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The Powers That Be
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 Posted: Sat Oct 15, 2005 8:57 pm Post subject: October Linear Stories Contest |
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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!
_________________
Abduction! is in the Stasis Hall, but read it anyway!
Got a problem? Write to Dear Dotty!
Last edited by The Powers That Be on Wed Nov 09, 2005 10:10 am; edited 2 times in total
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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Sun Oct 16, 2005 4:52 am Post subject: |
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Okay, sorry to rush this one out, but I move house in a week or two and I don't know how long I'll be offline. It's 1118 words long. Criticize and correct it all you like.
Oh, and just for reference, this would have been considered a perfectly adequate English Halloween party in the '70s-early 80's. Believe me - I was there!
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The Eyeball Soup. Later on, people would say this was what had finally cracked the frail psyches of those innocent girls; and, in truth, which of us is equipped to blame them?
The Poynton and District Brownie-Guide Halloween Party had been scheduled for more than a month. There were to be songs, games, trick-or-treating, a trip around the cemetery, prizes, gifts and a more-food-than-you-could-stuff-into-your-mouth-in-a-century evening feast. Mrs. Summers was running the show, and she was the height of ‘Poynton Cool’.
Schoolgirls had even started enrolling in the brownies, just so they could attend the party. It was an event not to be missed.
Then it all started to go wrong. The girls arrived at Hallowe’en Hall on the night, and received a dreadful shock. Mrs. Summers wasn’t there – and, worse – Miss Grayson was! Whilst Mrs. Summers was the reason that so many little girls became Brownies, Miss Grayson was the reason that so few of them became Guides. She thought everyone under eighteen of the female persuasion, was ‘a young gel’. She deplored the state of the world today. She was a strict vegetarian and an ardent puritan. And, worst of all, she meant well.
She. Meant. Well. If there really was a path to hell, those words would be on the first step.
Most of the girls arrived early. As soon as they saw who was running the show, they knew the following things.
There would be Kum-Ba-Yah. There would be charades. There would be neither tricks nor treats. There would be a cemetery – at least in spirit – and it would be right in this room. As for the feast, well, who knew what horrors they could expect now?
Miss Grayson got right to it. “Well, gels, we’re all here now. If you’d like to sit cross-legged on the floor, then we can begin. Quickly now! Quickly!”
Pass-the-parcel. What torture! Whilst other children were out in their costumes, picking up sweet candy and extra spends, the girls of Poynton passed a bundle of newspaper from lap to lap, untying pieces of waxy string to the accompaniment of a ‘Greensleeves’ L.P. The prize was a yo-yo.
A yo-yo.
The agony continued. Miss Grayson produced her folk guitar and forced her unfortunate captives to sing along to such classics as, “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, “Jerusalem” and “Onward Christian Soldiers.” She sang with the fervour of a zealot, eyes closed and swaying rhythmically. As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough, she punctuated the gaps between verses with remonstrations of:
“I can’t hear you!”
And:
“Sing up, gels, do!”
The next delight of the evening was ‘Bobbing for Apples’. A large bucket was filled with water and apples. Each Brownie had to try and grab an apple in her teeth. Ah. The bliss. What young girl didn’t want to spend an entire night with dripping hair and ears full of water? It was only after one of the ‘gels’ attempted to drown herself in the bucket that the game was, mercifully, called to a halt.
The Brownie-Guides’ spirits were almost broken by now, but Miss Grayson’s job was far from done. They had a ‘Name the Nut’ competition, in which each contestant had to guess the type of tree that it came from. Then an apple-peel game, where the object was to throw the peel over your shoulder and read the name of your future husband in its pattern. It was amazing how many of the girls would marry Ununu. They were given turnips to hollow out and cut faces in. Yes. Turnips. The famous Hallowe’en vegetable of choice. Tough to chew and ten times as tough to carve. The girls got through that one by imagining the face of Miss Grayson on each and every turnip.
And what would Halloween be without people telling ghost stories? Those poor, tortured waifs were sat in a great circle, passing a story round from one paragraph to the next.
Now, admittedly, this might have been fun, in a nineteenth century sort of way. The weak link, however, was, as always, Miss Grayson. The story ran thus:
“Once upon a time there was a man on a horse. Now it’s your turn, Charlotte. Go on.”
Sigh. “…and he was riding in the woods one night. Suddenly he heard a noise behind him. He looked around and there was a headless horseman, galloping…”
“Oh, no no no, Charlotte. Remember there are young gels here. A headless horseman! Really! That is far too grisly. Now… there was a ghostly horseman… your turn Emily.”
“There was a ghostly horseman,” repeated Emily, drearily. “And he had a great big gleaming cutlass in his hand, and it was covered in blood and…”
“Yes, Emily, yes, but we don’t want to frighten anybody, do we? How about we make it a long wooden stick, yes? I think we can cut down a bit on the blood, too. Never let it be said that I caused my gels to have nightmares.”
She laughed, a sound rusty from disuse. “Continue, Jessica.”
The story continued – wholesome, dreary and haunted by the spirit of Grayson. Perhaps the most terrifying part was that she ended it, “…and they lived happily ever after.”
“Now for the feast, gels.” She smiled indulgently at her charges. “Who’s going to help me unpack it?”
The girls were hungry; despair could do that to you. Surely Miss Grayson couldn’t ruin something as simple as Halloween food?
Wrong. There were Tofu Treats (confiscated when the girls began a distance-spitting contest with them), Goat’s Cheese delight (nicknamed by the girls ‘Toe Cheese Surprise’) and Fairy Cakes (made with soy milk, sugar substitute and flavour de-hancer).
The worst thing, though… the very worst thing… was the eyeball soup. It was cold. It was grey. It was murky, with scum floating on the top of it. The eyeballs were soggy boiled Quorn dumplings. If Halloween was meant to be horrifying, then the Poynton and District Brownie-Guide Halloween Party had done its job well.
The girls watched in hypnotic revulsion as Miss Grayson filled bowl after bowl with the slop. Woefully, there was enough for everyone. Their nemesis looked around the group, encouragingly.
“Go on, gels. Eat up. It’s lovely.”
It was one torture too many. Somehow, none of the Brownie-Guides were surprised when Jessica raised the cry – “Get her!”
Less than a minute later, Miss Grayson was tied up with pass-the-parcel string, a bobbing-for-apples apple wedged in her mouth.
The girls looked to their new leader, not sure whether to be worried or ecstatic.
“What do we do now?” asked Sue, glancing nervously at the trussed spinster.
Jessica raised her eyebrows and gave a cold smile. “Didn’t they used to burn witches at Halloween?”
Last edited by Shady Stoat on Sun Oct 16, 2005 12:41 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Smee
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| Posted: Sun Oct 16, 2005 5:33 am Post subject: |
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ROFL - very good. 
Damn it...
*wanders off muttering*
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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D-Lotus
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| Posted: Mon Oct 17, 2005 8:55 pm Post subject: |
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Good! Funny! Dynamic!
_________________
 Chapter 5: The Rendezvous 
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 5:57 am Post subject: |
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David’s Haunting
Life may come at you fast, but death comes at you faster. I had expected a quiet repose, anticipated that eternal sleep where I’d forever dream of heaven and loved ones, unmindful of my rotting flesh. Often reality surprises the unwary, and with death even the skeptical transform into the devout. Everything I had believed proved a farce, and what I had rejected held a modicum of truth. For the large part these personal revelations held little meaning, and as time passed I found I didn’t concern myself with the pointless strivings of living humanity. Instead I accepted that I was lonely in death, and shook my thoughts free of the dusty bones that represented what I once had been. I gathered the pieces of my broken soul, searching through the incorporeal plane for remnants of me.
The overlapping of the infinite plagues the finite minds of the living, resulting in nightmares and superstitions. I mused yet again on this realization while recovering my scattered self, searching a boundless expanse for pieces I felt missing. Had I possessed capacity for envy, I would have wished that caring family or friends had interred me peacefully beneath a carved stone containing a sentimental epitaph. I no longer wasted efforts on lusting after what others had however, whether living or dead. Had my remains not been scattered by carrion feeders across this desolate hillside, I might have decayed quietly in a pine box and despised that experience as well.
Irrelevant what time had passed, or how long I had lain and watched my flesh rot…or digest, depending on which aspect of me I consulted. So much of what I accepted in life no longer applied. Unrestrained by physical concepts, I felt free to pursue whatever I wished. Sadly, I possessed no desire to explore, no urge to create or observe a grander reality. Instead I allowed boredom to overtake me, and my thoughts continued to dwell upon that overlapping grey area separating the living from the dead. How easily I dismissed the irregularities in my life, the unfortunate jealousy that took that life from me, and the undeniable wrongness of my demise. Dismissed indeed, but not forgotten.
With the notion of haunting ever-present in my thoughts, I journeyed along the fabric of time, no longer tethered to the loom of the present as the living are. I glimpsed at the frayed ends of the future, malleable threads waiting for circumstance to weave them into the irrevocable textile of the past, but the future did not interest me. Instead I clung to the set fibers of history, and reviewed my final moments of life. Death had been the result of a tragic hunting accident, and from this advantaged retrospect I decided to blame my brother.
He’d shot me intentionally, and then he convinced himself that it was an accident, but even that I could forgive. What I could not absolve was his reaction to the incident, as he’d left me to decay on that wooded hillside of our family’s estate. I found myself wondering if he’d forgotten me and what he’d done, and if his life proved fulfilling and fruitful despite a patent guilt.
Memorizing the pattern of the weave, I copied a discreet portion of times gone by and determined to visit it on the present. At last I’d found a way to entertain my bored self. Much to my dismay however, I found that time still had a way of passing despite my lack of recognition of it, and my brother Joshua had already passed from the realm of the living. I stood over my brother’s grave. The bones that lay below the earth were vacant of any presence, and in regret I hoped that he subjected his culpable conscience to fire and brimstone.
Joshua had fathered a son, and age had advanced upon my nephew, an only child. His only son in turn had sired a melancholy daughter, who birthed several healthy children. Her eldest had spawned two strapping lads, who ironically bore the names of their kin long passed, Joshua and David. These brothers resided on the very family estate where my weathered carcass lay undiscovered in the obscure woods.
Samhain, more so than any other time of the year, allowed the ghosts of the dead to mingle with the living, because at Samhain the souls of those who had died traveled into the otherworld. I had avoided this quiet departure for so long, unaccepting of the inevitable. As with many traditions of man, the machinations of the church had reorganized and renamed this event to Halloween, and the notions of the season had evolved with the passage of time. Although perceptions may have changed, the structure of the season had not. This Samhain I ventured forth, reincarnate and intent to visit strife upon the issue of my brother’s loins.
The trappings of the holiday amused me, with carved pumpkins and masked trick-o-treaters enjoying the crisp air. Colored leaves littered the ground and crunched beneath trampling feet, but my anomalous passage disturbed nothing. My musings failed to distract me from my purpose, and whether appropriate or not I focused on visiting misery to my great-nephews. The lads had planned a fantastic party, and many revelers gathered at the expansive estate around a pyre of wood with intent to ignite a bonfire and commemorate the changing of seasons.
The confections and beverages of celebration held little interest for me in death, as well as the jovial banter and laughter of the gathered guests. Night crept in and my wicked plans churned evilly inside me, as I observed my nephews and despised their enjoyment of life. With nightfall the fire was lit, followed by music and dancing.
I stared enraptured by those flames, the tendrils of smoke escaping into the chill night pursuing a quest for the stars. A much more noble goal than the petty vengeance I had planned. I recalled the traditions of long ago when superstitious people had lit bonfires in honor of the dead to aid them on their journey, and to keep them away from the living. Now I understood why, as I slipped past the stifling confines of retribution and into the promises made by that crackling inferno.
I lost track of who I was and the new purpose I’d constructed for me. I abandoned the intended haunting, and instead ventured towards the stars with the rising smoke of the bonfire. The Halloween festivities continued below me, a distant cacophony of life in which I could no longer indulge. The fragments of self that I had so tediously gathered and maintained dissolved into the void, and with a terrible realization I relinquished my final thought. I should have kept myself.
_________________
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Last edited by ethereal_fauna on Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:41 am; edited 1 time in total
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Smee
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:03 am Post subject: |
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Very good 
_________________
The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 8:10 am Post subject: |
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Thought-provoking! And much less frivolous than my effort 
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 9:00 am Post subject: |
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But I liked your frivolous effort. Very entertaining it was.
_________________
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Key
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 1:51 pm Post subject: |
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OK, here's mine. 1499 words (and boy was it a sweat to get it down  )
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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Shady Stoat
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 2:05 pm Post subject: |
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*groan*
Good one Key 
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The Powers That Be
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 2:08 pm Post subject: |
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Last post was me.
_________________
Abduction! is in the Stasis Hall, but read it anyway!
Got a problem? Write to Dear Dotty!
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2005 3:22 pm Post subject: |
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Excellent Key! Another haunting gone wrong. Some great, holiday-appropriate tales here.
_________________
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Tue Oct 25, 2005 11:07 pm Post subject: Hallows Eve... |
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Well, this isn't really my area, but if you don't try you will never dig yourself out, as the old Zombie saying goes.
So here is my effort. Not quite in the league of the above stories, but I hope it entertains...
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I had always been the sickly kid, teased or ignored by the others for my sickness and gamey leg, so when the kids came to a Halloween party in my house I was really happy.
We were in the dining room of the house. An ancient brick building with large echoing rooms, perfect for Halloween. All the adults were in another part of the house, drinking beer and other boring stuff. No one was near us. It was spooky.
“Let’s have a séance!” said Wilma. She was the ‘older’ kid, eleven years old. You know the bossy type, the one that always takes charge.
“What’s a see-ornce?” asked Fanny, the youngest was only seven.
“It’s when you speak to the dead!” answered Phil, her brother of nine. “You can ask them questions and they answer. But if you are not careful they can take you back with them!”
“I wanna play!” I said. “I like spooky!”
“Everyone sit at the table!” said Wilma, she had decided to do it, so the others went along, some reluctantly.
“We can’t do a séance.,” said Frank, who was ten, and often the counter-force to Wilma. “Those aren’t allowed! I could tell your mum!” Even so, he was heading for the heavy chairs of the dining room.
“Don’t be silly” I said. “Anyway, no one will find out.”
Wilma ignored us and sat at the head of the table, dragging one of the heavy wooden chairs close. My brother said someone died here once!” she said it a whisper. “Turn the lights off Fanny and everyone sit down!”
We all sat down, I was the last, moving slowly as usual with my bad leg.
Fanny did as she was told, climbing on a box to reach the old light switch, stiff with age. It turned off with a loud ‘click’ and the room was suddenly all shadows and darkness. Fanny ran back to the table, and climbed on one of the chairs. It was too big and heavy to move.
Wilma had been busy, lighting one of the great white wax candles on the table.
“Everyone must be quiet and close your eyes” she said. “No peeking William!” she said to one of the boys.
At first there was some nervous giggling, but soon that faded as Wilma spoke in a quiet voice that somehow rang out clearly around the room.
“Spirits! Spirits I command you come!”
Silence.
“Come to my voice!” she cried. “Are you there? Knock once if you can hear me!”
I wasn’t scared at all, though I felt a little weird sat there like that, all in the dark. ‘Let’s scare them’ I thought, so I knocked once on the table. It boomed around the room surprisingly loud in the quiet of the night.
All the kids jumped. Even Wilma. I tried not to giggle. It was fun teasing them in this way, getting my own back for some of the names they called me. ‘Skippy and one-leg’ were only two of the nicer ones.
“It’s a ghost!” whispered William, nearly crying.
“Shhh!” said Wilma. “What shall we ask it?”
“Ask it if it lives in heaven” said Frank.
“Do you live in heaven?” said Wilma. “Knock once for yes and twice for no”
I knocked once on the table, making sure none of the others were peeking. Again it boomed out around the large room.
“Is it true someone died here?” asked Frank.
“Hey, I ask the questions!” scolded Wilma.
“Anyone can ask” hissed Frank back. “Ghost? Is it true?”
The house was an old place, so I guessed at some time quite a few people could have. I knocked once again. This was fun!
“Was it a boy or a girl?” asked Frank.
“Silly!” said Wilma. “You have to ask it a yes or no question.”
“Was it a boy?” asked Wilma.
I knocked twice, I was getting bored of ‘yes’ answers.
“A girl!” squeaked Fanny. She was curled up tightly on her chair, eyes scrunched closed. Even Wilma looked frightened, but she was not going to stop now.
“Can you show yourself ghost? What do you look like?” That was Frank again. Always the coldly logical one.
I knocked once again, one hand covering my mouth to stop myself giggling.
Wilma spoke. Her voice wavered with fear as she did so though. “Okay ghost when I count to three we will open our eyes and you can show yourself okay?”
Another single knock. It was all I could do to stop myself bursting out laughing.
“One…”
I climbed up on the chair…
“Two..”
I crouched ready to spring, this would make them jump!
“Three… OPEN!”
The children open their eyes and I sprang up on my chair as best I could with my leg. "Whhooo" I screamed.
As one they all looked at me and screamed and screamed! Fanny burst into tears and William and Frank ran from the room. Wilma simply sat, as white as a sheet. Then, as Fanny and the others all followed William and Frank from the room, she slumped over and fell off the chair.
That was where they found her when the adults came. The doctor couldn’t find a reason for her death. The children’s stories that they had seen the ghost of the little girl who had died there the year before was met with the skepticism adults always have when they listen to young kids stories.
But at least I had a friend now. Wilma was angry with me at first, but being dead is lonely, and now we will always be together. For ever and ever…
_________________
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Last edited by Chinaren on Thu Oct 27, 2005 1:22 am; edited 1 time in total
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Smee
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| Posted: Wed Oct 26, 2005 10:38 am Post subject: |
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That was very good Chinaren.
Welcome to the competition
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The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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Key
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| Posted: Wed Oct 26, 2005 10:54 am Post subject: |
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| Great story, chinaren! The twist at the end really surprised me.
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Chinaren
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The Powers That Be
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| Posted: Thu Nov 03, 2005 7:20 am Post subject: |
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Time is running out, folks - just 3 days left to get your story entered. There are 4 excellent submissions so far, but I'm sure we can get more!
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Abduction! is in the Stasis Hall, but read it anyway!
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luvd
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| Posted: Fri Nov 04, 2005 6:49 am Post subject: |
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Eek! *sound of scribbling on paper* Hang on, hang on. There. is this all right?
---------
witchcraft: Dirty Old Town.
Like a bridal train the mist trailed behind Greta, moving through the cold darkness and disappearing into the endless night. Like a spectre the old crone moves silently, unseen by the eyes of the mere mortals. The petty masses remain ignorantly blind to what the night has in store for all. For tonight is the Sabbath, the holy night of Samhain, where the walls of the other world and this are at their thinnest. On this night, this dark, cold night of fear and mystery, she travels to the meeting place to see what wonders lay before her and all. Used for thousands of years, the place was sacred to her kind and it was time for the meet. Like a beacon she sees the other two waiting for her around the caldron.
"Hail and blessing on you my sisters on this nigh….”
Her choked cough interrupts her speech. “Bloody hell! What is that stink?"
She raises a bony hand to cover her nose. "That's awful. Meg, you haven't let Gwen make the potion again? You remember the last time, she used her boyfriend’s ‘herbs’."
With great pain across her face Greta moved her hands above her head to do the quotation marks before rushing them back to save her nostrils from the phantom assault.
"Hey!" Protests one of Greta’s companions, a blonde forty-something, "There's naught wrong with me wanting to spread a little joy at this time of year. It's all death, darkness and suffering with you isn't it." She pouts crossing her arms over her ample bosom.
" 'Cept we didn't summon Lord Arawn so he could get Gavin from the social and drag him into the underworld where his soul was going to be fed to his hounds for a thousand years for stopping Greta's free bus-pass coz he spotted her using the broom to get to the bingo, remember," Meg the lean Goth redhead drones in that moody bored tone all teens do.
Gwen turns to face the young witch. "So. We still got to have a good time with the spirit of Jim Morrison." She breaks into a goofy smile.
Greta interrupts Gwen's happy memory. "That wasn't Jim bloody Morrison, that was your boyfriend who wandered down here looking for his stash…And it wasn't good. It was the most horrendous night in my life!"
Gwen casts a puzzled look over to Meg for an explanation.
"She got off with Jim Morrison in Zodiacs nightclub, remember," answers Meg.
Gwen wide eyed, slowly moves to stare with horror at Greta. Meg continues, "Yes it was…most unpleasant. I've seen (and done) what some may say are unnatural carnal acts, but what you did Greta will haunt me forever more. Thank you for scaring me even more than I already am." Meg smiles at the old witch with genuine gratitude.
"What happened to him?" asked the now shaking Gwen, though whether this was due to the idea of her boyfriend in the canal embrace of a 200 year old toothless four-foot-six old hag with a glass eye and more hair on her chin than Brian Blessed, or for the fact she decided to go sky clad on a cold November night, no one really knew. But then again as she was mostly naked during her day and through out the year, which rarely bothered her…or her postman…or the milkman…or the gasman…or the Labour counsellor who was canvassing for her vote in that year’s local election; so it was most probably the thought of Greta and "Jimmy" doing the nasty in the back seats of the bingo/night club.
Greta just looked into the darkness with a scowl.
"That hippy tasted funny."
This remark coursed the blonde witch to hyperventilate and Meg's face to turned white, which was quite a feat considering she was already a hardcore Goth since birth.
"You mean you killed him and stuck him in the pot?" Gwen manages to splutter.
"Of course I did," blasts the old hag. "What else did you think I meant?"
Meg's face grows an evil grin, "Man I am twisted. Cool."
"What did you think happened to him?" asked Greta to Gwen.
Gwen just shrugs. "I thought he was like a wild woodland spirit and moves in and out of our lives like the wind."
"…Well he gave me wind I can tell you. Gave me the squits something rotten." Greta winces with the memory.
Silence falls over the three as the memory of that night and the now dead "Jim" moves around the group like the mist. And like smelling salts the awful odour from before attacks Greta again.
"Phaw! So what the heck is that stench then?" Greta fights back the assault with the sleeve of her robe.
"Well it's either the busted up fridge over there or it could be the burnt out fiesta over there or that manky, peed on old sofa there." Meg nods over behind her.
With rage in her eyes and anger firing in her gut Greta spits, "What! Who dares to foul this sacred place?"
"Oh the Council has marked this place down for the extension to the dump," Gwen sighs, "and I was hoping they would extend the recycling plant. I have about six months worth of old used baking fat just sitting about the kitchen. Can't throw it down the sink you know." Gwen nods, "It blocks up the drains and kills the mutants living in the sewer."
"I quite like the decay myself," Meg remarks, "and it gives us somewhere to put our feet up. Shall we start?"
Greta casts the circle and summons the quarters.
Gwen turns to Meg and whispers to the redhead as Greta summons the goddess and god. "Blooming cheek of it all. Complaining about my potions. If she didn't like the way I make them why did she ask me to do it again this year?"
"Oh but she didn't," answers Meg. "I did."
Gwen looks at the Goth-chick astounded.
"Last time I didn't have my camera," grins Meg as she sees her ‘new boyfriend’, a scruffy, student who had been pestering her at college for the last six months, coz ‘Vampires are so sexy’, coming into view.
"…And this time I've brought Pete Doherty."
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Fri Nov 04, 2005 7:48 am Post subject: |
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Great, another entry. Any more authors care to slip one under the door at the last minute?
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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The Powers That Be
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| Posted: Wed Nov 09, 2005 10:06 am Post subject: |
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Ok, we had five excellent entries in this month's contest. The entries were:
Untitled, by Shady Stoat
David's Haunting, by ethereal_fauna
Petey and Me, by Key
Hallow's Eve, by Chinaren
Witchcraft: Dirty Old Town, by luvd
And now it's time to start voting. The poll will be open through Sunday, 11/13. Don't forget, the winner gets 100 Fables (if I recall correctly - Key, where's the reward schedule kept?).
I will follow Random's on-again-off-again tradition of posting some objective comments (well, I'll try to be objective) on all the stories. I'll do that sometime today. I will also save my vote until Sunday in case it's needed as a tie-breaker.
Ok everyone, get out the vote! (But please, no buying votes - it's just unseemly)
_________________
Abduction! is in the Stasis Hall, but read it anyway!
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CunningFox
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| Posted: Wed Nov 09, 2005 6:52 pm Post subject: |
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All good stories, but i went with chinaens because i didn't see the end coming!
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Just browsing, thank-you.
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The Powers That Be
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| Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2005 9:14 am Post subject: |
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Just one more day to vote! It's still a close race, so get your votes in now!
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OldJoe
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| Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2005 8:54 pm Post subject: |
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I reckon I'll vote for little ol' Chinaren, just to keep the game in play an' all.
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The Powers That Be
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 3:37 pm Post subject: |
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Well, it was an extremely tight race, but we have a winner! And I didn't even have to break a tie.
The winner of the October Linear Stories Contest, with a whopping 7 votes, is Key. Congratulations to our Mayor and King!
The runner-up is Chinaren, who came in just one vote behind. For your second place finish, Chinaren, you will receive, um, a hearty handshake (*shake shake*). Congratulations.
And Key, for winning the competition, you get to claim the Linear Story Championship Belt for the next month (and to run the November competition). I have the Belt right here, and I'll just give it to...hey look, up there, it's the Goodyear blimp!
*runs off in the other direction (with the Belt) as Key looks in vain for dirigibles*
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Abduction! is in the Stasis Hall, but read it anyway!
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ethereal_fauna
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 3:52 pm Post subject: |
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Now why didn't I think of that tactic?
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The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Hyperion
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 4:03 pm Post subject: |
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IT WAS MY VOTE THAT DID IT! MWAHAHAHAHAH! 
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 6:06 pm Post subject: |
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Crickey, I had forgotten all about this thread*! Congratulations Key! And thank-you for those that voted for me! I am amazed mine had so many votes.
Damn! Second again!! 
*Shouldn't this be in the Audeetoreeum?
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Key
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 6:55 pm Post subject: |
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*chases after Powers, tackles him, and wrestles the belt away after a prolonged and bloody fight *
YES! I WIN!
I mean, um, oh, I'd forgotten all about this thread, too. Did that little story I tossed off win an award? That's nice.
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Smee
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| Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 10:13 pm Post subject: |
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Lol Key, a wonderful start to your month of bragging rights - I guess with your holiday sucking up a lot of it you have to make the most of it now.
| Quote: | | Shouldn't this be in the Audeetoreeum? |
It was created unofficially many moons ago, but I guess now that it has an official title, fable prize and honour we might consider moving it.
However, I think it needs to remain loyal to it's roots and stay in the linear story thread. There are some awesome linear stories in here, and maybe this will attract people to come in and read them.
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The path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic Herd!
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Chinaren
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| Posted: Tue Nov 15, 2005 12:51 am Post subject: |
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MMm, well I was thinking if it moved to the Ordertoreeum then people would be more likely to come into the LS thread, 'cos I think maybe others don't know about this one to come into the thread to read the stories to come into...
<spins around and falls on the floor>
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