The Annual 'Let's Liven This Place Up' Writing Contest!

[Darth Marsden]

Howdy ho, folks! It's time for a new tradition! Whenever things get a little slow, I (or, if this takes off, someone else) will start a little contest to try and get people to take action and post again.

First off, let's have a writing competion! Because it's my contest. So there.

The Rules

You have to write a short story of around 500 words. Going over this by a little won't be much cause for concern, but if you go past the 550 mark, you've written too much. You can write as many stories as you want, but bear in mind there can only be one winner for each award.

The deadline is the end of November, so come December 1st, I'll be giving out the following awards:

- Teh Winnah! (Overall winner)
- Side Splitter (Funniest story)
- WTF, man? (Most bizzare story)
- Dead End (Worst entry - try not to get this one)

Right, that's it. Get cracking! I may even contribute a story or two, but seeing as I'm essentially hosting the contest, I won't win anything. Still, it's a bit of fun, right? Right. So get to it!

[Pineconn]

Can I write about Curveball?

[The_Amaster]

Hmmmm...

Coming this December, magic, fate and truth all twine together in a fantasy epic rivaling the Lord of the Rings.

A young boy, in a obsure forum off the edge of internetland learns of his great power...and responsiblity. When his destiny confronts him, he will be thrust to take charge like never before against the forces that want him dead. But throughout he will be forced to confront his inner demons as well, as he faces down a revelation that questions everything he thought he knew about himself, and he'll be forced to come to grips with the dark turmoil in his soul...

And his heart, for the lovely young daughter of a local Mod has caught his attention. But can he balance his love for her with the kowledge of the task he knows he must complete...even at the cost of his own life?

The writing event of the winter, make sure to read...

The Amaster's short story!

(An Insanity for You production. Rated PG. Aprox. reading time 5 minuites)

[Russ]

Yay, a writing contest! I love writing short stories! But I am not sure if I can fit them in under 500 words. BTW Amaster, you will probably win the side splitting award.

[Modus Ponens]

ill do it ill enter i cant wait to show u gys how gr8 i can rite

[Darth Marsden]

Can I write about Curveball?
Automatical disqualification from winning any awards if you do. Plus, I will hate you forevars and a day. So it's not really worth it.

Amaster42: I'd love to know how you're going to fit that epic into 500 words. But I wish you well!

My story (498 words):


The rain had finally stopped, but the night was still freezing. Daniel wrapped his coat tighter and continued to wish he’d never taken this case. He’d been here three days now, and still no evidence that the woman’s husband was cheating on her. He checked his watch. 11:38. He smiled to himself as he turned back to watch the street.

It had sounded simple - watch the apartment that the client suspected her husband went to whenever he met with his bit on the side. But, as always, the reality was very different from what he’d imagined. Three days in a small room overlooking the street. He felt cheated in some way. As if his life were meant for more then just sitting in a cupboard, eating apples and having to go to the toilet in plastic bottles. That was the worst part, by far.

Suddenly, his mobile vibrated. Irritably, Daniel took off his gloves and reached inside his coat to find it. He knew what it was going to say, but he checked the text message he’d received anyway. Sure enough, it was from his client - ‘The eagle has left the nest’. Code for ‘my husband has gone to meet his floozy’, she had explained. Daniel sighed and left the mobile on the floor.

Minutes passed, and still nothing. Daniel reached for another apple. He didn’t really like apples that much, but they were all he’d had time to grab before coming here, again at the client’s insistence. He really was regretting taking the case. It was easily one of the most boring cases he’d taken since starting up the previous year. He’s accepted that not all his cases were going to be like the movies, but would one really have killed him?

As he continued to scan the streets, a black car pulled up, almost out of sight. It took a few moments, but eventually Daniel caught it. Sure enough, the man stepping out was the same one he’d been hired to watch. He reached over and grabbed his camera, turning it on as he did so. Pointing it at the man, he quickly took several shots of him walking up to a door, knocking on it, chatting to the woman who opened it and sneaking inside with her. Finally, the job was done.

Getting ready to leave, Daniel paused. There could be any number of reasons that the man had been going there. He resolved to check the building before turning him over - if the man was innocent, he realised, there’d be no end to the trouble that the pictures would cause.

Making his way to the street, Daniel walked over to the building in question and smiled when he saw the sign by the door. ‘Madame Desiree’s Massage Parlour’. That settled things. The pictures went to the client. Pulling out his mobile and calling a taxi, one question was settled in Daniel’s mind.

‘What do I do with three bottles of urine?’

[Trevelyan_06]

Here's mine. I assure you that it's 500 words. If it seems it's in actuality 538, you are mistaken and a horrible horrible liar.

The sergeant was cold and wet. St. Louis winters could be hell before the Holy wars broke out, and 10 years of nuclear explosions hadn’t helped the worldwide climate situation any. He was busy silently cursing up a storm about the snow that’d somehow managed to find its way pasted one of the seals on his mech, and the fact that his mech’s heater was the only battle damage he’d taken, when a light on his heads up display flashed.

He was the advanced scout for the 47th Illinois Assault Mech Unit, and that flash meant his remote drone had found something. Using the movement of his eyes, he brought up a display of what the drone saw, and the sergeant forgot all about his miserable situation and keyed up his radio.

Captain Anderson broke the connection with the scout sergeant and felt the ice in his stomach grow heavier. It wasn’t that he was scared, or even surprised. They had known that the Holy Inquisitor of St. Louis was going to be moving troops this way and a battalion was mid-range on their estimates. Problem was, his company was in reality an over strength (barely!) platoon. If this new missile warhead didn’t work, his troops were goners.

Holy Parishioner Wiess was cold and wet as well, but he didn’t mind. He had finally made it into one of the foot Hosts. He was only 18 to boot, which meant he could well climb the ranks and even get transferred to the armored Hosts he so wanted, not that he could let anyone know that least he be accused of the sin of greed, or even worse lust!

Wiess’ thoughts took up the conscience part of his mind, whilst the rest of him was on auto-pilot. He didn’t hear the first shouts as the warheads rained down on him, not that it would have mattered if he did. Horrible pain broke his thoughts as every cell in his body unnaturally aged 150 years instantly. He fell to the ground in great seizures, not dead yet but wishing he was.

Captain Anderson wanted to run away, find a dark hold to hid in, and pull it in after him. Instead, he made himself look at the destruction his warheads had brought. Every missile in every mech had been armed with a temporal warhead. It was a desperate move to find something, anything that would stop the Host of the Holy Inquisitor of St. Louis and his relentless drive to “convert” the “heretics” in the areas around him. They’d told the Captain how it worked, a localized area of the time stream was accelerated 150 years along with anything else in that area. He’d understood intellectually what that would mean, but now that it was in front of him and he was sick with disgust. It worked damn it. His scanners showed the twisted corpse before him was 168 years old and that it wore the tattered remains of the uniform of a Parishioner. A rank equivalent to Private in his army, a rank held typically by 18 years, children for lack of a better word. Anderson closed his eyes in dismay, knowing that nightmares would come for him tonight.

[Archibaldo]

This one is a little shorter than 500, but meh. :shrug:

One day a man’s car broke down in front of this little pink house. The man walked up the pink cobble stone walk wand and up the pink stairs. He walked up to the big pink door and rang the tiny pink door bell. Ding Dong. The big pink door opened to reveal a little old lady in a pink house coat.

“Excuse me ma’am, but my car broke down, may I please use your phone?” asked the man.

“Of course!” replied the little old lady. She guided down the pink hall and into a pink sitting room. She pointed to an old fashioned pink, spin-dial phone. The man picked up the pink receiver and spun the little pink dial.

After the man hung up the pink receiver, he walked across the pink sitting room and into a pink kitchen where he saw the little pink lady mixing what could only be pink icing. “The two truck will be here in about 15 miniutes.” said the man to back of the little pink lady’s head.

She turned to him. “Well, would you like some cake while you wait?” asked the little old lady. “I have vanilla or chocolate. Which kind would you like?”

“Umm, I’ll take a piece of the vanilla then.” He replied. She cut him a piece of pink iced cake and placed it gently on a small pink dessert plate and handed him the small pink dessert plate, a pink fork and a pink knife. He graciously took the small pink plate and the pink fork and the pink knife.

By the time he had finished his piece of pink vanilla cake and had a pink glass full of pink lemonade to wash down the pink cake, the tow truck honked its horn. The man got up out of the big pink couch he was sitting in and walked down the pink hallway and through the big pink door. He went down the pink steps and the pink cobbled walkway and climbed into the tow truck. And off they went.

And the moral of the story is, pink lemonade does not wash down cake as well as milk does.

[Darth Marsden]

Good stuff people! Now wasn't that fun?

Let's have some more folk contributing! C'mon, join the party! All the cool people are here, and we're having cake. No lie!

[Darth Marsden]

Ok, bump! Let's get some more people taking part. There's four prizes and two valid entires, so let's not make judging time hard on me, hmm?

[Mitsukara]

In the pitch black of night, it was a bit hard to see, and the lighting in this part of town wasn't all that good; no one really bothered with upkeep around here much. People shooting out the lights on purpose didn't help either, though.

It was a pretty scary place, but then again, she didn't have a lot of safe, cuddly places to compare it to; the most comfortable bed she'd known was the warm spot on the metal floor closest to the engine blocks, with her tired, misfit old jacket for a pillow.

That was okay, she didn't like sleep much. She spent most of her time- hard to keep track of days and nights with no clock and no clear view of the sun, especially in space- working away on said engines, keeping them clean, keeping them running good. She liked fixing things, even if it was pretty grizzly stuff; it was fun, and simple, and no one yelled at her for it. Mostly.

She knew there were good people, it was just that she'd met very few of them. As far back as she could remember she'd been property, and since around 6 or 7- she could only really guess when her birthday really was, or even her last name, all she could remember was "Mallory," not that anyone called her that- she'd been a "fixer", climbing around like a rat in engines doing her work. It was a lot better than anything the other property people were told to do, and with it came the little joy of privacy. Mostly.

And then she'd gotten sick. Who knows what from, she didn't get out much; maybe it was because she barely drank anything, or maybe it had to do with the engines themselves. Whatever the case, pretty soon the 'masters' noticed, and in record time she'd been dropped off with the garbage.

The garbage was surprisingly handy, since they liked to throw away good stuff. She'd built a tiny little shack to stay out of the rain, nestled in one of the many dank alleyways Hole City had to offer. Supposedly Hole City used to be some famous beautiful park, and that a new city had been built over it's remains during the legendary Commonwealth times, but she knew it was the garbage dump of Earth now. It was definitely a hole, and she had her own little foxhole in it. At least it was hers.

She coughed. She didn't bother looking at whatever came out; she knew it was bad.

Suddenly her eye caught a flash in the sky. Lightning? No; it wasn't really cloudy, although of course you could never see the stars here. More flashes. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. She heard a roaring sound, watched as something- something with a lot of blue lights on it- tumbled. Bam! Dust bellowed from somewhere, just kilometers away.

Well, that was the evening's entertainment. She drank a little of the afternoon's rainwater from her mostly-clean cup, curled up in her box- it was too cold to take the jacket off for a pillow- and went to sleep.

She had no idea, as she drifted into unconsciousness, that she was about to find a real home...


--------


553 words, but a lot of them were short and I'm counting "6" and "7" as words XD So 2 out of 3 contributors seems to be breaking the maximum rule. Is there any chance we could treat that as a recommendation rather than a maximum/minimum? :X Also, is there some kind of handy tool I could've used to count? I could've sworn there was a way on the post form to do that, and it tells you how many over maximum you are when you post an epic post, but I wound up counting manually.

[Russ]

553 words, but a lot of them were short and I'm counting "6" and "7" as words XD So 2 out of 3 contributors seems to be breaking the maximum rule. Is there any chance we could treat that as a recommendation rather than a maximum/minimum? :X Also, is there some kind of handy tool I could've used to count? I could've sworn there was a way on the post form to do that, and it tells you how many over maximum you are when you post an epic post, but I wound up counting manually.

A. I think the 500 word rule should be more of a guideline than a rule.
B. Microsoft Word has a tool that lets you see how many words there are.

I might post a story here, but most of the ones I right are made to entertain people 9-12, so probably wouldn't get any awards.

[Darth Marsden]

Yeah, aim for 500, but don't worry too much if you go over a little. Anything over 550 is really pushing it, but I'll let you off this time, Jennifer!

russadwan - C'mon, tell us a story! No harm in it, right?

EDIT: I've edited the rules to allow for the 500 word guideline as opposed to limit. Most people had broken it anyway, but whatever.

[The_Amaster]

Arghhhhh, Darth, why did you have to limit us to 500 words. I simply can't do it. All of my best ideas require more work than that. Can we hold a second writing contest later, where theres no word limit?

[Mitsukara]

Well, while I'd be all for such a contest, for the present, what I did was actually not so much making something up on the spot as telling a very short story taken from backstory for something much longer I'm planning (a webcomic I'll be starting in 200X; super idealistically I was hoping to start this year, but I'm now thinking maybe a few more months on that, so... yeah).

So you could try writing part of something if it works as a standalone mini-story. That's what I was going for.

[Darth Marsden]

Amaster: Maybe. I dunno about future contests, it depends on what my crazy imagination comes up with. The 500 word thing is now just a rough guide - if you go over it a bit, it doesn't matter that much, so give it a go.

Just over a week left! If you want to do your stories, I'd do 'em now, before it's too late!

[Prrkitty]

Ok Trevy. You asked if I was gonna do something for the contest... so I wrote. Not sure where it's going... :)

BTW: 529 words
-----
It was cold as she walked thru the dark dreary afternoon. She knew she had to make it into the next town before it got too much darker… or colder. Her memory of the night before was just a bit foggy as she tried to remember her meeting with Samuel. He was supposed to have given her a copy of the plans for their next mission but someone had gotten to him first. The plans… and Sam, as she called him, were nowhere to be found. Just as she started looking around to see what she could find, she heard movement from behind and that’s the last she remembers. The knot on her head felt huge as she tried to rub some of the pain away. She hoped Sam was ok and in the town she could see up ahead. So she picked up speed and hurried on.

Her first thought was that the town was empty until she saw the light under the door off to the side. The sign above the door read “Sam’s Establishment” and she hoped that was a good… sign… that Sam, HER Sam, was also inside and was safe and sound.

And sure enough just as she walked thru the door and it closed softly behind her, she looked up and there was HER Sam… off to the left in the far corner. His back was to the wall, his right hand rubbing his temple, that familiar rubbing she’d grown to know and understand thru the years. She walked over to the table, leaned down and kissed his temple between his rubbing fingers and then sat down next to him.

“About time you caught up with me Kat. I didn’t think you’d ever show up, even though I’ve only been here about 15 minutes. This drink is only just now helping me forget this damn knot on my head where someone tried to rack my brains up on a wall for their own trophy. Someone knew where we were meeting and I only told one other person besides you.”

My fingers rub Sams’ shoulder as I tell the waitress what I want to drink and then turn my full attention onto my partner, in life and work. Rubbing the knot on my head, “someone got to me too just as I arrived at our meeting place in the woods. Whoever it was hit me hard and left me where I was. I just woke up a little bit ago, long enough to find my way here. Oh and who was the other person?”

“The secretary to the Boss,” was all he said as he closed his eyes and relaxed - I’m sure for the first time in awhile.

“Did they…?”

“No. Thankfully he was stupider then he looked. I thought he was just someone passing thru into town… but I was wrong. Ah well…”

“So what do we do now?”

“Tonight we stay here at the Inn. I’ve already booked us a room for the night, hope you don’t mind. Tomorrow we start the mission and on top of all that we now have to find out who the Boss’ secretary really is.”

[Pineconn]

After coming off of much Metroid Prime-ing, I've finally decided to write this.

Only 315 words, Darth! Happy news for you!

He looked like a fool, an unstoppable madman. His eyes saw nothing but fire; his mind sought nothing but to destroy. Most strangers were perceptive enough to avoid him. When Jamal becomes angry, everyone around him knows not to interact with him. Sweat lined Jamal’s crinkled brow as he stormed through a confounded crowd, attempting to search for the man who has cheated him out several dollars. Jamal scanned his frightened audience of passersby in order to single out the swindler, but he has become too livid to see clearly. Jamal’s blind anger has disabled him from continuing any farther; his mentality seized him. His hot, crimson face clearly showed his confusion as he slumped to the sidewalk, desperately attempting to regain control over his body.

Jamal returned home cooled down. His blue eyes no longer viewed fire; his calm mind no longer sought to destroy. His violet home reflected his domestic tranquility. Very rarely does Jamal even think about hatred in his home, his dojo, his temple. As he steps outside, however, he becomes a changed man; unfortunately, every woman has seen only his hateful façade, which is why he lives alone, unmarried. Not a soul can determine the reason why Jamal becomes violent outside of his home. No one except Jamal.

He was four years old when it happened. Jamal was with his father, mother, and six-year-old sister at church. Unexpectedly, several men wearing black coats, stocking caps, and pants burst into the small church. They saw fire; they sought to destroy. And they did. Nobody left the church alive except Jamal. Traumatized, he slowly learned to hate everyone. He hated his classmates, he hated his foster family. He hated everyone.

Miserable and gray, he died hating everyone. He had a drab and lackluster funeral; six people attended. Jamal's wretched corpse was placed below an uninspiring tombstone, where he was forgotten by everyone.

[Russ]

Is it just me, or is every single story here depressing? Can somebody post a happy story, that doesn't end with someone dying?

[Mitsukara]

Mine didn't end with someone dying; that's assumption. Incorrect assumption, incidentally :) It just calls for a bit of optimism about what all that flashing meant towards the end. Maybe someone was about to find her and help her; you never know.

But it is depressing. I wasn't expecting that to be a common theme though.

I would suggest, though, that you try writing a story still, Russadwan ^^

[Russ]

I would suggest, though, that you try writing a story still, Russadwan ^^

You need to understand, all of my stories are meant to entertain kids, ages 10-13. Or younger. They wouldn't get much praise at AGN. Plus there all over 600 words. There is an around 550 limit. Too bad. :rolleyes:

[Pineconn]

Then don't look at the death in my story. Look at the mood and motifs of each paragraph, like the use of colors or coolness/hotness. Perhaps I'll write another quick story that is more or less funny/happy.

[Darth Marsden]

My story wasn't about dying! And neither was Archibaldo's. I admit, when you've only a few hundred words to use, you end up writing about something simple, but it isn't always death.

If you like, I can finish up an experiment I tried a week or so ago - no dying in that one either. I think. It is a tad weird though.

[Prrkitty]

My story did not end with someone dying and nor was the premise of death. Actually their mission (the basis of their mission) is to save endangered species of animals (that was where my story is going!! <lol>.

I didn't know when I started writing... now I do. Better late then never...

[moocow]

I have a story but it's like, 660 words long...

Some of you may have already read it, anyhow.

[Darth Marsden]

Yeah, throw it in here, mooie.

Here's mine. It's odd, but meh.

Pain.
Pain and confusion.
What the hell had just happened?
She realised her eyes were closed, so she opened them. It made no difference - she still couldn't see anything.
The pain was still there. Where in God's name was it coming from?
Slowly she moved her hands up and down her body. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. So what was causing that dull ache in her head?
Her head.
Oh God, her head. Why was it hurting so much?
She felt around her face, then her hair. Somewhere round the back, there was something sticky.
Blood?
Hesitantly she moved the hand in front of her face and licked it.
No. Not blood. More bitter. Almost... oily?
Dimly she because aware that she could hear something. A sort of... humming. She recalled having heard it before, but couldn't place where from.
Recall? Why couldn't she recall?
The pain was still there. Why wouldn't it go away? What had caused it?
Slowly an image crept into her mind. She was running. Running down a dark alley.
Why would she be doing that?
Suddenly she was thrown to the left. A loud, screaching sound. Almost like... tires?
A car? Was she in a car?
More screaching. Then silence. What was going on?
Then, blindingly, there was light. Lost of it. She reaised her hand to shield her eyes.
'Rebecca?'
She blinked. And there he was, looking down at her.
Rebecca. Was that her name?
'Yes.'
The face smiled. She did too. It was an infectious sort of smile.
'Hi there. My name's Daniel. I'm gonna get you out of here, ok?'
Arms reached down and cradled her. She didn't mind. Daniel seemed to know what he was doing.
She looked around as he lifted her out of the boot.
The car she'd been in had been blocked off by a police car. The officer who'd presumably been driving it was forcing a man over the car's bonnet.
Recognising the man as her somewhat violent ex, it all started to come together.
Daniel carried her past the officer, his face turning towards him as he did.
'I'm gonna take her to the hospital. Keys in the ignition?'
The officer looked up from cuffing the ex.
'Yeah. Don't scratch the paint!'
Daniel smiled. 'I won't. Thanks Dave, I owe you.'
He looked back at Rebecca.
'Come on. Let's get you checked out... and we'll see if we can get them to wash that oil out of your hair while we're at it.'
She smiled.
Everything was going to be all right.
Also - 432 words. And I wasn't even trying to get under the limit. I rule.

[Mitsukara]

The story didn't seem odd to me, and made sense, I think... except two points that confused me a bit. What was the oil, and what does "lifted her out of the boot" mean? Is that a phrase?

And yes, Moo, unless it's a special private thing, so I say go ahead and post it, too (I don't recall seeing such a thing) ^^

[Trevelyan_06]

The story didn't seem odd to me, and made sense, I think... except two points that confused me a bit. What was the oil, and what does "lifted her out of the boot" mean? Is that a phrase?

And yes, Moo, unless it's a special private thing, so I say go ahead and post it, too (I don't recall seeing such a thing) ^^

I take it that her ex had kidnapped her by hitting her on the head with something like a wrench or other tool that was covered in machine oil. As for the phrase, "Lifted her out of the boot", that refers to where she was in the car. See, silly British people insist on referring to the TRUNK of a car as the boot. Her ex had smashed on the head with something covered in oil, put her in the trunk, and she woke up as thankfully somehow the police had managed to stop the man. Or I could be completely wrong, whichever you know.

[Darth Marsden]

Yeah! You tell 'em, Trev!

The whole thing was kinda meant to be from the point of view of someone (Rebecca) with a concussion. Not sure if that came across or not. But yeah, Trev's pretty much pointed out the things I didn't explicitly state.

One other point to mention is that the Daniel from this story is the same Daniel from my other stories. Not sure if anyone else picked up on that, either.

[moocow]

Okay, well, this one is 610 words long. I'm posting this instead of the other one for now. The other one needs some editing, I noticed. So here... I wrote this in high school.


Hole

Exploding, flashing light; tearing pain--

She lay in her boyfriend's arms, shivering and pawing frantically at the blood on her chest. She thought that maybe, if she could gather enough of the red stuff, if she could catch the liquid in her hands, she could put it back in to her body.

"Aimee, Aimee..."

A name. Hers... she glanced up into a face twisted with agony. Josh was shaking harder than she was, rocking back and forth and dragging Aimee's body with him.

"Stop moving." Aimee murmured, but the other did not seem to hear her.

"It's all my fault, it's all my fault. I'm so sorry."

Aimee did not answer, because she was concentrating on ushering some of her fugitive blood back through the hole in her chest, and because it was true. Aimee and Josh were the most popular couple at Madeline High. They were not 'gangstas.' They were not embroiled in a violent East Coast/West Coast feud. Who would have thought that one of them would die in a shoot-out when she accompanied her boyfriend on a buy and her boy's dealer had not liked the way his customer was eyeing the samples?

"Oh my god..." Aimee choked out, feeling something warm bubble up the back of her throat. "I've... I've been shot. I've been..." She cut off, coughing, causing a ripping pain in her chest. She tried to shake her brain free of the fog that was clouding her eyes, but it wouldn't budge. She shook her head slowly, her neck brushing Josh's arm. "What do we do--?"

"Aimee, I'm sorry," Josh whispered, and he was crying. He wasn't helping Aimee put the blood back in her body, though, and the poor girl really needed some help. It was getting really hard to catch all the blood that ran out of that hole.

"Josh, you should call an ambulance," Aimee said suddenly, as her hands grew too heavy to chase after the deep, dark red liquid, soaking the edges of her open shirt. Josh had opened it when Aimee was shot. Aimee had been afraid to let him, though, fearing that the tight fabric on her skin was holding her together. The blood was everywhere, now. She couldn't even see the hole anymore.

"If I call, they'll bring the police," Josh whispered slowly, guiltily. Aimee glared up in amazement. Was her boy, her great love, her supposed soul mate, sacrificing her to avoid the possibility of being arrested? Or was it just that he was afraid of all the negative publicity?

"Josh," Aimee moaned weakly, all of her disappointment, sorrow, and pain running out of her and into his name. "Aimee, I'm sorry. I'll call. I'll call now." Aimee hooked her fingers like claws into the sweat-stained black tailored shirt Josh wore. She pulled, and looked imploringly into her boyfriend's eyes.

"Aimee, don't leave" Josh demanded, dropping his cell phone and putting both his hands on Aimee. "Josh... Would you... do me a... favor... and help me? There's all this... blood... and I... have to get it... back in..." Aimee said, coughing and swallowing as she spoke. "I'll... I'll try." Josh said, easing her to the ground. Aimee grabbed his hand and spoke softly.

"Don't let me die," She swallowed once more. "Please..." She trailed off and Josh felt the weight of her head in his hand.

[Darth Marsden]

Well, that's just... depressing.

Good, though. I like it. Strange how like half of these stories aren't particularly happy ones, isn't it?

[moocow]

That's why I didn't want to post this one. The other one is kinda sad, too, but no one dies, kind of. Oh well. This thread has inspired me to write again, and I'm working on something COMPLETELY different.

[Darth Marsden]

Well, you've only got three days, so get to it!

[Pineconn]

I promise I will write one about Curveball. :toast:

[moocow]

Well, you've only got three days, so get to it!

I won't have it done by then, lol. :p

[Darth Marsden]

Pineconn: You must have a death wish. ;)

Mooie: Oh noes! Tragedy!

EDIT: This edit marks the end of the contest. To see who won what, read on to my next post. Apologies for double-posting, mods!

[Darth Marsden]

Ok, first of all, let me state, for the record, that this was a lot harder then I thought it would be. I honestly wasn't expecting so many high-quality entries. I suspected this idea would crash and burn, but instead we've got some fantastic short stories. Every one of you should be proud of what you've written - it's all fantastic stuff, even if you haven't won an award.

I'm going with the three awards I laid out at the start of the contest (it should be four, but to be honest. nobody qualified for the 'Dead End' award, so I'm casually forgetting it).

For the 'Side Spliter' award, there was really only one choice. Archibaldo's entry was every bit as insane as we've come to expect of him, and is par far the most qualified for the award. His story, once again:


One day a man’s car broke down in front of this little pink house. The man walked up the pink cobble stone walk wand and up the pink stairs. He walked up to the big pink door and rang the tiny pink door bell. Ding Dong. The big pink door opened to reveal a little old lady in a pink house coat.

“Excuse me ma’am, but my car broke down, may I please use your phone?” asked the man.

“Of course!” replied the little old lady. She guided down the pink hall and into a pink sitting room. She pointed to an old fashioned pink, spin-dial phone. The man picked up the pink receiver and spun the little pink dial.

After the man hung up the pink receiver, he walked across the pink sitting room and into a pink kitchen where he saw the little pink lady mixing what could only be pink icing. “The two truck will be here in about 15 miniutes.” said the man to back of the little pink lady’s head.

She turned to him. “Well, would you like some cake while you wait?” asked the little old lady. “I have vanilla or chocolate. Which kind would you like?”

“Umm, I’ll take a piece of the vanilla then.” He replied. She cut him a piece of pink iced cake and placed it gently on a small pink dessert plate and handed him the small pink dessert plate, a pink fork and a pink knife. He graciously took the small pink plate and the pink fork and the pink knife.

By the time he had finished his piece of pink vanilla cake and had a pink glass full of pink lemonade to wash down the pink cake, the tow truck honked its horn. The man got up out of the big pink couch he was sitting in and walked down the pink hallway and through the big pink door. He went down the pink steps and the pink cobbled walkway and climbed into the tow truck. And off they went.

And the moral of the story is, pink lemonade does not wash down cake as well as milk does.

The 'WFT, man?' award was for designed for the most out-there entry. I think we can all safely agree that Pineconn's entry is, after Archibaldo's, the most bizarre story here, and it actually still makes sense, which is what wins him the award. And here, once again, is the winning entry:


He looked like a fool, an unstoppable madman. His eyes saw nothing but fire; his mind sought nothing but to destroy. Most strangers were perceptive enough to avoid him. When Jamal becomes angry, everyone around him knows not to interact with him. Sweat lined Jamal’s crinkled brow as he stormed through a confounded crowd, attempting to search for the man who has cheated him out several dollars. Jamal scanned his frightened audience of passersby in order to single out the swindler, but he has become too livid to see clearly. Jamal’s blind anger has disabled him from continuing any farther; his mentality seized him. His hot, crimson face clearly showed his confusion as he slumped to the sidewalk, desperately attempting to regain control over his body.

Jamal returned home cooled down. His blue eyes no longer viewed fire; his calm mind no longer sought to destroy. His violet home reflected his domestic tranquility. Very rarely does Jamal even think about hatred in his home, his dojo, his temple. As he steps outside, however, he becomes a changed man; unfortunately, every woman has seen only his hateful fa&#231;ade, which is why he lives alone, unmarried. Not a soul can determine the reason why Jamal becomes violent outside of his home. No one except Jamal.

He was four years old when it happened. Jamal was with his father, mother, and six-year-old sister at church. Unexpectedly, several men wearing black coats, stocking caps, and pants burst into the small church. They saw fire; they sought to destroy. And they did. Nobody left the church alive except Jamal. Traumatized, he slowly learned to hate everyone. He hated his classmates, he hated his foster family. He hated everyone.

Miserable and gray, he died hating everyone. He had a drab and lackluster funeral; six people attended. Jamal's wretched corpse was placed below an uninspiring tombstone, where he was forgotten by everyone.

The final award, 'Teh Winnar!', was tough. With so many great entries, I ended up deciding to go for the stories that I was most interested in. This lead me to two choices - the entries from Jennifer and Trevelyan_06.

From this, I re-read each entry again and realised that, while impressive in its setup of a futuristic hellhole, Jennifer's entry was more of a first chapter in an ongoing story then a stand-alone story. While not disqualifying the story in any way at all, it means that, in the back of my mind, I felt that Trevelyan's short story edged it. And, since it's my contest, that's what I've gone for.

The grand winner of this contest: Trevelyan_06, with this impressive piece:


The sergeant was cold and wet. St. Louis winters could be hell before the Holy wars broke out, and 10 years of nuclear explosions hadn’t helped the worldwide climate situation any. He was busy silently cursing up a storm about the snow that’d somehow managed to find its way pasted one of the seals on his mech, and the fact that his mech’s heater was the only battle damage he’d taken, when a light on his heads up display flashed.

He was the advanced scout for the 47th Illinois Assault Mech Unit, and that flash meant his remote drone had found something. Using the movement of his eyes, he brought up a display of what the drone saw, and the sergeant forgot all about his miserable situation and keyed up his radio.

Captain Anderson broke the connection with the scout sergeant and felt the ice in his stomach grow heavier. It wasn’t that he was scared, or even surprised. They had known that the Holy Inquisitor of St. Louis was going to be moving troops this way and a battalion was mid-range on their estimates. Problem was, his company was in reality an over strength (barely!) platoon. If this new missile warhead didn’t work, his troops were goners.

Holy Parishioner Wiess was cold and wet as well, but he didn’t mind. He had finally made it into one of the foot Hosts. He was only 18 to boot, which meant he could well climb the ranks and even get transferred to the armored Hosts he so wanted, not that he could let anyone know that least he be accused of the sin of greed, or even worse lust!

Wiess’ thoughts took up the conscience part of his mind, whilst the rest of him was on auto-pilot. He didn’t hear the first shouts as the warheads rained down on him, not that it would have mattered if he did. Horrible pain broke his thoughts as every cell in his body unnaturally aged 150 years instantly. He fell to the ground in great seizures, not dead yet but wishing he was.

Captain Anderson wanted to run away, find a dark hold to hid in, and pull it in after him. Instead, he made himself look at the destruction his warheads had brought. Every missile in every mech had been armed with a temporal warhead. It was a desperate move to find something, anything that would stop the Host of the Holy Inquisitor of St. Louis and his relentless drive to “convert” the “heretics” in the areas around him. They’d told the Captain how it worked, a localized area of the time stream was accelerated 150 years along with anything else in that area. He’d understood intellectually what that would mean, but now that it was in front of him and he was sick with disgust. It worked damn it. His scanners showed the twisted corpse before him was 168 years old and that it wore the tattered remains of the uniform of a Parishioner. A rank equivalent to Private in his army, a rank held typically by 18 years, children for lack of a better word. Anderson closed his eyes in dismay, knowing that nightmares would come for him tonight.

Once again, every story you guys posted was fantastic and it really was difficult to pick just one as an overall winner. No physical prizes, but if you won an award, you can feel free to place the following sentance (with slight modifications, obviously) in your sig:

Winner of the INSERT-AWARD-HERE award in the first Writing Contest

I'd like to thank everyone for taking part - you really made this contest a success. Thanks guys.
If you have any thoughts about further contests (apart from 'give us a bigger word count', which is a given) then drop me a line.

[Prrkitty]

congrats to everyone for their respective win in the contest :) I enjoyed reading them all... thank you :)

[Trevelyan_06]

Thanks Darth. I had fun writing this and reading what everyone else had written. Perhaps the next contest could be writing to a theme? For example, everyone writes a short story taking place on a space ship or some such thing. Just a thought, but I for one would like to see more of these.

[moocow]

Congrats everyone.

I want to take part in another writing contest. I like Trev's theme idea. How about a story that takes place in a field of daisies?










I'm kidding, sheesh.

[Trevelyan_06]

Congrats everyone.

I want to take part in another writing contest. I like Trev's theme idea. How about a story that takes place in a field of daisies?



How about a field of daisies on a starship? How's that for a theme?:eyebrow:

[moocow]

Once upon a time there was a field of daisies on a Starship. It was full of cute little baby deer and bumble bees all running and buzzing happily. Until one day, BOOM! The Starship crashed and everyone died. Including Bambi.

The End.




I need a beer after that.

[Pineconn]

I demand a less vulgar prize title. :D

Nah, (wha)'tever. Thanks Darth and congrats to all!

[Darth Marsden]

Ok, thanks for your thoughts. Might give it a while before I start it, but if the next contest were to, say, write a 2,000 word story based on a space ship, people'd go for that?

[Mitsukara]

This was a really fun, productive idea, and I enjoyed both taking part in it and reading others' contributions. I'd definitely go for a second one.

Handily enough, if you seriously go with that theme (not so much the daisies but I could work with it XD), I could easily write the follow-up (or, at least, an obviously related story that ties in clearly) to what I was doing earlier (if that would be acceptable; it still wouldn't be a self-contained story, but if I enjoy doing it and it's theoretically interesting, would it still be okay?). A nice excuse- and opportunity- for me to be productive and to test the waters I supposedly plan to dive into eventually. Incidentally, I feel pretentious, rude, and off-topic just talking about that stuff though, so I apologize if I've been rude or BS-y in such statements. A bird in the hand is worth ten that you can describe from memory, and all that.

Also, I completely understand that a stand-alone story makes for better content for this sort of thing, so your decision makes good sense. Frankly I'm a bit surprised that what I wrote was apparently good enough for you to even consider it for that, so thank you for the compliment ^^'

One thing that I found kind of tripped up this contest- not too badly, but it made for some confusion- was what sounded like a limitation/goal for length; I see where it helps dictate and make a good guideline, but as seen here, I think it would be best if it were clearly established as a guideline up-front. Like, an "aim for 2000 words but don't worry too much as long as it's not insanely long or lamely short" kinda thing. Maybe a word limit range.

[Darth Marsden]

When I do the next contest (and I will do another one, as this one was pretty damn well recieved), there'll be a much higher word count, and even then it'll just be a guide to aim for, with no penalties for going over the figure. I admit 500 words was harsh, but it did make people really focus on keeping their stories sharp and to the point, so a kinda two-edged sword with that one.

If you want to continue your short story or link to it in some way Jennifer, then by all means do so. Having a higher word count will lend to a more in-depth and interesting story, and I look forward to reading it.

I tended to encourage people to focus on relatively unconnected short stories because I thought it would help them come up with a brief idea they could just work on, with no distractions as to content. While some people did this, others gave me works they'd already done, or brief passages they created in relation to something else they'd worked on. Hell, I did that twice. That's not to say it's bad... far from it. Just not what I thought people would do.

There's no definitive way of writing stories, be they short or not. It's entirely up to you.