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Chinaren
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 Posted: Tue Jul 31, 2007 6:24 pm Post subject: Chinaren's Fright Night! THE WINNER IS... |
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Introducing...
It's a tie! Both Zephry and Rai split the pot! Well done guys! You will also get a Chinaren Hall award.
Thanks to all who entered. Better luck next time. 
Current prize pot: 1,200 Fables!
Entries:
Entry 1 - The Blizzard. *Graphic material* - Zephyr
Entry 2 - Pleasure at Any cost. *Graphic material* - Messy (1)
Entry 3 - Untitled - Messy (2)
Entry 4 - Beautiful Eyes. - Rai
Entry 5 - The Australian Fearless - D Lotus
Entry 6 - The cellar. *Graphic* - NeNe
----
Introduction.
This competition will be run in a similar vein to SoaP, though it's a little simpler.
Can you write scary?
PM me your scary story, and it will be entered here. When enough entries/time has gone by, I will open the entries up to voting. Anyone will be able to vote.
Winner will take the pot, so the more entries, the bigger the prize.
Rules: (please read carefully)
Stories must be between 1,001 and 1,999 words long.
Authors may submit as many entries as they wish.
Entries must be submitted to me, to ensure anoniminity*.
Authors must not tell anyone they have entered. If this rule is breached, the author will be disqualified and their fee forfeit.
Entry fee is 220Fables, payable to Chinaren. Please make a note when you are submitting payment, as otherwise I don't get a message saying you've submitted it.
200 of this will go into the pot, 20 will go towards Chinaren's administration fee.
The author who receives the most votes at the end will collect the majority of the pot, with second place getting a smaller share.
Chinaren reserves the right to refuse entry with no explanation.
The stories will be posted exactly as submitted.
No pictures with the stories. The horror must be in the minds' eye.
The poll will last up to two weeks.
A two way tie will split the prize, if there is a three, or more, tie, voting will continue until it is broken.
The person entering must have written the submission.
No fan-fic. (I don't want stories about Buffy etc. thanks very much).
Submissions remain the property of the author. Chinaren will merely repost them here.
Chinaren will not repost the stories anywhere else but here, and only for this competition.
If you don't have 200Fables, but would like to enter anyway, please contact Chinaren.
Chinaren reserves the right to add, remove or amend these rules at any time.
This isn't a rule, but an observation: Vampire and werewolf stories are heavily overdone, and in my mind at least, show a lack of imagination.
*This is to reduce the 'vote for my friend' factor.
_________________
Neil Hartley Books.
My Amazon page.
Last edited by Chinaren on Mon Sep 17, 2007 5:55 pm; edited 14 times in total
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Crossfire
Citizen
Joined: 07 Apr 2007
Topics: 5
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Location: Somewhere between here and not-here, now and not-now... in the half-light, the borderlands, between.
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| Posted: Thu Aug 02, 2007 10:00 pm Post subject: |
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<I do hope that that spelling of 'anonymity' was deliberate, chinaren.  >
Sounds like a great idea... Last year you had the same thing, correct? And yes, I am aware that this is merely another lazy, money-grubbing scheme from the emperor of usurers, the king of... *coughs* ah, high-priced luxury jewelry of an ostentatious nature, chinaren. 
_________________
Thrash, dash and crash alike.
Silent eyes decide the wise and unwise - for one that lies. Let it arise.
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Chinaren
Hallowed IFian
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| Posted: Sat Aug 04, 2007 4:26 am Post subject: |
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**Be warned! Graphic Material!!**
The Blizzard
A chill wind howled through the forest, causing old snags to creak. The haunted moan clashed directly with the rumbling of an old truck as it dipped and wove its way deep into the woods. A skiff of snow fell from the gloom above, clouds dipped in shadow, roiling and swirling beyond sight.
Inside the archaic vehicle, a relic of rusted times gone by, a radio pierced the silent, yet tangible tension hovering between the two occupants. “Squeerrkarkishh…blizzards are uncommon in spring, even this far n…shhhsekerahkshhh…”
Twirling the radio knob in enraged frustration, the driver, a solid man in his late thirties, with a thick, graying brown beard, shouted, “GOD DAMNED AM RADIO!!” Unable to lock onto a signal, he violently punched the outmoded device clear through the panel it was set into, a crumbling dashboard of dried plastic.
“SqueeeaaaarraHHH,” the radio continued loudly, spurring the ill tempered male to bend down, mightily jarring the seat, as he reached under the dash to grab the dangling radio near the floor. Grasping hold, he reared back, adrenaline coursing through his veins proving enough to tear the device from its cords with a snapping rage.
The terrified woman next to him let loose a whimper. Her urinary muscles were weakening with each mile.
Catching the muffled sound out of the corner of his ear, the wild eyed woodsman shot a look at her, one of disdain and contempt. “What did I tell you,” he intoned, each word carefully set alone, “SHUT… THE… FUCK… UP!!!”
Whipping his arm backwards he flailed the broken electronics straight into her skull, tearing a bloody gash across her temple. Crimson liquids oozed into her ear and trickled down her jaw. Hazarding a response, she lifted a hand, which was grasping tight onto the ends of her sweater, and hid her face as she wiped the blood onto her sleeve. Snaking a finger free, she wiped at one of the currents of tears silently flooding down her olive cheeks.
“Dammit Linda,” the man carried on as he bounced the truck through potholes, a slight skiff of snow dancing across the windshield, barely visible in the thick night, “I told you we shouldn’t have gotten involved with those people.”
Suddenly shouting he yelled, “NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!!”
Somehow Linda found a moment of defiant bravery and released, screaming back, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT JIM?” To Linda’s knowledge, up until an hour or so ago, everything had been just fine! Her trusted and beloved husband, Jim, had cryptically woken her up in the middle of the night telling her they needed to go “Find the truth”, whatever that meant.
Jim’s jaw set firm in determination to refuse the indignance of her screams. Slamming on the brakes, he reached over behind her head and grasped hold of her long black hair, hard. As the truck lurched to a stop in a pothole, a common occurrence on abandoned logging roads, he thrust her head forward into the dash, the plastic shattering around her face, causing jagged shards to pierce her lips and forehead.
Yanking her hair back so hard a tuft tore free, he revealed her bloody visage, her tearful eyes closed, blood streaming from her nostrils and cuts, contorted in an expression of denial of abject horror.
“SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO BITCH!?!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, the howlingly monstrous winds outside cloaking his words beyond the cabin of the truck.
Tossing open the rusted driver side door, he shifted his body to land outside, pulling his weeping wife behind him as she quivered in confused terror.
Snow had already begun to build up in places, drifts forming in the valleys between the ancient pine trees of the Canadian wilderness. His heavily booted feet crunched through the snow as he dragged the squirming female behind him.
Whimpering, Linda fought against him, but to no avail. He’d been a lumberjack all his life and his thick forearm was a steel vice clamp on her blood matted hair. She’d known he was strong, but not even her most brutal scratches phased him as he marched unwaveringly through the moaning flurries.
“JIM! Listen to me! Listen to reason! PLEASE!” she cried, but it was no use. Some madness had overcome her normally gentle and loving husband. His ears were as deaf to her as the gravel stones and dead sticks scraping at her legs.
It seemed like an eternity that the man walked on, but eventually, he stopped, a hollow look in his mad eyes. Sniffing the air he nodded, as Linda labored her legs to support her, despite his continued grasp on her follicles.
Turning to look her in the eye revealed to her that whatever soul was within was certainly not that which she knew. The warmth and compassion she had always seen there had been fully replaced by a void, deeper than the darkest night, cold, bitter as the winds whipping at her savaged face.
With a violent roar, Jim suddenly lifted her into the air, her feet dangling inches from the ground, pain lancing through her skull, down through her spine to fracture like bolts of lightning throughout her nervous system.
Thrusting forward in a rage, Jim felt a warm splatter across his face as Linda lost all feeling in her shoulder, sharply impacting with something from behind. Looking to see what had become of her left arm, she nearly retched as she recognized a jagged tree branch pierced through her flesh. A sudden sensation of weakness overcame her and she slowly faded into the darkness of unconsciousness.
Laughing hysterically, Jim released his hold on her hair, knowing that she would not move from her impaled position. He stepped back, with a devious grin, surveying his prey. Where to begin? he wondered.
Linda was not out for long. Fuzzing back to life like the radio during its moment of clarity, she squinted through the stinging, snowy winds. Jim’s silhouette held something that glinted, even in the darkness.
Placing a meaty hand around her mouth, Jim slowly incised her face, beginning from the tip of her nose, sliding the blade up her forehead, splitting the skin smoothly. As blood began to flow, she tried to scream but achieved nothing but a muffled sob. Jim bent forward to lap at the crimson juices, which now readily flowed from the open wound.
He licked greedily for a time, her life forces flowing down into his stomach heavily. Backing away from this ‘taster’, he reanalyzed the situation as she screamed freely, her throat going hoarse in the winds.
Her hands, he decided.
Taking hold of her right hand, which could still be dangerous as it had not been disabled by the impaling, he held it steady. Sliding the edge of his blade with skill he’d never earned in life, he deftly removed the skin from her fingers, her palms, the backs of her hands, unwrapping the human leather from her digits like a trained tanner. Blood dripped to stain the white snow beneath.
Linda had passed out once more, her head lolling to the side in a look of overwhelmed shock.
Growing impatient, Jim continued his grisly task, slipping the rest of her skin from her body like it was another article of clothing to be removed. She awoke as soon as he had left her without a face, screaming in vain yet again, howling to those who could never hear her, howling as loud as the blizzard, which was now raging in full force, throwing snow against her bare muscles like tiny grains of sand.
All the while, Jim continued to lap greedily at the blood, which flowed, drinking his fill like a dog at a bowl. The scarlet fluids drenched his beard like a sponge, coating his hairy chest, which he had exposed to the frigid winds. Growling and snarling like a wild animal, Jim felt alive, for the first time, like the savage he was forever meant to become.
Now for the REAL treasures! he mused in the writhing mass of his insanity.
Reaching outward with his knife, he began to remove strips of muscle, as he had done with deer so many times before. Unlike his hunter’s duties, this time he paused on occasion to taste some of the morsels, chewing on them with great satisfaction. Deliciously perfect!
Linda had bled herself dry by then, passed on to a world beyond, but her flesh remained warm despite the rapidly dropping air temperatures.
“LINDA,” he called to her, half expecting her to hear him in his cynicism, “I needed you! How can I live without you?” In his mind, he referred to the edibility of her flesh, the pun intended.
A daemonic chuckle echoed through the woods, subtlely piercing through the wicked winter winds.
“Wha?” Jim paused in his grisly feast, fear suddenly crossing his expression. His eyes jabbed into the night, but he could see nothing through the flurrying snows and dead branches of the forest.
The chuckle grew louder, into a raucous, evil laughter, far clearer this time.
“Who… WHO’S THERE?” Jim’s heart beat hard against his chest, glancing this way and that. His mind began to make up stories about the shadowy things lurking in the silhouettes of the branches.
Looking down, he realized he was without a shirt. The stinging winds on his bare skin told him he was in the middle of severe winter weather. How did I end up in the woods? he wondered. His chest felt sticky. Feeling his body, revealed an unpleasant sensation, and the viscosity of the liquids coating him warned him of the truth, blood.
Have I been injured?
The hollow, echoing chortle returned, behind him this time.
Spinning in the snow he saw a dark silhouette against a tree. Taking a step forward, he reached his hand out to feel the rapidly declining temperature of a dead, skinned body. The feel of muscle and bone was clear to his fingers. Jim gasped in horror as he suddenly remembered the last hour in a split second’s time.
Crying out in horror he fell to his knees in a snow drift, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood of his wife in his beard.
“HA HA HA HA HA!” the laughter taunted him. But he was beyond caring now, having known what he’d just done. Through the winds he heard the crunching of approaching feet.
Looking up from his downcast, suicidally inspired position of remorse, he yelled in terror as an unholy light illuminated the one who approached.
Standing before him was a beast beyond all comprehension, a composite of hundreds of thousands of various bones. It walked like a demonic cloven-hoofed abomination, and an overpowering stench of death was somehow carried through the wailing blustering winds. On top of misshapen and piece-meal shoulders was situated the skull of what was once a large elk, its antlers scraping the tree of death from which Linda’s naked, skinless corpse was impaled.
The laughter came again, calling out to Jim from a void beyond this world.
Nodding, Jim accepted the end willfully, otherwise looking at an undesirable, tortured life to be lived beyond this moment.
The demon took pity however, unleashing a wicked chain of bone vertebras from its waist. Lashing out with the whip, the demon skillfully stretched the tip of the weapon in through Jim’s ribcage, latching onto the man’s heart and tearing it clean free from his chest as it warmly beat crimson rivers of blood onto the pure snow.
As Jim fell over to fade into the final night, one word of understanding escaped his lips, an utterance of an ancient name. For it was clear what had plagued him on this cursed night, clear what had returned after centuries of dormancy, clear what would ravage the lands of the frozen north for an age of cannibalistic terror to come,
“Windigo…”
Last edited by Chinaren on Tue Aug 07, 2007 6:15 am; edited 1 time in total
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| Posted: Tue Aug 07, 2007 6:13 am Post subject: Entry 2 - Pleasure at Any Cost. |
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*Be ye warned that there may be graphic and unsuitable content for the weak of constitution.
"Where is it, you ever suffering fool! Why can't I find it!?" The woman kicked out again, striking a figure lying prone on the ground. "Tell me where it is, else I will be forced to resort to more....violent means of attaining my desires."
"Go screw yourself," the figure replied. "I refuse to tell you anything." His labored breath caused his voice to crack, the broken ribs burned his chest with every movement.
"Playing hard are we, my dear? Fine, you wait there. I will be back soon." What choice did the man have, she had tied him on his back to various hooks and eyelets through out the basement, and she had already broken his ankle. God, the pain when she had brought the bat down in a sweeping motion, striking the bones so hard that the bat bent from the strain. He had screamed like a woman, which was what she was after.
A faint hissing sound filled the room, then a lighter flicked. A loud whoosh accompanied the bright flare of light which issued forth suddenly on the walls. Its' source a small propane torch. "We'll see if this lightens your tongue, sweetie." She smiled to herself, he was unworthy of her smile. She would smile at him again once he had told her what she needed to know. She must know where it was. And he knew, yes, he knew. How many times had he caressed and manipulated it? He knew where it was, but his refusal to tell her was infuriating. "Think that these will help you recall where it is dear?" She held the leather sewing needles to his face, forced them before his eyes so that they were all that he could see. He watched the flame dance along the edges of the many needles. No, he wouldn't tell her. He mustn't. She would not be allowed to break him. "No, still not gonna tell me where it is? Okay then, we will see. Soon enough you will you be begging me to hear where it is."
She pulled one of the long, thick needles from its' container, and grasping the eye, she held it over the flame. Quickly it glowed a fierce red color. She grasped his hand within hers after setting the torch down upon the cold concrete floor. With slow, painstaking care, she forced the glowing needle beneath his thumbnail, forcing it deeper and deeper. Nearly a minute passed before the needle tip was protruding from the top of his knuckle. Tears flowed from his eyes, but he remained silent. His will must be stronger than hers. Surely she wouldn't kill him, would she?
Without further questioning, she heated another needle, and again, she slowly, almost teasingly, forced it through his pointer finger, under the nail, and through the knuckle. He still remained silent, not struggling against the rope which bound his body the floor. She couldn't want it so bad that she would continue this madness?
"Will you tell me now dear?" She had just finished piercing his pinky finger through the second knuckle. She hadn't realized how easily the needle would pierce through the smaller bones, so she had continued deeper. "Must I do your other hand now?" Silence greeted this question, altho the tears were flowing much more thickly, his breath coming in great hitches.
"It would be so much simpler to just tell me where it is, then I would stop this, and you could be freed and suffer no more pain. Do you like this pain? Is it worth denying me that which I desire?" Her voice was that soft, purring tone that drove him insane with lust. No, he wouldn't tell her, no matter how she pleaded with him.
"Okay, then, the other hand it is." Fully ten minutes passed as she pierced beneath his nails of his other hand, the smell of seared flesh thick in the air of the basement. No more questions, not yet. She held his hand out flat, and began to reheat the needles, the glow spread from eyes towards the points. A nail held too close to the flame caught. She grabbed a glass of water, pouring it out over the flames. Water boiled for the tiniest fraction of time. He screamed, no longer able to hold in the pain.
She was crouched before him, slapping his face with the flat of a knife. "Wake up, wake up, you bastard! You are pathetic!" She turned the blade, and slashed it across his cheek. His eyes widened, fear finally striking deep within him. She had actually disfigured his face, the one thing that he believed she wouldn't do. He knew that she wanted to know where it was, but to scar him, to cut up his pretty face? Had she lost her mind?
She had seen his eyes when she cut. Yes, here was the key to the knowledge that she wanted! His vanity! She would use that to her advantage! "Oopsie, did I cut your cheek? How perfectly careless of me!" She giggled and brought the knife sweeping against the other cheek, laying bare the gums and teeth beneath. "Oh darn! Did it again, didn't I? Would you like me to put the knife down, sweetums?" "Yes, please, please don't cut me more!" "Then tell me where it is!" she roared.
"I, I can't. I won't. You will have to find it yourself!"
She screamed in fury, and brought the knife down into his throat. Blood bubbled up through his neck. With his last breath, he told her where it was..........
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well, what did he say to you? Did you find out what you were after? Did he reveal the secret to you?" The hypnotist had never heard such a disturbing tale come from a womans' mouth. The police had found her sitting beside her dead, soon to be ex-husband. Her fingers were deep inside herself, and a smile was spread wide across her face. She refused to answer any of their questions, only stated, "He told me where it was! He finally told me where it was!" After a week of this, he had been called in to get the truth out of her. Under hypnosis, she had revealed the above tale.
"And what did he he tell you?"
"He told me, put two fingers in my vagina, and curve them towards my pubic hairs. There it was that I would find my g-spot. And he was right! it was there, always there! Now I can finally be free of him, because I know all his secrets." She smiled again, and her fingers twitched faster beneath the table. "Always there, it was always there, and he told me, where.. to ......find..........it"
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Player of Fates
Citizen
Joined: 27 Jun 2007
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| Posted: Wed Aug 08, 2007 2:48 pm Post subject: |
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Don't know if I'm supposed to comment on these but the first one would have been way better if you let out the supernatural stuff and just delved into a man's insanity. Much more realistic and chilling. Nice description of the skinning by the way.
The second one was just weird and I sicken myself to say so, but uh...funny.
_________________
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Vampires just got a whole lot Hotter
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The fine print can kill you.
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Wed Aug 15, 2007 8:57 pm Post subject: Entry 3. |
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There it was again, that feeling of dread, that my life had no purpose. I was merely a freak, below consideration. People would forever shun me, ignore me, therefore intensifying the feeling of rejection that I held so deep in my heart. Was it the things that I said? Was it my general behavior? I couldn't pin-point the reason for my exclusion. But it was there, sounding out with a resonating tone that was impossible to ignore.
How should i attempt to rectify this situation? All that i had ever wanted was to be accepted, to be included in the flock of cool people that everyone admired and envied. Was that such a horrible desire? I don't believe so. Perhaps the death of those that despised me would separate me, make me way cooler, because I took out the 'cool' people? Nah, probably not. They would probably just look at that action as well, and believe that i were ever more the freak because of it. So what to do?
I went to the bar. I tried to start a fight after getting drunk. It didn't work. I was so disagreeable that nobody payed me any mind. Even when i punched Bruno in the face, it made no difference. i went home. I took out my knife and sharpened the blade to a razor fine edge. The sound of the steel running over the stone soothed me, yet intensified the deep depression that was ever present in the dark depths of my soul.
I carved a smile into my forearm. The blood flowed freely, irritating me. I had began slicing too low, and the red fluid was constantly running down over the area that i wished to scar next. I grew agitated, constantly licking my skin to uncover the unblemished flesh. After ten minutes, it was done.
I felt the sting of the blade, but it was mild. It was nothing compared to the sting of their words and actions. Nothing compared to that. The never-ending torment. I should kill myself. But i have to go out in a way that will increase my coolness. Is there such a way? A cool way to die, intentionally? I had no idea.
I got up. The self inflicted wounds were steadily denying me more blood, the coagulation of blood cells creating a delicate scab, easily broken, but, in that, lay little satisfaction. I walked out into the night air. Perhaps a ride on my motorcycle would improve my ability to think?
I donned my helmet and leather. The bike beneath me rumbled like a satiated cat, happy with the stroke of a human, or the kill of some innocent prey. I gunned the motor a bit and eased out the clutch. I was riding, and free from my thoughts for the moment. But the moment never lasts.
It was dark and curvy mountain road that i brought myself to travel. There was little traffic, as event he most drunk of idiots avoided this thoroughfare at night. I put the bike in motion, putting her and myself through the paces. I was preparing us for more. More speed, more risk, more running from myself, my emotions, my reality. I pushed harder. The rear tire catching grip, my knee touching the ground as i moved as fast as i could through the turns. Left, and right, and left again, through wide sweeping corners and tight little switchbacks. They were nothing to me, just as i was nothing to all those people that despised me. They KNEW what was wrong with me. I tried too hard. I tried to fit in, to be every thing that everyone wanted. It is impossible. It only brings shame, and guilt. It only destroys the mans' own self preservation, his will to live. It was doing it to me now, here, on this high mountain road.
Tears stung my eyes. I hadn't realized that my thoughts could drive me this low. The tears offended me. Was this pity that i was feeling, towards myself? Was i so weak and pathetic that i would cry over those that didn't want my company? Sadly, i faced the truth. YES, I was that pathetic.
Suddenly, standing before me in the middle of my apex, was a ghost of a woman. I hit the brakes. The rear tire locked. the bike dropped to the ground beneath me, crushing it, breaking it, dragging it over the pavement with such force that my jeans tore, and the bone beneath my flesh lay bare for all to see.
The ghost smiled. I heard her. Though i was helmeted, though i was moving at over seventy miles per hour, i heard her as clear as if she were standing beside me. "You have truly finished your time here. Now at last you understand your weakness, and it has brought humility to you. Know this, you are damned though. For all eternity, you shall be ravaged with the desire to please, but find in return hate and pain. For this action, is surely your attempt at suicide. You shall suffer here, in your mortal form, a bit longer, so that you can see what suffering truly is."
My momentum slowed. The tires caught a little. The bike righted itself for a fraction of a second, but then, it was carried over to the other side. My other leg was crushed. My head hit the pavement, my shoulder shattered. The handle bar provided the perfect pole upon which to vault. My knowledge of earth and sky was torn from me as i flipped over and over, the destroyer of my destiny still nestled between my legs. Pain unimagined tore through me as bones were broken throughout my body. Why can't my neck snap, and this be over with? My ride was free of me. I could hear it around me as i flew through the air. A tree waited for me with arms open. one arm pierced me through the chest though. Both my lungs were punctured. I could still hear my baby girl, flying through the air. She struck me, just below the rib cage. My lower organs were violently expelled from me. Blood flew out of my mouth, filling my crushed helmet. The last thing that i remembered hearing was "be careful what you wish for, you may just get it."
I awoke with a start. My head pounded form too much booze. It had only been a dream? I quickly found my forearm, searching, hoping against hope that it had been a nightmare. But no, there on my arm, was a great, bloody face. It wore not a smile, but a frown. i picked at it. blood flowed. i was alive! "Just remember: be you, or you will never find peace in this life.
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Sat Aug 18, 2007 4:06 am Post subject: Entry 4 - Beautiful Eyes. |
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Beautiful Eyes
"It's said that in the house at the end of Cherry Tree Lane, on a balmy summer night, a jealous boyfriend ripped his girlfriend's eyes out after he caught her in the arms of another man. 'If you cannot look at me like that you'll look at no one at all!' He was heard to scream.
The woman died of her injuries but the story doesn't end there. Three months later, guards were summoned to the boyfriend's cell by his hideous screams. They were too late and found him with his eyes torn out.
Now, they say, the woman waits in the house on Cherry Tree Lane...."
A rough voice interrupted the smooth tones of the storyteller. "No...wait...lemme guess. She waits for unsuspecting victims to wander into the house so she can tear their eyes out...right? Am I right?"
The storyteller, a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, stood with a disappointed frown wrinkling her pixie-like features. "Fine, spoilsport. Be that way. But you were the one who came to me looking for urban legends. I'm sorry if they're all so alike to you."
The young man on the bed watched the storyteller for a few moments more, admiring her as she dressed. With a sigh he decided to patch up relations. After all, he had plans for later this evening. Plans she wouldn't go along with if she felt like he was using her. Dressing quickly he caught her arm and spun her around. "Show me the house." He said softly.
She blinked at him, eyes wide and luminous...a brilliant shade of green that jumped out at him. A slow smile spread across her face.
"You sure? You're not going to get scared on me or anything right?"
He laughed as he grabbed his jacket and slipped into it. "Please. I'm a big boy...I can take care of myself."
She grinned at him impishly, a hand snaking out to take the proffered elbow. "Oh I realize that. I really do." She planted a kiss on his cheek and smiled up at him, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Beautiful." She whispered.
He chuckled. "Handsome. You're beautiful." He shook his head, they weren't kidding about small town girls. This gorgeous girl had taken one look at him and nearly crawled into his skin. He was worried though that soon she'd be pitching that 'deeper connection' crap. She spent an awful lot of time staring at him and talking.
He helped her into the car like any good gentleman and hopped in himself. Then he turned to the girl with a smile as he keyed the ignition. "Lead on."
She directed them down an old street filled with ranch style homes. A green and white street sign proclaimed it as Cherry Tree Lane. A yellow sign below that said 'DEAD END'. The entire place seemed to have a messy air about it, as if it wasn't yet abandoned but well on it's way to desertion.
She pointed to one house that sat alone, at the very end of the street. It was in the very middle of the cul-de-sac, brooding and in a state of disrepair. He squinted at it. "Well, it certainly fits the bill for a haunted house. I'm waiting for the catch."
The girl looked at him strangely. Her voice was low and puzzled when she spoke. "What catch?"
He laughed. "You know, the catch. Whatever it is that makes the victim dash into the house and meet their untimely end." She gave him this depressed, hurt, look and he instantly felt bad about the comment.
He sighed. "Alright, let's take a look at the place."
Slowly, they got out and started toward the house. At the end of the driveway he stopped and turned to talk to the girl...and was rather surprised to find she wasn't there. "Hey!" He called out as he looked around.
He heard the girl whistle and his head snapped up. She was standing next to the front door, wind playing with her skirt ."Over here slowpoke!" She said with a wink and a wiggled finger. He laughed at bit and shook his head.
"I never said I'd go in!"
She laughed back. "Chicken!" She tried the door and frowned. "It's locked...I'll go around back and see if I can't get in."
He rolled his eyes. "You do that." He watched with some amusement as she trotted off, blond waves bouncing. The wind sprang up, cold and biting, forcing his hands deeper into his pockets.
He soon felt like he'd been waiting forever. He called her name once, then twice...no answer. He was starting to get nervous when the scream rang out into the air. It was horrifying and bloodcurdling...he gave her points for it since it made him jump out of his skin.
Cupping his hands around his mouth there was laughter in his voice as he called out to her. "Nice one! Almost had me going!" But the screams continued, interspersed with loud sobbing and pleading. Too quickly he began to wonder if some weirdo was living in the house and he ran up to the front door.
He didn't bother to try the knob, just kicked the door in. The screams cut off and his shoulders slumped. "Okay, that wasn't funny. Now the cops are probably going to bust me for breaking and entering...or destruction of property."
He peered into the gloom but couldn't see her anywhere. With a shrug he stepped across the threshold and moved deeper into the house. Idly he wondered if she was going to jump out form behind something and shout boo. If she did, plans or no, he was going to have some harsh words for her.
This was pretty ridiculous as pranks went. He'd been the butt of far better. After all, a man crossing the country in search of urban myths and legends for a thesis was bound to have numerous attempts to spook him. This was yet another attempt by yet another person trying to convince him that their myth, unlike countless others, was true.
He wandered back towards the bedroom. "You in here?" He pushed the door open and screamed in horror. There, inches from his own face, was that of the girl. Only now, blood ran in thick streams from empty eye sockets. A pair of shriveled green eyes fell from one of her hands.
She reached for him and he bolted, nearly stumbling over the corpse of another young man that was now near his feet. The house was suddenly filled with corpses, splayed all over the place, all perfectly preserved. Like flies in amber each defied time, their death masks eternal, faces frozen in looks of terror, shock, and despair.
There was a pile on the couch, more on the floor, others peered at him from doorways and other pieces of furniture. All of them missing their eyes. He vaulted another stack and turned for the doorway...only to watch in horror as it stretched endlessly before him. A sea of corpses rushed to fill that vast, eternal space. To block his escape.
He realized that he'd never make it through the door and made a last desperate attempt for freedom. He spun on the ball of his foot, rubber sole of his shoe squeaking on the tile of the entryway. He was aiming to crash through the windows to his right but momentum and fate combined to deal him a cruel blow.
His ankle snapped under the force of the turn and he spun wildly, falling as he went. His back slammed again the wall, head hitting the window frame. His vision swam and he blinked away the blur. As it cleared he saw the girl coming closer, a sad frown wrinkling her brow and turning down the corners of her mouth.
"I really liked you too. But you were just like the rest of them. I wasn't a person to you...I was a thing. It doesn't matter if you wanted to keep me yours forever or just use me for a short time...I was a thing to you."
"No...honest...you were more! You were brilliant and smart...and you can tell a story like no one I know!"
She smiled sadly at him, kneeling down at his feet. She reached for his hand and patted it. "Thank you for that. I know you were telling a little truth in that so I'll tell you a little truth in return."
Suddenly her hands shot up, fingers entering his eye-sockets. Her nails severed his optical nerve with a precise twist and she plucked his eyes free and whole. He screamed and clawed his face while slowly she inserted his eyes into her own empty sockets, blinking a few times to get them working. She quickly dabbed away the blood that rimmed her eyes using a torn bit of his shirt to clean her cheeks.
She sat there and watched until he'd taken his last breath, his life flowing out to feed her as his soul was consigned to some dark, horrible place. She stood, smiled, and wiped away the blood on his face tenderly. Stepping lightly over the stacked corpses in front of the door, she pulled it shut behind her.
Sliding into his car she turned the keys he'd left in the ignition. Reaching up she readjusted the rear-view mirror. Tilting it down she stared right into it and smiled.
"You did have beautiful eyes."
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| Posted: Mon Aug 20, 2007 5:49 pm Post subject: |
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The Australian Fearless
It is almost entirely impossible for any member of the human species to dispel every impulse of fear contained inside him or her. This incidence befalls as a result of an instinct that is present inside human genes and passed down into each new generation, beginning with our most ancient ancestors, whose fight-or-flight reaction developed into a tool for survival. Had we not developed fear as a denotation of impending danger, our species would have become the heedless breakfast of some large predator.
And yet, history and natural selection set aside, I recall a story my grandfather once told me about his own grandfather, a legend which contradicts science and nature. As a boy, I never doubted the validity of my grandfather's word. He was a wise old man, serious and contemplative, and the story which I will soon narrate was a divergence from his usual staid subjects. Whether he believed his own words, I cannot ascertain, but to this day I discover that every time I recount the tale, it produces in me a deep-rooted sense of arcane, perturbed awe.
My great-great grandfather's name was mentioned briefly at the commencement of his own story, whispered to me cursorily by my grandfather, but therefore rendering me under no capability to evoke it from the recesses of my memory. Although my grandfather's reluctance to speak my forefather's name was an unfamiliar behavior in a sincere man, it added a mysterious appeal to his tale. To the day of his death, however, I could not elicit that name from his lips again, and his secret was forever buried with him. At least, he had no hesitancy in referring to our predecessor as 'Ajax', or so they nick-named him after the ancient Greek prince of Salamis, son of Telamon. For it was said that they shared many attributes, such as great strength, and hard-headedness.
What truly separated Ajax from other men, back in the age of musket guns, on the continent filled with the progeny of convicts, free-settlers, and aborigines, Australia, was that he was the only man ever known to not ever undergo the slightest fear. Nothing on the face of earth could awake in him a terror-beating heart, or even a cold, dread-filled sweat; Ajax would remain unaffected.
One day, Ajax was swimming in the Staaten river in Moreton Bay, or Queensland, they say, completely surrounded by saltwater crocodiles. When the party he was with spotted him swimming unconsciously amongst the green scaled lumps, they shouted in order to warn him, but he only laughed. The others waited for him during half an hour on the shore, jaws open in amazement as Ajax waded out of the crocodile infested waters bearing a tranquil, jesting smile. It was a miracle the crocodiles hadn’t devoured him, but they say animals can smell fear, and many suggested that perhaps it was Ajax’s lack of fright that confused the animals.
Ajax perplexed men and women as well, but they were quick to shed their amazement and make judgments about him; without meaning to, his undaunted attitude drew forth admiration or dislike from all who knew him. Ajax was always on the edge of a fight, which is why his friends convinced him to join any expedition leaving from Sydney. Although he did not know it, and neither did anybody else, the unexpected impregnation of my great-great grandmother coincided with his departure.
It was a time before the gold rush that devastated the aborigine population, and before the transitory proclamation of North Australia as a colony. Ajax accepted to leave for the north under the command of George Evans, one of the pioneers in exploring the Lachlan river, but the old man fell sick, and the party decided to set-off under James Phillips, whose father had signed the petition to overthrow governor Bligh during the Rum Rebellion.
There was also another curious man in that team named John Bradley who was old, crippled and wore an eye patch over his left eye, where he had been blinded with a broken bottle during a tavern fight. He claimed to possess some knowledge of botany, although he was somewhat sinister and secretive about his past. When asked about his eye, unless under strict obligation to answer, he would mutter and retract into pouring through his mediocre notebook drawings of plants and animals.
Phillips’ party traveled up the Macquarie river, surrounded by marshes, mosquitoes, and flooded land. Reptiles, birds, and frogs thrived in the rainforest habitat which evolved as they drew forth. The trees, thick and gnarled, extended their dense branches over the sky. During the day, a vast variety of butterflies fluttered everywhere; during the night, under the canopies, reigned the bats. The party reached Moreton Bay, and by then Ajax had demonstrated many times his fearless nature. An enormous python had fallen from a tree branch onto Ajax’s boat, collapsing with a great thump onto the wooden deck. The crew had jumped into the water and climbed quickly onto other boats, but Ajax kept rowing for a mile, sharing the boat with the huge reptile, until finally, he seemed to grow tired of the serpent’s presence and blew it’s head off with a single shot. He was the most remarkable discovery the party had uncovered during their journey.
A month later, they returned on another expedition into the Daintree rainforest. From this point on, the story becomes purely speculative, but it was told to me in this way.
One day, in broad daylight, Ajax and another party member stumbled across a large rock sitting on a stream in the middle of a clearing. Kneeling in front of the rock in reverence, was a young aborigine girl- black as coal, lean, with paint-markings on her face, and completely naked except for some woven grass tied around her pelvis. She was in the process of laying a small, wood carved totem onto a depression in the rock.
When she detected the presence of the two white men, instead of running away, she began to approach them curiously. The two explorers waited silently as she touched the mouth of Ajax’s musket with one open hand, since the other remained unexplainably balled into a fist, and as she smiled interestedly. Then, God knows why, Ajax grabbed her by the waist with his arm and drew her close. Within the twinkling of an eye, the girl flung the dirt from her clutched fist into his eyes and fled, but before she could leave the clearing, Ajax, maddened, pointed his musket and shot her in the heart. She fell gracefully, like a doe amongst the scattering of birds.
“My God, Ajax, she was only a girl from the Murri tribe,” exclaimed Bradley, the crippled botanist, after they brought him the totem, “this seems to be an offering to some deity- the aborigines probably believe that depression in the rock to be the footprint of a god. That poor girl probably thought you were gods!” Then Bradley grew somber. “The tribe will demand retribution if they find her body.”
Ajax laughed it off. “Let them come. We shan't bury the body. I am not afraid.”
And they did come. They sprung like panthers from the brush; black men concealed by the night. They ravaged the camp before a single gunshot could be fired, wielding their long, assagay spears with small hooks attached to their tips. Had the party been prepared, a slaughter of indigent Australians would have taken place. As it was, a few were taken away to their black Valhalla, but under the cover of the rainforest, and the croaking of the frogs, it was the white invaders who were for once taken captives.
The survivors were taken in the morning towards a clearing in the woods filled with semi-permanent dome-thatched huts. Women and children, naked, with baskets or nets on their heads and necks stared at them impassively as they filed into a prison pit, urged on by spear-tips. They waited there during days, while wounds festered and many men died. By the time the men of the Murri tribe fetched them out from their prison, there remained only eight survivors, among them, Phillips, Bradley and Ajax. They were fed roots, berries and nuts in order to replenish their bodies. Whatever fate was in store, it appeared they would need ready use of their strength- beyond that, everything seemed a mystery.
The prisoners were made to sit down on a slight hilly up rise, in a circle around a decorated wooden pot. Soon, a wrinkled old man wearing ornaments and paintings throughout his body approached them. He spoke in a guttural voice, pointing at the prisoners and then at the sky, demanding something. As he began to fill a small bowl with liquid from the pot, and then forced the white men to drink, Bradley whispered to Ajax,
"They want us to apologize to their gods." There was recognition sparkling in Bradley's good eye. Ajax only smiled and took the bowl from the shaman, swallowing the liquid in one gulp under the scrutinizing watch of the old man. In moments, he was sprawled out on his back as the toxins began making effect.
And then, without further warning, they were all in the spirit world, in the Dreamtime. There was only land there; flat, colorless land expanding into the distance. And then the Rainbow Snake came, trashing it's body everywhere, digging riverbeds with it's stomach, flailing mountains and hills into existence, life exuding from it's shining, colorful scales. Water rushed in at the Rainbow Snake's wake, as the Sun Mother melted the ice, and the trees grew and changed shape under her touch. Insects, fish, lizards and birds crept out from their hiding places in order to contemplate her, and the white men gazed on in awe.
Down from the skies came Baiame, to teach the fish how to swim, and the birds to fly. But then Ajax laughed, scoffing at the gods, and he plucked one of the fish from the water and devoured it raw. He challenged the gods, and they watched him and trembled, for they saw he had no fear. He was a man as none had seen before; a man like that wasn't made by the gods.
There was a god attracted to this daunting white devil, his name was Yara-Ma-Yha-Who. He jumped next to Ajax from a fig tree, a small red man with a large bloated head and tentacles as fingers. He was a demon, a vampire. He smiled toothlessly and pointed at the other men of the party while looking at Ajax. He didn't move his mouth or lips, but he spoke.
"Kill those men, shed their blood for me to drink, and I shall make you a god, I will help you escape."
Ajax shrugged, the offer was good. He had a jagged knife in his hand, and these men would die anyway at the hands of their captors. First he turned on Bradley, wounding the cripple's only good eye amid a spray of blood. Ajax chuckled.
"Now you are blind." he said, and he moved against the others. They were paralyzed with fear, it was an easy slaughter. Blood danced everywhere and showered on Ajax's body. He bathed in the red fluid, swinging his knife everywhere, whirling and hacking in ecstasy. When he was done, six men lay dead, their life seeping and bubbling from the incisions on their neck, wrists, and chest. Yara-Ma-Yha-Who drank eagerly from them.
Bradley was clutching his eye with one hand and calling for help from the gods with the other.
"Grant me a weapon!" he cried, and Baiame, taking pity upon him, made a mirror appear inside his fist. Bradley swung it blindly as Ajax approached from behind.
"What can a blind man do against me, armed only with a mirror?" laughed Ajax. Had it been a giant with a spear as tall as the sky, he would have laughed. But the mirror was a magic one, it had the power to portray men and women as they truly are, and then change them into that image.
Suddenly Bradley turned to confront Ajax; a small, crippled man pointing the face of a mirror towards the red large man soaked in blood. Bradley's eye patch was lifted, revealing an eye in perfect condition that watched Ajax's every movement. For a moment, Ajax was surprised by the old man's trickery, but then he looked at the mirror and stared at a blank image without a reflection, like that of a vampire's.
As he began to laugh, he became nothing, as the mirror indicated. His laughter was carried away by the wind into the land of no-existence.
"A man who doesn't fear cannot see himself as a blind man does." muttered Bradley.
A man without fear is not a man, he is a paradox. A man without fear is nobody and nothing, that is why the mirror showed him that reflection, and Ajax was carried into the land of no return.
Last edited by Chinaren on Mon Aug 20, 2007 5:54 pm; edited 1 time in total
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| Posted: Mon Aug 20, 2007 5:53 pm Post subject: Entry 6 - The Cellar. |
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The Cellar.
The endless ticking of the clock on the wall echoes through the night like a metronome counting down the seconds until he comes to me again.
The rope around my wrists chafes and as I struggle to free myself I once again open up the raw wounds and blood flows freely along my fingers.
Tied as tight as possible the blindfold lets through no light. It keeps me in the dark, a sanctuary of sorts against the horror that would pervade my senses if I could see. My naked flesh has long grown numb to the piercing cold of the flagstones and my bound ankles are beyond numb they have reached a state of deadness that will only serve to cause me further pain when he once again forces me to part my thighs.
The steps that signal his coming reverberate through my prison, the mistimed steps followed by a dragging scuffle.
Thud, thud, pause, and scrape. Thud, thud, pause, and scrape.
My senses are wound tight, my ears stretching to hear through the thick walls and give me a sense of how far now, how long.
My pulse speeds up and I remember the last time he came. The smell of blood, the torn ragged flesh I could feel beneath my fingers, the smell of sex that had permeated my being.
The door opens with a click and I wait patiently for the next sound that will herald my sight being freed. The strike of a match, a soft whooshing sound as the smell of kerosene fills the air.
‘It is time..’
Three small words that mean so much and my pulse speeds up, adrenalins rushing through my body and leaving me dizzy. The anticipation is heightened still further with the next sounds.
The scrape of a chair across the floor, the unzipping of a bag of some kind and the rustling of material being peeled away.
Twenty-four hours of sensory deprivation, the burning of my flesh and the thought of what is to come leaves me trembling. My bladder grows full in the time it takes for him to next speak, and it releases itself in a gush down my leg, the warmth of it returning some feeling to my buttocks and also causing the welts to burn anew.
The shuffling of his footsteps moves closer to me until I can almost feel the change in room temperature caused by his proximity. My breath flows in short, sharp gasps, and its all I can do to contain my whimpers.
The touch of leather on my shoulders tells me that today he is wearing his favourite gloves. The meaty smell of flesh on them is so familiar now and I can barely remember back to a time when I haven’t known it. The only visual image I have had of him recently is those soft, brown leather gloves holding me by the waist.
He only ever stands behind me and guides me with his rough touch. Directing me to where I need to be and giving me the little freedom necessary to go about my tasks.
This time he hauls me to my feet unceremoniously and the pain of pins flies through my flesh as my weak limbs take the strain. He fumbles briefly with the knot around my wrists and I am unbound, my hands scrabble for the blindfold and I fling it to the floor, eyes screwed tightly shut.
Gingerly I open them and the light invades my retinas. As my vision adjusts he steps behind me and turns me to face out of my corner and into the centre of the room.
The light sways gently in an invisible breeze and the shadows stretch large on the wall. The rough wooden shelves on either side of me hold macabre and archaic instruments, long rusted with copious use and crusted dried blood.
‘It is time..’
Again those words, to think that they could seem so meek and yet mean that a whole world of pain was going to become reality.
He makes me choose the instrument. Taking in the rows of devices I opt for one that is on the top shelf and buried in shadows. It looks fairly new and its use is unknown to me.
Guiding me by the arm and catching me when I falter, he pushes me forward and we move beyond a curtain made of hessian. The potato sack material rubs roughly against my tender flesh and I shudder.
The bed beyond the curtain is a welcome site, its soft downy pillows cry out to me of the only comfort I know. One hour out of every 24 is spent nestled softly in them.
The blood will soon flow freely and harden on the white sheets then I will back to my corner again, waiting. The brief respite between acts is spent running my finger tips along the satin and enjoying the almost sensual pleasure of them against my bruised flesh.
No matter how pleasurable the experience between the sheets he takes the rod to me, whipping against my flesh repeatedly until it breaks and I can no longer cry out for the pain of it. The cool fresh sheets offer comfort in advance and I snuggle down between them, waiting.
Forcing aside the curtain a figure drunkenly stumbles through and falls on the bottom of the bed, a tangled heap of limbs with no discernible start or finish.
A face looks up at me, smiling lopsidedly his brown eyes pierce mine and the heart in my chest skips a beat.
‘Why, hey there little one, could you be any more than 15?’ He asks with a slight nervous giggle.
I shake my head and peer at him, trying to memorise his face so I can add it to the list.
‘Little Darling, would you like to show your Uncle Ben a few of the tricks you have learnt?’ he raises himself up into a sitting position and runs a hair through his grey hair.
I look up towards the curtain and see a gloved hand pulling it closed. With a sigh I realise it is time to begin.
Getting on all fours I crawl down the bed towards Ben and lower my naked body into his lap. Wrapping my legs around his torso I pull at his buttons until one by one they fall open and the taut flesh of his stomach is revealed to me.
Raising me up with one hand, he unzips and plunges inside of me, mercilessly tearing at my tender flesh. His eyes grow hooded and he throws his head back slightly. I sit mesmerised, watching his pulse thud below the flesh. I can’t resist the temptation and reach forward to lick the length of his neck with my tongue, tickling, caressing and tasting the salt of his skin.
He groans and reaches behind me, taking up the instrument I have chosen. He laughs out loud at what is in his hand.
‘My, what a choice, I never thought you would have one of these...’ his mirth spills through into his words and its all there on his face, plain as day, just what he means to do to me.
He holds the end of the instrument, it is long with a handle like a corkscrew and what appear to be the blades of scissors. Lying me back on the bed, he turns the handles and the blades open and close like a pair of razor sharp teeth in a rusty red mouth.
Spreading my legs he makes as if to plunge them inside of me, deep into the core of my being.
It is then that I rise, Emerging from the depths of my moist inner sanctum, my true self emerges with a roar. The mouth, that feeds me what I need, screams wide and grabs hold of his member. Chewing noisily it eats, dining on the flesh in front of it.
It continues on until I throw my head back in orgasm. The perfect harmony of what we have done is to much for me, my juices flowing freely.
The brown leather gloves appear wound the corner and switching off the lamp they descend on me with the steel rod. Flipping me onto my face, he begins to break my flesh, over and over, until once more I cry out with my need and leather hands wrap the blindfold tightly over my flesh.
Tears choke his voice as he leads me back to his corner. My father, my creator, tormented by what he has created and what he loves.
‘Thank you daughter. Men such as these deserve pain for their sins. I shall have my retribution at any cost.’
The door closes behind him and I am left to reflect, once again, on my creation. A sinner to kill those who sin.
Divine retribution?
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Sat Sep 01, 2007 12:52 am Post subject: |
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I will be closing this competition to entries when I return from my holiday, which is about 3 days from now.
Thus, if you want to enter, hurry up!
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Tue Sep 04, 2007 10:25 pm Post subject: |
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Very well, the competition is now closed to entries.
Please vote on the work you like the most!
The poll is up on a timer for seven days only! The winner will get 1,000Fables, and second place will get 200Fables from the pot of 1,200.
Good luck!
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D-Lotus
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| Posted: Wed Sep 05, 2007 6:22 pm Post subject: |
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That's a lot of pot. 
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 Chapter 5: The Rendezvous 
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Thu Sep 06, 2007 10:05 pm Post subject: |
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Just a quick bump to say voting is time-limited people! 1k Fables is at stake here, so let your choice be known!
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Crossfire
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Location: Somewhere between here and not-here, now and not-now... in the half-light, the borderlands, between.
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| Posted: Fri Sep 07, 2007 1:33 am Post subject: |
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Bizarrely, until I realised that chinaren had apparently posted seven consecutive stories, I never considered that he hadn't actually authored them all. In fact, were I not familiar with SoaP, I would never have guessed at all. This is how my mind works, and why you should always thoroughly read the first post.
Incidentally... *voted for Blizzard* I think I know who wrote it... *stares enigmatically at a certain Citizen*
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Silent eyes decide the wise and unwise - for one that lies. Let it arise.
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JezSharp
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| Posted: Fri Sep 07, 2007 3:01 am Post subject: |
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| Wow, definately a good standard throughout; ok well out of those I felt the most graphically horrific were The Celler and The Blizzard, both of which certainly complimented the genre. I also really liked Beautiful Eyes as it had entertaining horror with a really good plot. Hmmm...well I'm not sure - it's between the Celler and Beautiful Eyes for me - and am going to go with Beautiful Eyes as I'm more of a plot person - althougth I kinda wish I could have two votes here because I'm torn.
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Sun Sep 09, 2007 6:08 pm Post subject: |
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Time is running out for voting everyone, so if you have an urge to show your appreciation for one of these fine tales, stick your hand into the pot of voting quickly. No, don't look inside the pot first, it'll be fine, honest.
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Kalanna Rai
Assassin for Hire
Joined: 21 Jan 2006
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Location: The Frozen North
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| Posted: Sun Sep 09, 2007 10:16 pm Post subject: |
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Considering this is a horror story contest...I wouldn't trust that last statement too much.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Mon Sep 17, 2007 5:57 pm Post subject: |
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The winners, taking 100% of the votes between them, are Zephyr and Rai, both of whom badly need the 600Fables they will get for a tie.
Well done!
The authors have been added in on the top thread.
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Neil Hartley Books.
My Amazon page.
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NeverNeverGirl
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Joined: 18 Jun 2007
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| Posted: Mon Sep 17, 2007 10:40 pm Post subject: |
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Big Congrats guys!!! YAY!
Your shout at the bar yes?
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DELETED
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| Posted: Tue Sep 18, 2007 2:19 am Post subject: |
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Tue Sep 18, 2007 10:50 pm Post subject: |
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*grins* Well I had three of the authors and their stories matched up. The wendigo bit was a givaway Zeph but I loved it! It's one of those legends not much used...like the Skinwalkers.
Thanks everyone. I wasn't going to enter this at first because horror has always been the weakest of my genres. However, Beautiful Eyes was one of four short stories I had done in attempts to improve this.
I had been planning on bringing all four, and several others to IF. Keep watch in Linear Lane for them...they'll be under the Tales of the Twisted.
Thanks again and great work everyone!
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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| Which one is the scariest and bestest? |
| Entry 1 - The Blizzard. |
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50% |
[ 4 ] |
| Entry 2 - Pleasure at Any cost. |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
| Entry 3 - Untitled |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
| Entry 4 - Beautiful Eyes. |
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50% |
[ 4 ] |
| Entry 5 - The Australian Fearless |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
| Entry 6 - The cellar. |
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0% |
[ 0 ] |
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| Total Votes : 8 |
| Who Voted: Chinaren, Crossfire, D-Lotus, Kalanna Rai, NeverNeverGirl |
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