nine thousand hits. Chat sites had sprung up; people had started arriving in the town to investigate. It made the local papers, as if it was real news, not just a fairy-tale from my twisted imagination.

And it was from my imagination. I swear it! Harriet Badgerseye, for god’s sake! She never existed until I created her and now everyone believes the legend. Everyone believes I killed those two people – and the worst of it is, I can’t say for sure that I didn’t!

There’s something moving around upstairs. A creaking of the floorboards. I listen, in the crazy, flickering darkness, for a repeat of the sound.

Nothing. I’m safe for now. Maybe. The police will get here eventually, though, unless the crowd gets there first.

God, this is a nightmare! How could I lose two blocks of time, just when the murders were said to have happened? Blackouts only happen to crazy people, don’t they? And if I’m crazy, who’s to say that I didn’t kill the Town Librarian? Who’s to say that meddling journalist didn’t die by my hand?

No! Ridiculous! They said that someone had pushed an entire bookshelf over on Mrs. Hammond. Nearly three tons combined, in solid oak and hundreds of books. How could any one person have done that? It isn’t possible – they’re mad if they try to accuse me of such a superhuman crime.

My muscles ache all over, though. Like I’ve been doing heavy workouts at the gym. Why do I hurt so much, if I haven’t even…

Stop it! I have to think. Think, dammit! How do I get out of this mess? I can’t stay down here forever. There has to be a way out. There has to be something I can do.

I can’t think. Those deaths are on my hands, whether I killed them or not. They haunt me.

The authorities say that the journalist was held, face-down and struggling, in the canal waters for at least two minutes. I saw that man. He was no weedy geek, that one. He was over six feet with the build of an athlete. It would have taken a supreme effort to hold him under the water against his will.

So, why were my clothes soaking wet, when I came to?

I don’t remember!

Everything points back to me. The Librarian was so afraid of future fraud allegations that she was going to give away the grand secret of the One-Two-Three murders. She told the journalist. He was about to write up the article and spoil the whole campaign before it sold a single book.

It’s not much of a motive, but people can twist things any way they like. They could say my career was riding on the success of this book. They could say the publishing firm was in financial difficulty and we needed the scheme to work. They could say I lost my temper and struck down the librarian in a rage, then had to finish the job with the journalist.

They’ll find a reason. Oh god.

There’s something hovering at the top of the stairs, in the doorway. I can see the shadows when the lights flicker on.

It’s her. I don’t know how it can be – but I know it’s the witch. She’s here for me. There have only been murders one and two so far. Three is the charm.

Three is the curse.

Closer now. Although the room fades between light and dark, my eyes can’t penetrate the shadows. There’s nothing but blackness and smoke there, a pitiless void of evil in its inexorable approach.

A strange clarity steals over me as I watch my doom hovering ever closer. The panic empties out, leaving only reason behind.

Harriet is here for me. I can run, but to where? Sooner or later, they’ll track me down and I’ll be sent to Death Row. If I’m lucky, a mob will get me first and I’ll have a quick escape down hemp alley.

I’m too tired to fight it any more. If it’s real, what can I do against a force like this? And if it’s not real… then I dreamed all this up, and I killed two people. I deserve what’s coming to me.

Harriet, do your worst…
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PostPosted: Sun Jun 18, 2006 9:57 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Shady Stoat wrote:
Time for April's competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries before or on May 16th. Polling begins May 18th and ends May 23rd.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

Word Limit: 1600 words; Genre: Sci-Fi, Horror, Fantasy (or a combination of any of the former categories with Humour)

Topic: A boy is kept awake by the knocking and shuffling noises coming from the back of his wardrobe. Despite his best attempts, he hasn’t been able to find out what’s causing the noise. Until...

Good luck, and be creative!


The winning story:

Solomon Birch wrote:
Thump

Simon sat bolt upright in his bed, the thick quilt no longer staving off the aching cold that had begun to permeate into his sightless room. He breathed out fearfully, the sight of his own laboured breath sending ethereal shivers running up his spine. Then it came again.

Thump

The breath stopped. He clutched the covers to his chin, shivering almost uncontrollably. He looked at his towering wardrobe, set at the end of his cavernous room, shrouded in a fathomless darkness which nonetheless beckoned for him to approach, though he told himself he had no intention of doing so. But the noises were getting louder, and much more frequent. He had tried sleeping, but they would not let him. It felt like he had lain in the huge bed for days, though he knew that that was ridiculous. The window on the right side of the bed let in a small pool of moonlight which he gazed at lovingly. It had kept him company for so long.

There were no other sounds save for the steady thump coming from the wardrobe. But Simon had decided that he could not just keep lying there, terrified and unable to sleep. His parents were just down the hall. They would know what to do. They always knew what to do. That was their job.

He swallowed and slowly drew the covers back, letting them fall in a crumpled triangle on his side. He slid to the edge of the bed, which seemed so far away. The bed was far too big, and he remembered to tell his parents about it when the day came.

Finally, he reached the distant right side and peeked his small head over the side.

He gasped at the huge drop that stretched for miles before reaching the floor. He pulled his head back and sat in the dark breathing heavily. It couldn’t be that far, it just can’t, he told himself again and again. Screwing up his eyes, he shuffled steadily to the edge once again, brought his legs over the edge, and let them hang for a moment.

Then he dropped. He felt the hard wooden floor rush up to meet his feet and he stood stock still for a moment. Then, slowly opening his eyes, he made sure that he had made it. The bed was there, the edge resting under the arm he was using to lean on it, no huge drop, no rushing wind threatening to whisk him from his feet and cast him into the abyss. He breathed a sigh of relief and set off toward his door.

Thump

He yelped and fell to his knees, clamping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes tight.

Nothing. Total silence, save for his laboured breathing in and out. A terrified tear rolled down his cheek, but he steeled himself and ran to the vast door that sealed him away from the rest of the house. He reached for the gigantic handle and pulled savagely to open it. It slowly turned under Simon’s weight and the door’s lock gave an echoing click as the door creaked mournfully outwards.

Simon stood back and looked onto the landing beyond. He could hear the rustle of a breeze whirling its ways down the winding, shadowed hallways that ran through the house like a maze. The darkness was even more complete than it was inside his room, but he knew he had to reach his parents room or he would never find out what was making those noises that were keeping him awake. He warily took a step into the hall, the breeze adding to the cold that refused to leave his body.

Thump

The sound chased after him, the deep roar smashing into the walls and pounding around his room, looking for him. Simon ignored the darkness and bolted down the hall, sprinting toward his parent’s bedroom, three doors down from his. The sounds dissipated behind him, and he relaxed a little, though he knew it would be back and he kept running.

After what seemed like an eternity he reached their door. He began to pound on the oaken frame, sending soft tremors around the hall.

The sound from the wardrobe was so much louder, Simon thought unhappily; why hadn’t they heard it and come running? Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

He continued to pound his tiny fist against the door, but he received no response, save the shrill cry of the wind as it ran down the hall. He looked down the hall, toward the end, where there was a window set into the wall, grey wallpaper peeling down at the edges, like the draping arms of that mental patient who always wandered past when they went to visit grandma. Outside the moon shone faintly, and a scraggly tree, its branches splayed across the glass like a handful of broken fingers, tapped the window gently. Tap tap tap. It kept tapping, as more and more branches clutched at the window, scraping their tips across the glass. Simon turned away, away from the horrifying noise, and tried the door handle again, but to no avail. Why weren’t his parents helping? He began to cry, tears welling up and blurring his vision. A sob wracked his throat, and he turned away from the door, rubbing his forearm across his eyes in a vain attempt to brush away the fear.

Thump

The sound stopped the crying dead, and he was once again breathing hard. Getting ready to run, for the sound had not come from his bedroom, but from within his parents room. If it had not sounded identical to that which he was so terribly used to, then he would have had hope that one or both of his loving parents were finally stirring from their slumbers and were emerging to come rescue him from the endless night.

Instead he began to back away, away from the door, and from the incessant tapping from the window. He had to get out of this house, away from the darkness and the booming sounds from within his wardrobe. Though his parents had never told him to leave the house at night, they were no longer around to tell him what to do.

So he made his way to the towering staircase that led down to the ground floor of their new house, with its gigantic chairs, glittering chandeliers swaying to-and fro high above and dauntingly huge front door. He steadily made his way from step to step, clinging to the banister for fear of losing his balance and plummeting into the darkness below. Step after step he made his way down, his breath freezing in front of his face and the hairs all over his body standing on end. He was deathly afraid, but could think of nothing else to do.

When he eventually reached the floor, he stood for a moment, watching his breath and listening for the sound. He could hear nothing except for the wind, which whistled unnervingly around the huge space at the foot of the stairs.

He hurried over to the front door, but as he approached, he realised that the handles were far too high to reach. But he still carried on, remembering the huge distance from the top of his bed to the floor that just disappeared, and hoping that it would happen again, when he needed it so badly.

But when he reached the door, he looked upwards and saw that the handles were still far too high. He felt tears begin the flood his eyes when he heard a soft whisper.

“Psst” He looked around, confused to where the noise had come from.

“Psst” he heard a click and looked at the door.

The letterbox was open and from outside two bloodshot eyes were staring grotesquely at him, unmoving, unblinking, gnarled fingers gripping the edge of the flap.

“Don’t look behind you!” It screeched the words at him and he screamed, turning away and starting to run back to the stairs.

He ran straight into the stout leg of his grinning father. He looked upwards, into his father shadow-masked face, and could only make out the whites of his eyes and his teeth, showing through under his eerie smile.

Reaching down, Simon’s father took him up in his arms and began to carry him back up the stairs.

Lightning flashed and for a second the whole hallway was illuminated by a glaring white light. He saw the dust-covered portraits hanging grotesquely from the peeling walls, their painted eyes always looking at him. Oh how Simon hated those paintings! He saw the monochrome carpet the stretched for miles down a hallway, before being lost in the darkness. And he saw the gore-streaked arms of his father, which held him close, lovingly, to his barrel-like chest.

Soon they were standing next to his bed, and Simon’s father placed him gently upon the uncomfortable mattress.

“Dad… daddy? Where’s mommy?” His father gave him another monstrous smile.

“I’ll go get her for you. Wait here.” He turned from the bed and walked down the room until he was standing next the wardrobe. He turned the key in the lock and stood back.

Thump

The door swung violently open and the shredded remains of Simon’s mother tumbled outwards, but stopped short as the taught rope snapped back, whipping the blood-soaked neck towards the dark recesses of the wardrobe. Simon screamed, terror-soaked tears streaming down his face, while his father continued to smile, his gleaming teeth shining brilliantly against the darkness.

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PostPosted: Mon Jun 26, 2006 8:45 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Solomon Birch wrote:
Time for June’s competition:

You will have about 3 weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries before or on June 18th. Polling begins June 20th and ends June 25th.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

The genre and topic for this month:

Word Limit: 2000 words;

Genre: Anything you want;

Topic: Planning a dinner party is hard. Especially when the hosts are
[insert something crazily original here].

Must include silly hats and a drunken brawl. Or, if you want to avoid humor, gruesome hats. Or something of the equivalent.
Wink

Let's get those entries in and have fun! Very Happy


The winning story:

The Powers That Be wrote:
All right, I'll throw my, er, hat in the ring. Apologies to anyone this offends - if there's a hell, I've probably stamped my ticket.

Well hello there! Another late night in the lab, eh? You must be getting ready for your Final Project Defense, am I right? I thought so. I remember back when I had my Defense – hey, don’t look so surprised, didn’t anyone tell you that I used to be a student here at the Culinary Academy? That’s right, and I remember my Defense like it was yesterday.

Back in those days, a Defense was a very formal affair, held in the Chancellor’s private dining room. The senior faculty that made up my project committee were all dressed in their colorful robes and hoods, and we all wore the traditional balloon hats. Ah, I was so proud of that hat – I had three of the finest balloon-hat artisans in the city working on it for weeks. You know, I still have it – in fact, I think I have a picture here of my nephew trying it on. Oh yes, here it is. I bet you’ve never seen one quite like that, eh?

Anyway, in they came, led by the Chairman, Professor Kaga. Next was my advisor, Prof- um, Professor-- I’m sorry, I can’t bring myself to say his name, but his picture’s right up there on the wall behind you, the smug, hidebound, controlling bast-- but I digress.

Professor Kaga started things off: “Will the candidate please step forward? Thank you. Now, you are Mr. Y.H.W.H. Goddard, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But I just go by ‘God’ for short.”

“Now then, God, it seems to me that you’ve been at the Academy an unusually long time. It’s been, what, three, three and a half…”

Four and a half billion years, sir,” I interjected.

A murmur of surprise rippled among the other faculty on my committee. Professor Kaga quickly tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Well, then we’ll be expecting some very mature dishes today. I look forward to it – I get rather tired of drinking Primordial Soup at every Defense!”

I started the meal off very simply, with a salad made from the wide variety of vegetation I’d grown on my project. The responses were about what I expected (and feared). Professor Sakai summed it up when he said, “Well, these plants are certainly quite competently, I daresay even intelligently, designed, and there is quite a wide variety of flavors represented. But I guess I was expecting something a bit more, well, original from you. Now this drink you’ve served with it – what do you call this, ‘wine’ is it? – is quite nice. Yes, I think I’ll have some more of that.”

My advisor opened his big fat – um, chose to comment, as I knew he would. “Professor Sakai, surely you’ll agree that originality is overrated. Master the classics, I always say! Create good solid edible fare, master its preparation, and leave the flamboyant showmanship to others! I’ve spent eons trying to impress this truth on God here, and I’m thrilled to see that he’s finally taken it to heart. Oh, and pass that wine when you’re done, please.”

Professor Sakai seemed ready to argue, but I cut in, introducing the mineral course. Here, I demonstrated my breadth of skills by serving a tapenade made from igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks, topping each serving with a chunk of hardened carbon I called ‘diamond’.

“Mmm, crunchy!” said Professor Cora. She added, “This is all perfectly fine, God – and oh, yes, I’ll have some more of that wine – but I’m really looking forward to your meat dishes. I remember from your first proposal that you had something quite new and different in the works.”

I groaned silently to myself. I was afraid somebody would ask about that. Once again, my advisor stepped in. “Ha ha, my dear Professor Cora, you’re obviously remembering some of those crazy ideas God had when he first came to the Academy. I tried to discourage his…experimentation and get him to focus on the basics, but he refused to listen to reason. It was only after a most unfortunate accident about, what, 60 or 70 million years ago, that God abandoned his notions about nouvelle cuisine and got serious about his food. And his drinks – is there any more of this wine, God?”

Professor Cora looked annoyed. “Surely, Professor, we are in the business of encouraging creativity and originality in our students?”

My advisor’s fist pounded the table, sloshing wine out of some of the glasses. “Professor Cora, the average deity doesn’t care about the newest fashion when he or she goes out to eat. They want the food they know and love, expertly prepared and served! That’s what our job is!” He was yelling and slightly slurring his words, obviously feeling the effects of the wine.

Professors Chen and Flay, who also looked more than a little inebriated, nodded their heads and said, “Damn straight!” Meanwhile, Professors Cora and Sakai were arguing in defense of nouvelle cuisine. The whole thing was getting dangerously close to slipping completely out of control.

I motioned to the servers to bring out the next course. I cleared my throat loudly and said, “The meat-based appetizers, for your dining pleasure!”

That worked. My committee’s attention came back to me, with the exception of Professor Flay, who was still holding a glass of wine but seemed to be dozing off. Several serving dishes were placed on the table with a large bowl in the center.

The faculty inspected the dishes as I described each one. I presented a wide variety of different meats, from sea creatures to land animals to winged beasts. The dishes were served, and the professors ate in silence for a bit.

“Yes, these dishes are all perfectly adequate,” said Professor Cora. Peering into the bowl in the center of the table, she said, “You do seem to have an inordinate fondness for beetles, however. How many different varieties did you say you had raised?”

“Somewhere between 250,000 and 350,000, ma’am. I’ve actually lost count.”

“Ah, beetlesh!” said my advisor. “Now them’sh good eating. That’sh real food there. It was me that urged him to make all those beetlesh, I don’t mind telling you. Each one a little different tasting. Shplendid shtuff! You there, more wine!”

Professor Sakai said, “Yes, it’s all just fine, but I still feel like it’s missing something. What was this experiment you were talking about before? Do we get to try that?”

“I’m happy to shay no!” piped in my advisor. “Dang foolish ideash…”

I ignored him, turned to Professor Sakai, and shook my head sadly. “I’m sorry, sir. I was working on something really special for many eons. They were lizards, but really huge. I called them ‘dinosaurs’. You see, I discovered that the flavor of the meat got better as the animals got bigger. I grew some real monsters and the quality was terrific. I was almost ready to make a Defense based on them when the strangest thing happened. An asteroid came out of nowhere and wiped them out. Wiped out most everything else, too, except some fairly ordinary mammals and plants. I must have miscalculated somewhere, because I’d swear there was no chance that could have happened.”

I cringed at the memory. That asteroid had nearly destroyed me as completely as it had my dinosaurs. It took me millions of years of therapy to get over my depression and get back to work. By that time, there wasn’t much left to work with and I had to choose a fairly conventional route to graduation. That was why they (and I ) were so disappointed in my lack of originality.

I did still have one trick up my sleeve, and this seemed like the time to play it. It was one last-ditch experiment that I’d kept from my advisor, for fear that he would reject it out of hand. “Bring on the main course,” I said. The servers brought out the large steaming plate that would make or break my Defense.

“Oh my,” asked Professor Kaga, “that smells enticing. What is it?”

Here goes nothing. I took a deep breath and said, “It’s called ‘curried Catholics’, sir.” There was a sudden crash as my advisor dropped his wine glass.

“Catholic? I don’t see that on your species list here,” continued Professor Kaga, ignoring my advisor’s spluttering and the servers scrambling to clean up the spill.

“Sorry sir, it’s a special variety of ‘human’,” I answered, grateful to the Chairman for bringing attention back to me and my food.

“Humans, oh yes, those are the ones you made in your own image, right? Well, I think we can all agree that that is a bold move, yes?” He looked from one member of the committee to the next, pointedly ignoring my advisor. “And what’s special about this variety, God?”

“They’re fed on a special diet, sir,” I explained. “Every week, they feed on a bit of my own body and blood. I’ve found that it enhances the flavor and tenderness of the meat.”

At this, the Chairman looked concerned. “God, I hope you’re not saying that you’re force-feeding these creatures – you know our rules about ethical treatment of--”

“Oh no, sir! They most certainly follow this diet by choice. I assure you, these were free-range humans!” I smiled sincerely at the Chairman.

“You!” shouted my advisor, standing and pointing an unsteady finger at me. “You shniveling little shneak! You did thish behind my back – more of your eckshperimentsh – you, you rotten little pipshqueak! ‘Humansh!’ You shaid you were making more bottlesh – er, bootlesh – uh, those buggy thingsh!”

“Professor, please,” said Professor Kaga in his calmest tone. “This is God’s Defense, and the menu selection was his alone.”

My advisor ignored him. “I’ll never shign your project, you shcum, and you’ll never graduate, you hear me?! I don’t believe thish! I thought we were over this when I shent that ashturd – that ashdroid – that big rock and killed thoshe shtupid dino-beashtiesh!”

The smile froze on my face. He must have realized what he said because he started blubbering. “Uh, what I mean ish, um, that ish, er – shay, ish there more wine?”

My body started to shake with rage as I realized what had happened. It wasn’t my mistake – my own advisor had deliberately sabotaged my work! Made me settle for humans when I could have had my glorious dinosaurs! I had to make him pay.

“Mr. Goddard,” said Professor Kaga, “please don’t do anything rash. This is a very serious situ…” He didn’t finish the sentence before I launched myself over the table at my advisor. Plates broke, wine glasses spilled, and the main dish plate overturned, sending Catholic thighs and breasts flying everywhere. I knocked my advisor over and wrapped my hands around his neck. Professor Kaga leaped over and tried to pull me off of him. The rest of the faculty took the opportunity to settle their own differences. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Professor Cora beating Professor Chen with a Catholic drumstick while Professor Flay grabbed handful after handful of beetles and flung them into Professor Sakai’s face. The whole messy scene was punctuated by the bangs of balloon-hats popping (somehow mine came through it unscathed).

It took about 20 minutes for Academy Security to arrive and break things up. Three of the faculty ended up in the hospital. Needless to say, I never graduated.

Anyway, I’d better stop boring you with my old stories – we both have work to do. Don’t look so worried, I’m sure your Defense will go just fine, as long as old you-know-who isn’t on your committee. What’s that? The chair, you say? Oh dear. Well, good luck to you.

Listen, I’ve just finished mopping here, so be careful – the floor will be wet for a little while yet. I’m off to clean the bathrooms next. Hey, good luck again.

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PostPosted: Tue Aug 01, 2006 4:25 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

The Powers That Be wrote:
Welcome to the July 2006 Linear Story Competition!

You will have three weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries on or before July 21st. Polling begins July 24th and ends July 31st.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, and confirm that grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

And now, the details of this month's competition:

The Length: 1500 words or less
The Genre: Any, but no comedies
The Topic: Revolution! The downtrodden rise up against their oppressors. Or perhaps the evil plot to overthrow the good. Your task is to document the moment in a revolution when someone changes sides. Hero? Or traitor? Your choice.

We had eight stories entered in June - let's try to beat that record this month! Good luck everyone, and have fun!


The winning entry:

Smee wrote:
September 22nd

The order to move came today; past the woodland. Or at least past what remains of the woodland. We'd sat here for more than a month staring at those damn trees, so close together you could get lost in them after a dozen steps. That's if you weren't pulled from your boots and your throat cut before you'd taken ten. Filthy rebels!

The Captain came round, talkin' to the lads and spreading the word. Told us we wouldn't have to hunt them out of the damn trees. Told us they'd be taken care of. One of the lads, Jeff, writes the letters for the messengers. The Captain hadn't minced his words.

"We've got Light-forsaken rebels all over the forest ahead. I'm not sending my men in there to dig 'em out of every sin-filled nook and cranny. I want a full squad of Burners before I take another step."

It'd taken time for the order to get through, but two nights ago they'd arrived by special Flyer! I'd never seen a Flyer before. Huge - like some giant bat, but scaled like a serpent. Scared the Light out of me! Huge claws carried the two Boxes like they were feathers and dropped 'em off at the edge of the camp. Doors opened and a whole squad of Burners marched out in their blood red robes.

In one long line they walked towards the woods. All the lads and I were behind, although what we were supposed to do if the rebels got past the Burners I don't know. I'd gripped my blade so tight I thought I'd snap the handle, but even so, once the order to fire came I still dropped it in surprise.

All the Burners just raised the arms and flames roared from their finger-tips. Simmons had said it worked like that, but I hadn't believed until I saw it with my own eyes. You would not believe the sound! Within seconds the front row of trees was lost behind the inferno, and it sped rapidly backwards. Then we heard the first screams. There must have been dozens to hear them over the flames, but we could, easily.


September 25th

A hard few days. Once we'd made our way past the charred remains of the trees we were in open plains. There were small camps and bases of cursed Rebels all over the place. Anything more than a handful of trees held up to twenty of the vermin.

The Captain kept us moving. Thirty of us alone, even as skilled as us, were vulnerable if we stayed in one place, he said.


September 30th

The Captain came back today with terrible news. He'd left three days ago telling us to rest and keep out of sight. At first the respite was welcome, but what little sleep we could manage was uneasy at best. A man doesn't dream too well surrounded by enemies. We had half-a-dozen skirmishes with roving bands of Rebels that discovered us in the small copse of trees. No doubt they planned to camp there but we gave them other ideas soon enough. Where the Captain had gone, and how he'd avoided all these foul Rebels, I don't know, but he came running back into camp like the Dark Lord himself was after him.

"Saddle up, and gather round" he'd shouted.

Rested as we were we moved quickly and stood ready around him within minutes. The Captain showed no sign of fatigue as he swung his gaze over us all.

"I've discovered the location of a secret rebel base. They are preparing something big. Somehow they have acquired Officer uniforms, and Therinan equipment."

There were murmurs at that. He was right, whatever the Rebels were planning, it must be huge.

"Our main objective has changed. We need to stop them doing whatever it is they are up to until base can get there with a full battalion and take it over."

That was about an hour ago. We're leaving now, and it's some distance away. I don't know when I can write again.

May Thern watch over me, and protect my family.


October 15th

I don't have long. It's been an exhausting journey and few of us even know where we are. The Captain guides us long into the night and we start again well before dawn. How he isn't lost I don't know. Somehow we have avoided the Rebels; not seen a hair of them since we left the copse (not that I'm complaining).

The Captain promises a chance to rest in a few more days. Hopefully I can write more then.


October 19th

The lads are getting nervous. The Captain has been gone for two days. He left us here, in this narrow valley, with barely a word. "Rest and be prepared," he'd said and then left. We must be close although we've still seen no sign of the Rebels. If a secret base is out here then they are certainly being careful.


October 21st

We're now just a few hours from the attack. The Captain came back yesterday as urgently as the last time. Within minutes those asleep had been woken and we were moving. The Captain confirmed the location of the base (how he learnt of it originally I don't know) and now we are preparing for the assault. He says it is arranged exactly like one of our forward camps. Our targets will be the Officer’s tents and supplies. Anything to delay their plan.

He also discovered something incredible. He saw the traitor-king himself, Rointe Trowen, dressed as a General! If it really was him, then this could be the Rebels' main base! Some of the lads were terrified at the news, and were all for going back and waiting for the battalion. The Captain was having none of it.

"Only we are here now, and we have been given the chance to cut the head from this gutter-serpent."

I agreed with the Captain and voiced my support. With the death of the traitor we could see the end to this revolution - this war - and get back to living our lives as Thern intended. I have been given the great honour of being one of the four to target the main tent where he was seen.

Thern bless my blade.


October 30th

I don't know why I bother to write, but I have to get this down.

My life is over, my duty lost. Thern forgive me.

The plan went perfectly. The thirty of us arranged ourselves around the base. It was exactly as the Captain had detailed and I had Rointe's tent marked in my head. Cloaked in the shadows as my training had taught me, I had stalked closer, awaiting the signal. The outer sentries were no trouble, I knew the weak points of Therinan armour even in the dark and my thin blade slipped in the gap between shoulder and neck without a sound.

Moving through the camp I noted the perfect replica the rebels had created, right down to a group of Burners in the red robes gathered around one of the many fires. I'd skirted around them carefully.

A quick incision into the dark tent and I crept inside with three of the lads at my back. Slitting the throat of the sleeping form had been the work of a moment.

Then a scream from outside, followed by the distinctive roar of flames, snapped me to attention. Sudden illumination shone through the tent. Gasps from around me confirmed my horror as the lads recognised who I'd just killed. The gold medallion gave it away, even if we hadn't known the face. But how? General Lowren was nearly fifty leagues away!

The tent was suddenly replaced by a flash of flames and was gone, leaving me staring, slack-jawed, at a scene from Thern's own nightmares. Thousands of rebels swarmed through the camp, slashing and burning everything in their path. I turned around, instinctively crouching with dirk raised, drops of blood still dripping from it. My memory fails me but somehow I escaped from the carnage, killing anything that moved, and made it back into the hills where just hours before the assassination had been planned.

I sit here now, alone. I find no pleasure in reasoning that the Captain is a traitor! That is was he who had made a deal with the Rebels and had steered us in circles until lost, and then lead us straight to our base. That it was he who had convinced us it was the Rebels we were attacking, ending the revolution with a swift, decisive strike. Well we'd certainly done that. With the General dead, and the base lost, the Rebels' victory was inevitable.

I won't let myself live in a world under Trowen's rule, I regret only that my family must.

May Thern protect them...

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PostPosted: Wed Nov 15, 2006 2:06 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for this round:

Smee wrote:
Welcome to the August 2006 Linear Story Competition!

You will have three weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries on or before August 21st. Polling begins August 24th and ends August 31st.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, and confirm that grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.

And now, the details of this month's competition:

The Length: 2000 words or less
The Genre: Any
The Title: The Lost Monarch

What can you do with just a title? Let the idearium flow. Razz


We've had great participation the last 2 months. Let's keep it up Good luck everyone, and have fun Very Happy


The winning entry:

JezSharp wrote:
Author's note: Ok I've got my entry in v.early this time Smile ... you may have to read through it twice though, in order to get the full perspective on the story ( Wink winks mysteriously).

Oh and also it has some slightly disturbing imagery at one point Surprised - just as a warning.


The Advisor's Diary

35th of Springtide

It is but five days until the first day of Summervale, the start of the warmest season of the year. The first day of Summervale should also herald in the day that my sixteen year old protégée, King Stephen II, finally takes full command of the Kingdom of Mortania.

Mortania is a small Kingdom buried deep within the Alpenen Mountains, surrounded by the larger Kingdoms of Brossia and Talem. Many of the locals have been preparing a great celebration, in honour of the day that Stephen officially takes complete charge of the throne. Speakers have toured the country, stirring up support for the King, building him up as the one who will make Mortania the great nation state that it used to be - before the War of the Mountains two hundred years past. Indeed the sky blue flag of Mortania is already flying from many of Ronia’s rustic houses and shops outside the white stone castle and an air of festivity swirls through the streets.


The castle is a huge expansive work of architectural genius. The rear of it overlooks a sparkling, tranquil lake known locally as the Lake of Peace. Within the castle many secret escape routes have been provided for the King, so many have been added in fact, that most people don't know even half of them, despite having worked in the castle for years. Here in the expansive inner rooms of the castle, the official coronation of the future King will take place amidst much festivity. Already a giant painting of Stephen, in full royal garb, has been put up in the main hall. His tufted brown hair sticking out from the diamond crown, his pale blue eyes failing to disguise the nervousness he felt at the time and still feels.

This is because there are many who do not feel that having King Stephen II in charge of our country would be in any way beneficial, there is much unrest in the air. In particular, the chief diplomat for our country, Renanen, who feels that Stephen’s immaturity could lead to Mortania being mercilessly bullied by the imperious rulers of both Brossia and Talem. In addition to him is the slick Duke of Merl, who has a tenuous link to the throne, as the cousin of Stephen’s father, and who feels that he could do a much better job in charge. These two men do concern me, they are very dangerous players in the game of Kingdom politics indeed.

38th of Springtide

Have just finished a long session talking privately with Stephen, giving him my advice on what he should do over the next few days. He seemed to take on board all my advice with remarkable calm, although I did notice his right hand was shaking at times. He is clearly worried about the threat posed to him by the Duke of Merl. I’ve reassured him that I can handle both the Duke and Renanen, that I won’t allow them to take the throne from him.

Privately I’m still worried that that slimy creep of a Duke will team up with Renanen and make a bid for the throne…I will have to prepare to meet such a threat to our Kingdom. I’m too tired to write any more just now, have spent all day preparing for this coronation and it’s still on my mind, what if something goes wrong?

40th of Springtide

Chaos, absolute chaos. It seems as though our monarch has simply vanished into thin air. I was out of the castle at the time, many miles away in the town of Vermond in fact, giving a rousing speech to the locals on our current King. Telling them how he was destined to keep our country stable and prosperous. Therefore I can only report the facts that I received from several of the Castle guards.

It appears that the young King had been carelessly left alone in the castle with both the Duke and Renanen on the premises, both of whom can give no justifiable account of their movements about the grounds. The Duke claims that he was reading in his room. Renanen says that he was in his study drawing up plans for the coronation. Their claims are treated with the due scepticism that they deserve, however no-one can prove that they left their rooms and kidknapped the King. Stephen himself was not seen to leave the building by any conventional exit.

Knowing that the castle is riddled with passages and tunnels, I suggested that everyone should search over the castle throughout the night. 'Perhaps', I suggested, 'he’s only playing hide and seek'. This explanation sounded weak, uttered with little conviction. I know the young King would never pull a stunt like this.

1st of Summervale
Morning


Still no sign of Stephen, the Coronation is in danger of postponement. We have however made a breakthrough, a scrap of red robe has been found snagged at the entrance to a hidden tunnel, in a passage adjacent to the Kings throne room. The tunnel leads out onto a dusty dry track - a mile outside of Ronia. Next to the road is a densely packed forest, it hasn’t rained for days so there are no tracks. I suggested to the guards that they search the forest immediately for any signs of the lost ruler. Others within the palace are carefully examining the scrap of robe - trying to work out where it has come from. I now have some work to do in the small village of Tyre, but should be back at Ronia Castle by early evening.

Evening

Having completed the unfinished work that I had hanging over me at Tyre, I returned to find the Castle in uproar. Not only had the scrap of robe been found to belong to one of the Duke of Merl’s garments, but upon searching his quarters a treaty of allegiance with Renanen, to do away with Stephen and put the Duke on the throne, was found. Both vehemently deny the charges of treason and refuse to give out the lost monarchs location. They continue to claim the document was forged…no-one in their right mind will believe that that deceitful pair are telling the truth though. It’s been a long day...and too many unpleasant thoughts are swirling through my mind. I need to rest and clear my head.

2nd of Summervale

It is now widely accepted across the state that the Duke and Renanen are guilty of high treason and of almost certainly killing King Stephen II. Both are still being pressurised to tell what they have done with him, their screams echoing about the castle as the loyal guards of the King gain their retribution for his loss.

9th of Summervale

It now seems almost certain that Stephen is dead, most people in and out of the Castle are trying to come to terms with the fact. No longer do flags fly from the houses, people instead walk the streets dressed in black - grieving the loss of a King who had been painted as the nations future saviour. A funeral service is due to be held in a week for him. Incredibly it appears that in the absence of anyone else, I will now be made King of the land shortly afterwards. Renanen and the Duke are due to be executed the day before Stephen’s funeral - many are expected to turn up and heckle the pair before their necks are severed.






16th of Summervale

The two accused of the crime were put to death yesterday. Both protesting their innocence to the last, but both taking their execution with brave faces and a noble silence, despite the jeering crowds and rotten food thrown in their direction. I can still see the rusty iron blade falling, first taking the thin black haired head of the Duke and then the more chubby, brown haired Renanen. There was much applause and cheering within the streets throughout the day as the crowds thought they saw justice done.

A touching ceremony at the large cathedral, that sits just down the road from the castle, was held today. Many thousands turned up to mourn the lost monarch, whose body still remains hidden from almost all. I closed the funeral with a touching speech on the King’s great qualities, closing with “his only crime was that he trusted too much in the goodness of human nature.”





Epilogue

As I sit here on my death bed, childless and ready to die, I am full of regrets for my actions past. Being a King and having all the power is a job that in the end, I found far too demanding. Our Kingdom lies in ruins - partly my fault and partly the fault of the weather which has dried up the valleys and ravaged the land. Now I care not if the truth is known of what befell King Stephen II for I have nothing left to live for, my reputation is already less than worthless with the people.

I had meticulously planned the downfall of Stephen and the Duke for many months, before I actually carried it out. It was I who instructed Stephen to run away, convincing him that his life was in grave danger from the Duke, that was on the 38th day of Springtide. It was I who arranged for a loyal friend of mine to drive a carriage to pick up the King and take him to a wooden hut, hidden away in a wood on the outskirts of Tyre - whilst I was miles away in Vermond. Later I returned to the hut and swiftly despatched my friend and Stephen with two sharp sweeps of a knife, burning their bodies on an outdoor bonfire and using a grinder that I had placed in the garden some months before to crush what was left. Gathering the minute fragments of both, I tossed them into a nearby stream, which carried them away with a gentle gurgling sound. The horrible images of what I did that day troubled me for several nights and have returned in my old age to haunt me once again.

Needless to say that I had cut a piece of the Duke’s robe off weeks earlier and feeling uneasy about Renanen’s aspirations of power, quickly managed to forge the document that sentenced both of them to the guillotine.

The idea to write the events into a diary occured to me a few weeks before the plan, firstly so that I had a written account of my doings that appeared to clear me (unless one knew the truth) and because I was conceited enough to see if I could produce an account that was both truthful, yet deceitful at the same time. In the end though I never had to show the diary and never did...that is until now.

Why did I do what I did…because I wanted power, obviously, the desire for power lurks within every man. Also though, I knew better than anyone else that Stephen wasn’t ready for the burden of full Kingship, he was just a weak and reckless kid...I couldn’t stand by and let that happen…just as I couldn’t bear to see that sly cousin of his or that conceited politician take the throne. Perhaps I should have let them, or Stephen, take the throne and suffer the disgrace that would have almost certainly befallen them. In hindsight things are always so much clearer. Now though, I am old and frail...I only wish for a dreamless sleep…



Last edited by LordoftheNight on Wed Nov 15, 2006 2:11 am; edited 1 time in total
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 15, 2006 2:11 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:

Smudger wrote:
Welcome to the October 2006 Linear Story Competition!

You will have two weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries on or before October 21st. Polling begins October 24th and ends October 31st.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, and confirm that grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?

After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.


Details for this month are:

Word limit:2000 words or less
Title:Bandits of Terwood
Genre:Any!!

What can you do with just a title? Let the idearium flow.


We've had great participation the last 2 months. Let's keep it up Good luck everyone, and have fun Very Happy


The winning entry:

JezSharp wrote:
Bandits of Terwood - The Rescue Of Maid Bulgoth

Most dwarves are content with a quiet life of hard work swinging pickaxes, thumping large lumps of iron with a hammer and getting blindly drunk. Most live like this for the whole of their lives, roaming underground amongst the dark earthen tunnels, occasionally they might have to fight a war outside - pesky goblin raiders usually, charging through the squalid undergrowth waving their pointy spears and gargling war cries that sounded like their own throats had all but given up and decided to try and strangle the attempt out of sense of common decency.

Terwood wasn't like those dwarves. For a start he was brighter - blessed with at least some portion of a thinking brain. Secondly unlike most dwarves he was deeply and madly in love with perhaps the cleverest dwarf that had ever been seen - most dwarves were usually too drunk to even remotely guess at the meaning of such a word - and thirdly he didn't drink (probably a factor in his being sane enough to think and fall madly in love).

Unfortunately for Terwood though his love had been captured by a raiding goblin brigade whilst she had been out hunting food around the cave mouth. In response he'd formed his own posse - The Terwood Bandits. He looked around at the other bandits with a sigh, there were five others in total.

In order to get them to join his band he'd promised them gold from the raids and the share of beer from the raids (which wasn't a great personal sacrifice). Even then he'd only got a handful of the more stupid and halfwitted dwarves who could think as far as a dead sea slug can throw a brick attached to a solid metal anchor. Their names were Dostop, Merstop, Plink, Grimble and Dustin and all five sat beneath the leafy trees of the Mystical woods that seperated the dwarven lands from those of the goblins. A wood that was densley packed with trees and was where they'd been based for several hours. All five wore green outfits and were already grumbling about the predicament they found themselves in.

"Haven't seen much free beer," moaned plink as he pulled a beetle from his beard and flung it at a tree...it hit Merstop in the eye.

"Hey watch where your throwing them things," complained Merstop as he picked the squirming beetle from his eye and examined it before sticking it in his mouth and crunching it, "Nwot Bwad" he said through his beard.

"Friends," said Terwood as he strode forward to the group, "soon the wait for free beer will be over and gold too for that matter. I have devised a very cunning plan..."

* * *

The Sun dawned bright above the Goblin castle where Maid Bulgoth lay in one of the tall brown mud colored towers. She sighed as she lay back and considered the proposal that had been laid out before her as she did so she heard cries echo out from the woods near the castle and wondered over to her window to watch.

Through the brown trunked trees the Merry Dwarves of Terwood crashed and thumped there way towards the castle wall. As they left the last of the trees, panting for breath and sweating profusely, all six let out their fearsome dwarven battle cries. An impartial spectator would have watched with some considerable interest (and amusement) as all six arched through the air like a batch of spilt dumplings, rolling through the air towards the castle wall in a series of uncalculated forward rolls. Unfortunately all six hadn't really grasped aerodynamics and bounced off the wall and into the moat below - landing with a series of splashes.

* * *

About ten minutes later the goblin drawbridge dropped open with a clang allowing a group of goblin troopers to march out and spread round the castle perimeter to hunt for the dwarves. No sooner had they left, than Terwood and his motley crew of soaked rogues scrambled out from under the drawbridge, up onto it, and into the castle - faster than a sail on sedatives. Nonetheless they made it in unobserved and the drawbridge clanged up behind them (it's probably worth pointing out at this stage that if goblins and dwarves were to appear on University Challenge adapted for babies with learning difficulties, the scores for both would probably be climbing towards zero near the end of the evening).

Slowly with Terwood in the lead all six slipped around the edge of the castle walls. A big building ran across the middle of the courtyard - separating the tower that Terwood had indicated Bulgoth was hidden in.

"How do you know she's there?" asked Plink,

"Because the maid is always hidden in the tallest pointiest tower," snapped Terwood, "now be quiet, we need to slip into the goblin kitchens up ahead." The smell of food from the kitchens caused all to hurry on, fresh goblin gruel is something more to be endured than eaten by most folks - but dwarves weren't too fussy concerning food. Slowly all filed into the kitchen and confronted the goblin chefs,

"Hey, what's all this about then?" muttered one goblin as he examined the intruders and scratched his head in confusion. He was probably also the head chef, although the writing upon the white chef's hat could perhaps have been improved if it had been written by a blind child missing both hands and suffering from spastic fits.

"We're here for the gru...ow" said Grimble as Terwood innocuously pulled his beard and stepped forward.

"We're from the fancy dress waiter department, to deliver grub about the place," he said boldly. The goblin, as most do when faced with any mildly logical or long ( longer than four words at any rate) sentence looked (and was) rather confused.

"So you here to take food off?" He finally managed.

"Yes that's right," Terwood replied brightly. Accepting the statement without further question the goblin shrugged and poured the gruel out into bowls and handed it to them. Terwood thanked him then all left through the opposite door into the other courtyard. The goblin chef went back to what he was doing with a puzzled face but no more, not even observing that Plink had nearly finished the gruel as he left out of the door.

As they moved across this courtyard they weren't so fortunate, Merstop and Dostop had forgotten to stick to the perimeter wall whilst consuming the gruel and so were quickly spotted by a guard.

"Oi you there what you doing!" he roared, "guards to the court at the double!"

Yowling and whooping all six ran for the tallest of the towers, a brick monstrosity, abandoning subtlety in favor of downright recklessness - arrows thudding to the left and right of them - it was perhaps just as well that the goblin archers were actually trying to hit them. Still it was enough to take the goblins by surprise and the guards were quickly dispatched as the obese and bulky dwarves battered down the door to the tower with a frightening turn of pace. Then they were running up the stairs. Halfway up only Terwood, Plink and Dostop remained running - the others having succumbed to the stairs which had proved a battle too far. By the top only Terwood was left - already he could hear the goblin army moving up the staircase. Then came a thumping bouncing sound as one by one each of the exhausted dwarves went kamikaze and threw themselves boulder like down the staircase and into the advancing horde - showing a surprising turn of intelligence and indeed the last such turn.

Terwood seized the moment, the opportunity presented to him and battered on the door until a voice called out from within,

"Come in, it's open". That voice...it was so long since he'd last heard it, with a delighted cry he opened the door crying "Bulgoth, I thought we were torn apart for ever and ever." Bulgoth smiled as he entered, then drew a crossbow and shot him through the heart. "Terwood, how nice to see you again, what a pleasant surprise indeed...I always wondered if you might have had a crush on me, shame I never had one for you." Terwood stood shocked as the words pierced his heart far more than the arrow had done. As his knee wobbled he looked up in agony at Bulgoth, "but why?"

"Silly, the trouble is I think too much, and this nice goblin King has offered me marriage himself. As it turns out I can manipulate him quite well as he's not that bright so I should soon be able to gain a hold over these thick goblin minds. Then I can unite the goblin forces and the dwarven people in due course...you of all people should know that thinking leads to understanding, understanding leads to knowledge and that leads to power in whomsoever wields it." With a sorrowful smile she watched Terwood collapse, "I'm really sorry it had too end this way Terwood, you were quite a nice guy, but that doesn't cut it for me - politics is a vicious game." She then turned to address the goblin guards, "Take him away please," she said, the she turned back to the window and looked out upon the setting sun that lit her Kingdom up a blood red, her Kingdom...yes she liked the sound of that very much indeed.

THE END
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PostPosted: Tue Jan 02, 2007 2:05 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The rules for the round:
JezSharp wrote:
Welcome to the December 2006 Linear Story Competition!

You will have two weeks to write a short story, edit it, and post it for consideration. Post entries on or before December 21st. Polling begins December 24th and ends December 31st.

Proof readers will take your story, break it down, make sure it fits the word limit, and confirm that grammar, spelling, plot, character development, etc. are all present and correct.

You can make changes to your story all the way up to the final posting date. After that, the stories that have not passed the critique will be disqualified. Those that are left will be put up for a vote for anyone to vote on.

If you win, you get to brag for a whole month, have your story immortalized in the City Auditorium, and earn a Fable reward in recognition from our Mayor.

This will be run like a professional writing contest. Your story will be edited, picked apart, and thoroughly looked at. If you exceed more than ten spelling or grammar errors, your story will be given back to you to rewrite. So check your work.

If your work goes over the word limit it will be given back to shorten. If it remains the same length it will be disqualified.

If your story does not follow the topic and genre, it will be given back to you to rewrite.

Things that must be right vs. artistic freedom- There are things like plot, and flow that might be your intent. That is totally cool. A proof reader might suggest that you pick up the pace or add more detail here and there. That is your choice to do or not. If you feel the story can stand on its own without change that is fine. Spelling, grammar, genre, word count, etc. are expected to be correct, no exceptions.

If you are proofreading- Look for spelling and grammar mistakes first. Word count comes next. Then answer the following questions for the story.

Did it stay within the genre?
Did it follow the topic?
Did it have a beginning, middle, and an end?


After you have done this feel free to comment on the story as you see fit. Bear in mind that anything beyond what is listed above is pretty much considered opinion. This can be taken or left by the author.


Details for this month are:

Word limit:1500 words or less
Title:Any
Genre: Any
Extra Criteria: Must include the following words/phrases: 'Christmas tree', 'squirrels', 'fairies', 'snowplough' and 'desert' .

What can you make with the above words Wink ? Let the idearium flow.


The winning entry:
Kalanna Rai wrote:
Keldredy and the Autumn Fairy

Keldredy lived in a tall tree on the edge of the Autumn wood. A simple squirrel by nature he had no idea that he would become a hero one crisp morning when he walked outside his burrow for a day he planned to spend gathering nuts to enjoy that evening. He scurried down his brance and lept across a short space, grabbing the brance on the other side. In a few moments he was outside the door of his nearest neighbor. Knocking politely on old Nandarin's door he waited for a reply.

What he did not expect was Nandarin's young apprentice, Tursina, to yank the door open, whiskers aquiver. "Oh thank goodness Keldredy I'm so glad your here. Terrible things are happening, just terrible." Without so much as a polite attempt at manners she grabbed Keldredy by the fur of his arm and dragged him into the old Sage's burrow. Once inside Keldredy was led over to where he aged squirrel sage sat with his hands against the small fire, warming them.

"Oh good, you've found him. I was worried about it." Keldredy looked at them both, wiskers quivering, but was too polite to ask. "Now I bet you're wondering what all the fuss is about? Well I have had a vision, a true seeing. The Autumn Fairy has been kidnapped and you must save her."

"Me?" Keldredy squeaked. He'd never done anything bold in his life, indeed he was positivly boring. Yet Nandarin nodded, eyeing the young elf up and down.

"Yes you. The Frost Witch is holding her captive beyond the frozen desert where no snowplough can clear the ice, and the frosted forest of christmas trees. In the palace of winter. You must rescue her Keldredy. Here take this armor, you'll need it." Keldredy's head was whirling as he put the armor on. Nandarin nodded. "And Tursina shall accompany you bold warrior, on your travels. Now go! You have only three days before the Frost Witch turns Autumn into Winter and extends her icey grip." Keldredy nodded and he and the young sage scurried outside. "Good luck youngsters!"
----------------------------------

It was a grueling journy from the Autumn wood into the realm of Winter. Winter was spreading forward, frost already touching several trees and ice beginning to coat the branches. Keldredy and Tursina rushed onward, their quest growing more and more urgent by the moment. Soon the forest turned from the red-gold hardwoods of Autumn into the eternally green white capped softwoods of winter...the christmas tree forest.

They did not stop to search for pine nuts or nibble even the slightest green needle. Fighting off a sudden urge to sleep they bolted from the cover of the forest and onto the white frozen desert of snow and ice. A day passed and the brave squirrels did not stop as they felt the weight of their quest pressing even more urgently upon them. A castle loomed up from the heart of this desert...Frostreach, home of the Frost Witch.

Bursting in they found the Frost Witch cackling over the Autumn Fairy who hung in a cage of ice. She whirled to face the squirrels. "This? This is the best the season of Autumn can do?" The Autumn fairy gripped the bars tighter, tears freezing on her face. "Well, humph. No challenge in this at all." With a flick of her hand the Frost witch lashed out at Keldredy who stood there, frozen to the spot. The spell hit him in the breastplate, felling the noble squirrel where he stood. The bolt, however, reflected back at the Frost witch.



Before she could doge the bolt struck her, shattering her into a thousand pieces. Tursina and the Autumn fairy looked at one another, then at Keldredy. "Heal him." Turning to Keldredy Tursina gathered her power into a shining light As the light bathed the fallen squirrel warrior he seemed to move...
----------------------------

The Autumn Fairy glanced out from the hole in her tree, watching the lesser fairies play in the red-gold leaves. In the distance two squirrels could be seen sitting on a branch, enjoying their nuts. The fairy smiled. Soon enough those two would move on to Spring and then...well the fairy was looking forward to seeing the children of Tursina and Keldredy...

_________________
Punishment leads to Fear. Fear leads to Obedience. Obedience leads to Freedom. Therefore, Punishment leads to Freedom.
Ave Dominus Nox


A Fronte Praecipitium a Tergo Lupi
Blood Bowl
Scraping the Barrel
A Tale of Four Swords
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