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I worte this for lang awhile ago, i might write something better later.

In the evening, the somber blanket of clouds, like a vaulted dome over the earth, had collapsed, leaving the ceiling pocked with holes. Through one such aperture hanging just above the distant horizon, the golden orb of the sun had pushed, poked, and peered its shining head out to perform its nightly ritual â" laying its head upon the great pillow of earth. As it lowered to the soft, splashing sea, it shook its shimmering mane casting its rays into the dispersing clouds. The menagerie of clouds in their plethora of shapes and forms scintillated, basking in the glow of the dying sun. And, they began to dance. The empyrean eve was the ballroom of the cloud-creatures bouncing and prancing and twirling illuminated by the phantasmal colors of the sunset. In an amorphous dance, the iridescent wisps flipped and flitted, melting their forms in perpetual unpredictable motion. The sun was the rhythm-beat, bursting with fire, throbbing as the opalescent dancers stepped, marched, and trotted to the time. He, the shining, was the life of the party, animating the gaseous gallopers; thus when He died, with His last breath of brilliance, the revelry, the merriment, the celebration â" stopped.

That was a great story 9/10. Very thought provoking and inventive, how were you inspired to write this. And by the way, this might win.

In the evening, the somber blanket of clouds, like a vaulted dome over the earth, had collapsed, leaving the ceiling pocked with holes. Through one such aperture hanging just above the distant horizon, the golden orb of the sun had pushed, poked, and peered its shining head out to perform its nightly ritual â�" laying its head upon the great pillow of earth. As it lowered to the soft, splashing sea, it shook its shimmering mane casting its rays into the dispersing clouds. The menagerie of clouds in their plethora of shapes and forms scintillated, basking in the glow of the dying sun. And, they began to dance. The empyrean eve was the ballroom of the cloud-creatures bouncing and prancing and twirling illuminated by the phantasmal colors of the sunset. In an amorphous dance, the iridescent wisps flipped and flitted, melting their forms in perpetual unpredictable motion. The sun was the rhythm-beat, bursting with fire, throbbing as the opalescent dancers stepped, marched, and trotted to the time. He, the shining, was the life of the party, animating the gaseous gallopers; thus when He died, with His last breath of brilliance, the revelry, the merriment, the celebration â�" stopped.

I like Tengakami's much better

It proves that, large words an long paragraphs are nothing when compared to a story that is clever an fun to write/read.


I may post one =D

*cracks knuckles* Haha, a contest for ME! Well okaiz den. . . .
The Letter
Once, a very solitary man, who lived in a secluded house far away from any other soul, received a letter. This was a puzzling occurrence, as he had no relatives, no friends, and no acquaintances. And yet, there was a letter sitting on his doorstep. On the back, it plainly read: "from someone who cares." No one cared about him. He was an exile. A hermit. There was not a single person who cared....that is, until he opened the envelope carefully. Inside of it was a piece of paper; a very subtle, elegant stationery. It was beautifully bordered, with a serene, floral print encircling meticulous text. The writing was a beautiful cursive font, handwritten with the utmost care, which simply read: "I'm still alive. Write back. Please. From, Sybil." The "L" was finished by a small swirl, which ignited memories from his past. Painful memories. Memories of a kidnapping; memories of a precious life lost to time. Yet with those few, eloquent words, all that was changed. All that was erased. And happiness filled the void, so much so that the man started to shake and cough, his body wracked by coughs of joy. These convulsive coughs shook his fragile frame to the core, so much that the old man could not bear the flood of joy. And so he collapsed o the ground, never to rise again, with the letter slowly falling onto the floor next to him.

:`(

In the evening, the somber blanket of clouds, like a vaulted dome over the earth, had collapsed, leaving the ceiling pocked with holes. Through one such aperture hanging just above the distant horizon, the golden orb of the sun had pushed, poked, and peered its shining head out to perform its nightly ritual â�" laying its head upon the great pillow of earth. As it lowered to the soft, splashing sea, it shook its shimmering mane casting its rays into the dispersing clouds. The menagerie of clouds in their plethora of shapes and forms scintillated, basking in the glow of the dying sun. And, they began to dance. The empyrean eve was the ballroom of the cloud-creatures bouncing and prancing and twirling illuminated by the phantasmal colors of the sunset. In an amorphous dance, the iridescent wisps flipped and flitted, melting their forms in perpetual unpredictable motion. The sun was the rhythm-beat, bursting with fire, throbbing as the opalescent dancers stepped, marched, and trotted to the time. He, the shining, was the life of the party, animating the gaseous gallopers; thus when He died, with His last breath of brilliance, the revelry, the merriment, the celebration â�" stopped.

how were you inspired to write this.

And by the way, this might win.

didnt copy it because it was against the law

The End

It proves that, large words an long paragraphs are nothing

The Letter

I would give this one a 7.5/10, because while it is evocative, your tendency to use triple-compound verbs and so many adjectives that the flow of the prose is obstructed. Also, there are a few incorrectly used words here and there, like "iridescent: means when something changes colors significantly when viewed from different angles, which does not apply to clouds, as they are solid white. Still, this one is pretty good; the way you channel mood is great. But just some constructive criticism.

I like the story and how you masterfully use sentence fragments to create effects. Constructive criticisms~ "solitary" "hermit" is slightly different than "exile" as far as connotation, it creates some confusion as to why he lives alone. ~ The tense of the very last phrase doesn't match the rest of the paragraph, this may have been a rhetorical device you used, but it sounded awkward because it doesn't even match the rest of the sentence. ~ I think there should have ben a paragraph break too.

It proves that, large words an long paragraphs are nothing when compared to a story that is clever an fun to write/read.

aced. . .you never rated my story. . . .

OK, tonite I will submit a new one.

really now, you thought that was my text? it was just a joke mans, come on!

It was night. The buildings were unclear, the air was low, the street was black. It was night.
"Man, I hate night. But I hate day even more..."
The small silhouette dashing through the darkness was slowly advancing to the graveyard. It was a small, dirty place with just about 20 or 30 funeral stones and a low fence that was protecting them. The shadow entered the graveyard, and then started seeking a certain grave. He found it, in the back, next to a tree. Then, revealing a shovel, he started digging. 2 meters below the surface, there was a small coffin that the man pulled out and opened. Inside there was a skeleton. The man took a small finger bone and then buried the coffin back where it was.
"All that done, but the difficult part starts now."
THE END

this is it, i actually cut the original text in half by violently cutting it with a THE END.

the rest is coming...i hope...

sorry thisisnotanalt but i wasn't thinking at the time, and i don't think i was hesitant enough with necromancer's story so here are the scores so far.

Necromancer
8/10

Thisisnotanalt
7.5/10

Tengakami
#1 3/10
#2 6/10-can't rate it more yet but it's still good.

#2

7.5/10 is a score I can live with, but could you please explain why?

Here's another try!
Writer's Block
He sat on his desk, lightly cradling his aching head in his hands. A pen and paper lay beside him, lined with sentences that have been scribbled out. He had been trying to write another story for days; all attempts to start a new novel had been met with agonizing writer's block. He was a triple-A author; having written two Pulitzer novels, and four other that had been honored. His publishing agency was expecting another soon; but he just couldn't think of a single thing. Now matter how many titles he started, now matter how many openings and dialogs he wrote, he just couldn't find another story to sculpt.
He had tried everything; he had walked all day, waiting somewhat impassively for inspiration to strike. Yet none came. He would stare at something, with a steely glint in his eye; studying it intently. He would brainstorm various things. He would write questions. But no matter how much he did to call inspiration back to him, she would not smile upon him again. He had lost her; he had left all of his creativity in a final opus that was intended to be the opening into a whole new series. All traces of her had left him; not a single snippet had remained inside of him.
He had become used to this; living without inspiration was the common thing for him now. Inspiration was but an old flame; doused by the flood of his laziness, a forgotten memory, an ephemeral image of what was. He had been stricken with the heaviest grief; with separation anxiety. But now, his drab life had become the paradigm of his existence. He had sunk into a routine. A routine. A vicious repetition of the day behind it; with nothing new. Every day, after day after day, he just did the same things. He would wake up and fix coffee. He would read the newspaper. He would eat breakfast. He would watch TV. He would take a walk. He would get home. He would eat dinner. Then, he would rinse and repeat the same process thousands of times; with nothing at all interrupting his unstoppable grind forward.
He died a tortured soul; the colors of his personality faded by the washing machine of his inspirationless life, the once-magnificent structure of his literary mind rusted and broken from the pounding rain of his mundane aspirations. He had grown reclusive in his later years, and he had his groceries delivered. He knew not a single person anymore; the only thought of humanity was of that sweet little girl, inspiration. Left as but a single, washed-away footprint on a beach. His epitaph read but this: "Lost was his inspiration. Lost was his life."