Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Writers Contest, hosted by Thoad!

The judging will be up in ether 1 hour, or several hours.

It depends on how lazy I am.

The judging will be up in ether 1 hour, or several hours.
It depends on how lazy I am.

Here we go...

In a sec.

*starts judging*

Ok...

I will do what some people do in other comp threads in this section. If you want more feedback, ask me. But I will give higher preference, to longer members of the comp, and then to higher ranked members.

Thoad's
The door creaked closed as I sat in my bed. I had stared at the doorway for a full 24 hours. As the past 5 hours went by, all I could think about was the occult. The anime/manga series "Death Note" didn't help, what with all the death gods. All I could think of was the concept of ghosts, and how the rumours all added up in my mind.
"C'mon ghostie, come here!" I mumbled under my breathe as I stared at the door. It continued to creak, but that was only because there was some drafts in my house. I had always told my mother and father about the ghosts, but they never beleived me for a second. I bet they just thought I was hallucinating. They didn't believe me about the stalker that was always following me on friday's either. I messed him up though, I don't think he's going to stalk me anymore.
Whoops, I'm getting off topic. I stared at the doorway until I noticed something a little off. Me and my OCD had noticed that there were 5 tulips on every yard of wallpaper on my walls. This time, right beside my doorway, there were 6. I tensed up my arms, the veins in my wrists bulging out.
Getting out of bed, I looked at the wall and touched the extra tulip on the wallpaper. "I know that's you, ghostie" I smiled warmly, rubbing the tulip. "I've wanted to talk to you, you know. I was wondering if you needed some help. I heard that ghosts exist because they want revenge on the person that killed them," I backed up from the tulip. My dyed black hair hung across my face, and my white pajama shirt looked gray in the night. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness from the staring at my doorway.
Just as I was thinking of giving up, I heard a womans voice in my left ear. "Now who told you that?" It said. I jumped, turning my face to "hers". She seemed as if she was made of smoke, but had larger, glowing green eyes (Author's Note: if you read the MW, yes, I do like the smoke and eyecolor ghosts. Deal with it). I looked at her, and was in awe. She seemed like a perfect woman, with a great stance and hourglass shape. Her nose and smile were so cute, and she was about my age. I swallowed the build up of spit in my mouth, and other things were taking me over. Hormones, perhaps.
Before I could touch her hands and exclaim I loved her, she grabbed my face and put me against the wall. "Beleive it or not, ghosts just wanna have fun!" She chuckled, leaning in closer to me as I was pinned to the wall. "Wanna know how we do that?" she asked me.
I smiled brightly and hapilly asked, "How?"
"We steal your souls!" She mightily laughed at my shocked expression, when she threw her fist into my gut. The smoke turned into a northern light style of color, and pulled out a blue blob, with a look of despair on it's face.
I had slumped down onto the floor, and blacked out. The next day, I found myself in my room, staring at the doorway. "The hell?" I asked the air, and I tried going to sleep. "No more Death Note for me," I mumbled.
There was a giggle from the 6th tulip on the yard of wallpaper.
--
1st place! I loved it!

Samdawghomie's Story

Ghost Hunter
It was a cold wintry night. The owls hooting only increased the tense feeling in the air. It must have been -15 degrees outside but that didn't bother A.J. The only thing on his mind was the job at hand. As the snow gleamed in the shining moonlight, he sipped on a nice, hot, refreshing coffee. As the warm beverage slithered down is ice cold throat he started to prepare for his chilling task. So, he and his crew got ready to do what they had dreamed of as little kids, Ghost Hunting. Today, they had to go to an old torn down house to rid it of the family of ghosts that lived there.

It is said that the previous family that had lived there committed suicide. Why? This is what some researchers say. It's documented that in 1944 on vacation to get away from the war torn world, they came back with spirits haunting them everywhere they went, mostly in there sleep. They say the reason they killed their self's was because of the spirits haunting them.
Well if were going to get there on time we'd better leave soon, said Greg.

Alright, get ready boys, exclaimed A.J, let's go do some ghost hunting! The drive there was 2 hours long. They drank half of there water supply, and ate about a fourth of the food. Geez guys, stop wolfing down the food. I still haven't eaten anything yet.

Alright we'll stop, but this ride is making me hungry, said Greg sympathetically. When they finally got there they could immediately tell why nobody had lived there. The house looked like it was staring at you, it made you want to run home to your mommy and hide under the covers. The two trees in the front yard looked like zombie hands that were going to grab anyone that dared to step into the vicinity of its clutches. In the back a thick fog covered the battered and beat up earth. You could barely make out the four graves that were there. The house itself looked like a face that was going to eat anything that went inside. Despite the horrors it presented, they went inside.

The interior looked elegant. A huge diamond chandelier set in the middle of the ceiling, with leather couches sitting around it.

Wow! A.J exclaimed, I would kill for a house like this.

Yeah, me to. This place looks like a millionaire estate, said Preston.

Well, we better get the equipment set up before it gets dark, Greg exclaimed. It took them two hours to get every thing ready. Everything is all set and its turning pretty dark out side.

I'm going to go set up some infrared cameras now. When he got there he was in the master bedroom, a prime spot to look for any paranormal activities. It was dark and creepy inside there, but Preston didn't care. He started to lie down on the comfy bed.

Meanwhile, A.J and Greg were setting up in the kitchen with the voice recorder and a couple of cameras. The kitchen had a cold felling to it like something knew they were there.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! A sudden scream came from the bedroom.
What the H*** was that, said Greg, very startled.

It must be Preston. Get the guns Greg, we may have a problem, A.J exclaimed. A problem indeed, when they got in there they were shocked to find a headless Preston on the bed. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, not Preston. Why, why I ask you, WHYYYYYYYYYYY???????

It's going to be alright A.J. We just got to find were he went, Greg whispered. As soon as they turned around the ghost grappled them and ripped the guns out of there hands. They made a big mistake, they forgot to put on there goggles before they went in to investigate. Being defenseless, the spirit slit there throats wide open letting the blood gush out onto the floor, chanting. Never come near my house again!!!!!!!

In fond memory of those brave three I have made bios for each of them.

Name: Alex Jones (A.J)
Place of Birth: Berea, Kentucky
Height: 6'2
Weight: 213 lbs.
Age: 26
Wife: None

He lived in the little town of Berea, Kentucky his whole life with his best friend Preston. Greg was his older brother. His family wasn't that rich in fact they were kind of poor. Money was always low but that never bothered A.J. As long as he had his bike he was always happy. He would ride is bike every where there was to go, and he liked to work out. That's why he's always been very fit. One of the prime reasons that he wanted to ghost hunt was that one killed his little brother Joey when he was five years old. It is his lifelong pursuit to avenge his brother of the ghost that murdered him.

Name: Greg Jones
Place of Birth: Berea, Kentucky
Height: 6'0
Weight: 192
Age: 32
Wife: Julie

He lived in the town of Berea, Kentucky with his best friend Preston his whole life along with A.J his little brother. He had another brother, Joey, but a ghost killed him at five years of age. It took him a little while but he eventually got over it. Greg loved video games. That was one of the ways to get out the anger of his brothers death was games. He mostly liked war games. He worked at a factory his whole life, until his brother mentioned the ghost hunting idea. He thought that it was a nice idea especially considering what had happened to them.

Name: Preston Macintosh
Place of Birth: Berea, Kentucky
Height: 6'1
Weight: 200
Age: 28
Wife: Amber

He lived in Berea, Kentucky his whole life with his friends Greg and A.J. He had two little brothers Freddy and Caleb. He loved the outdoors, mainly hunting. He loved to go deer hunting with is dad every year. His famous line is I just don't know what I'd do if there weren't any deer to shoot, I'd probably shoot myself! He had a great sense of humor. His mom died when he was ten in a car accident. Once his friends told him about the ghost idea he immediately said yes.
--
2nd place. I loved how the two stories intertwined.

Nicodemus's Story

~Berry Pomeroy Castle~

The freezing wind swept up the dry fallen oak leaves, rustling them along the path as the young doctor stepped off the carriage. Tipping his top hat to the driver, he pulled his overcoat around him and walked towards the ancient looking castle. The moon hung brightly in the night sky, illuminating the lake next to his destination.

Watching the man disappear down the stone path, the wizened old driver sighed.

'May the heavens protect you in that accursed place.' he muttered, urging the horse forward.

Doctor Feraz gripped the rusty iron ring on the door. Pulling it, he heard the sound of a cracked bell ringing a solemn note deep inside castle. The great wooden door creaked as the castle steward opened it. Bowing slightly, the doctor entered into the darkness, taking off his coat and hat. His eyes adjusted to the gloomy candle lit corridor quickly.

'Thanks for coming at this time of night Doctor Feraz.' the castle steward uttered anxiously. He led the way down the damp corridor, a dim lantern in hand, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Doctor Feraz was amazed at the place, even more so at the numerous massive portraits hanging on the wall that seemed to glance coldly at him.

'You must have an army of people just to keep Berry Pomeroy Castle clean for His Lordship Mr Harris!' Feraz exclaimed, surprised. 'I suppose the damp keeps them away at this time of year!'

'Aye. But none will stay the night and it's not the damp that keeps them away.' The castle steward answered through a mouth of rotten teeth, hastily shuffling along.

Just then, the doctor stopped abruptly. At one point, the line of portraits broke off, leaving just a damp imprint of one. As he opened his mouth to inquire about the missing picture, the castle steward tugged him along quickly.

In the castle steward's room, his wife lay on her sickbed, pale and shivering. Doctor Feraz opened his black leather bag and started to examine her...

'She'll be fine, it's just a severe case of influenza, and she's recovering already. I gave her a sleeping draught to pass the night.' Feraz said, stepping out into the chilly night. The castle door shut behind him...

The next day, Feraz again arrived at the castle. This time a country girl answered the door.

'Mr Harris is out; you'll have to wait Sir.' She squeaked timidly.

'Not a problem, I'll just stay in Lord Ruthven's library. If anything's wrong call me.'

The library was dusty; no one had entered for quite awhile. Rows and rows of shelves with books untouched for ages stood there. Weak rays of light shone in through the windows. Feraz picked up an old medical journal and lowered himself onto a dusty plum colored armchair.

As the afternoon went by, dark clouds swarmed the skies; a storm brewed, showering the castle's towers and battlements with torrents of icy rain. Thunder rocked the sky like cannon on a battlefield; lightning seemed to cross bright swords with each other. Feraz remained engrossed...

The ancient grandfather clock struck a somber note as the fire in the hearth died out. Startled Feraz arose from his reading and sat up. As he did so, he saw a woman gliding across the shelves. A pure white gown trailed behind her, ancient design on her dress. From her dress, he guessed it was in fashion 400 years ago.

'Excuse me madam.' He stood up. 'Nice to...' The lady ignored him, silently continuing to move towards a flight of steps at a corner. As she past one of the windows, a flash of lightning lighted up her face. Feraz gasped. Her beautiful pale face was wracked in anguish, anger, sadness. Her long dark hair draped to her waist, covering most of her face. But her eyes, alas, they frightened him the most. They were steel grey, no soul behind them. A dead person's eyes. A tortured being. There was a dark stain forming on the dress. Blood dripped from her mouth's corners. The splashing of the droplets echoed, magnified a hundred times on the cracked stone walls...

She continued noiselessly, at one point passing within a few feet of the shocked doctor. Still she gave no sign of seeing him. The only sound in the room was the swishing of her long dress. He felt a cold breath play across his face, like the sudden draught of a sheathing sword. A bead of sweat dripped to the floor, Feraz's mouth twitched. As the woman reached the top of the stairs, she turned around a corner and disappeared.

Feraz straightened his tie, exited the library hurriedly and went to the castle steward. He found him in one of the billiard rooms, dusting the pool sticks.

'A party. Yes, has His Lordship been hosting a fancy dress party?' Feraz mumbled weakly, licking his dry lips.

'No sir, it's been some years since His Lordship held a party at Berry Pomeroy Castle... Are you alright doctor?'

'Then who was that lady in the old dress in the library? She looked so miserable...'

The steward turned ashen-faced, teeth chattering. He collapsed into an armchair, hands turning bone white. 'Oh my poor Isabel!' he wailed.

'Your wife? No that wasn't your wife I saw!'

The old man's eyes were washed with tears. 'I mean my wife will die. The thing you saw is the phantom of the castle. She led a sinful life in this castle 400 years ago. During the English Civil War, His Lordship's ancestor had supported the King. As the Parliament's men attacked this castle, the woman led the enemy in. Years later, when the King returned, she was executed by His Lordship's ancestor. Her tongue was cut out for the crime of betrayal and she was burned at stake. She was doomed to wander the castle forever. Her's was the portrait that was removed and destroyed.'

'But what has this got to do with your wife?'

Old Harris brushed his tears away, looking at the young man. 'She only appears when there is a death in the castle.'

Feraz jumped to his feet, opening the door. 'But your wife is fine! She's in no danger!' he called as he rushed up the stairs, three at a time.

When he reached the bedroom door, he cleared it clumsily, stumbling to the woman's bed. A mysterious wind rushed out as he slammed the door open. The curtains flapped wildly at the open swinging window. He touched her icy hand. The woman lay peacefully beneath the sheets. Nothing moved in the room. But forever, Doctor Feraz swore he heard the soft rustling of a silk dress...
--
3rd place. Nice story, but I reckon Nichodemus could of done better.

Thisisnotanalt's Story
As a child, John Deau was quite unremarkable. Everything about him-his looks, his grades, his athleticism-were average in every way. But there was one thing he was extraordinary at: eating.
As he grew older, John ate more and more. Everything, from burritos to celery to all manners of fried foods, he ate like some sort of ravenous grease machine. Predictably, as he got older, he grew quite obese, and despite the behest of everyone who knew him, he kept eating and eating.
He died when he was 38, from a heart attack. No one was really surprised; he weighed in at a little over 600 pounds, and even "The Biggest Loser" wouldn't accept him because of his grotesque girth. He was always wearing the same giant, seemingly grease-soaked red shirt, which he was buried in. Ironically, the coffin-makers had to make one custom, and he took up four graves. Of course, even in death, his flaming desire to eat was not doused-nothing could, except more food.
It was at that time that his spirit elected to satiate the desire to engorge itself-it took a left turn at the Pearly Gates and just kept going. Eventually, it was back in the city, where it belonged, with four fast-food restaurants per block and a veritable plethora of fine restaurants to ethereally feast. Deau's soul started at the nearest Wendy's.
He floated through the front door and the front counter, and into the food closet. He used ectoplasm to seal up the door on the physical plain, so as to keep the meddling humans out, and attacked the spicy chicken sandwiches.
After thirty-two spicy chicken sandwiches, hold the lettuce, he ate all of the burgers in a culinary fervor.
By the end of the day, Deau's spirit had obliterated the food supply of every fast food restaurant in New York City.
The next day, he consumed every last little bit of fine food from every other eatery.
Yet still, he was hungry for more succulent, fattening food.
Then, he realized that hotels had food too. His first target was the kitchen of a fine hotel.
Of course, the people had taken notice of Deau's ghost seemingly eating through the Big Apple, and they knew who to call: Ghostbusters! So the hotel manager did. The three goofy idiots arrived in town shortly thereafter, and set to work.
The Ghostbusters saw Deau's spirit. Of course, they heard him to, as the ear-splitting NOM NOM NOM NOM was difficult to miss, and one of them took out a horrid device reminiscent of a vacuum.
The force was powerful. Too powerful, even, for a ghost of such viscerally monstrous obesity to withstand. So, needless to say, he gave way. The last thought that crossed his mind was an unusual craving-the craving to stop eating. Deau's spirit was finally satisfied. Fina-shwoop. And trapped forever, was Deau's spirit at the hands of the Ghostbusters. The cruel, block-headed Ghostbusters.
--
An entry! Yay!!!

This is an ok story, but it never hit it of with me. But I love entries!

Unlimitedpower's Story

Rain
The wind blew in the harbor of Nagasaki. Shivering fishermen pull in small nets with little fish, and hunger pains them all. It is the year 2098, and the world is not what it was. Oil covered oceans, barren landscapes and mountains covered with soot. A place where only the rich and powerful can live in pleasure. On the shore line a little boy sat, crouching to protect himself from the harsh wind.

A shadow suddenly passed over the sky. Everyone look up, wondering what was happening. The grey clouds that covered the earth slowly turned black. Then a lightning bolt streaked through the sky. For nigh fifty years no one had seen one before. Only the seniors knew what it was, the rest could only have dreamed of it. A drop fell out of the sky.

It was raining.
--
The reason I used this one, is because it is a ghost of the future, and a ghost of the past. I can't give it first, as it was not really proper, but I will give him an honourable mention.

Next Theme: Sight. Vision. Physical Viewing of something.

Oh and spoonner, sorry, but you hadn't completed your story. If you had clearly said so, I would have done it.

Just the feel. Also, it didn't start well, nor end amazingly.

Not a bad story, but your other story for war, had a lot more in it. More emotion, etc.

Nicodemus asked me to tell him some bad points about his story. Here are a few, and they apply to most short stories.

Some bad points for me? I don't like themes in general, they're limiting -_-

AA T ¶
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 lived like this for many years, each one progressively more mundane and painful.
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."



There you go. Not so much sight as losing sight of something. . .but still.

I thought it's supposed to be actual physical sight?

hmm I might actually try with this theme, although from what I can tell is thoad still hosting this even though he is apparently not the judge? If not then don't you think the name of the thread should be changed?

@nicho: You see, it correlates with physical sight. . .he continues to look around, and still he can find no inspiration. It correlates. . . .

Sight hmm, this is going to be difficult but I will try.

Gone Blind


Nicholas Packard was an outstanding artist. Nobody's art was even close to his superlative, and extravagant art. Some people say that his repainting of the Mona Lisa was better than Leonardo Da Vinci's. He was so rich from selling his paintings that he could buy the White House, or buy out Wal-Mart, or McDonald's, but he wasn't the kind of person to spend all of it on his own personal needs. He loves to help the poor families that couldn't even support themselves. Nor was he the secluded type that stayed in there home with all there money in privacy. Nick liked to be out with the people, and enjoy the world and appreciate all that nature has to offer.
Nature, it's so beautiful. This is the reason Nick started his painting journey. Ever since he was a kid his love for the outdoors and painting increased. Each of his paintings has to do with nature, animals, etc. This is how he got so successful, painting. He loved his art, and if any thing happened to him that rendered his art making abilities he'd kill himself.
One day after he was done painting a beautiful deer, he went to go to bed for the night. As usual his dream was about being out in the wild painting pictures. Every night this was his exact dream, of course the things he painted changed. But he never got tired of it. Some people say that if there was no such thing as art he would have had never been born.
When he started to wake up something didn't feel right, like he was awake with his eye's open but he couldn't see. At first he thought it was a nightmare, but he still wasn't seeing anything yet. He started to get up and then he realized something, he wasn't asleep, he was indeed awake. He had gone blind. "Rebecca!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Nick screamed.
"What? What is it honey?" She asked
"I've gone blind!!!!"
"Oh, your just acting silly, Nick."
"I'm not kidding, I can't see anything! What am I going to do, my art, my fans, all of my life is ruined." Nick said sobbing.
"Ok, don't panic, panic is the enemy. Alright, we need to take you to the hospital, pronto." She helped him up and around the house. It was quite difficult trying to tug around a two hundred and fifteen pound man down the stairs and out the door into the Lamborghini.
It was an exhausting one hour drive to the hospital. For Nick it felt like three years. Once they got there everybody tried greeting him but security kept them away. When they got inside the doctor said nothing could be done because they had never seen anything like this before and it could take years to find a cure. This was devastating news to him. When they got home he started to interpret all that had just happened in the past two hours or so.
"I'm ruined, what am I supposed to do now?" He asked.
"Nothing, I guess." She said. It was late that night and he was dead asleep when he started to wake up. He needed a nice, cold, refreshing, glass of water to forget his nightmare of going blind. There's only one thing wrong about this, it wasn't a nightmare, it was real, it actually happened. He knew his own house enough to get to the stairs. That's when trouble happened. He took one step down, slipped, and fell down the stairs making an earth rattling sound. BOOM! BANG! POW! SNAP! Unfortunately for Nick that snapping sound was his precious neck. He had just died. Now, he said that if anything rendered his painting abilities he'd kill himself. I don't think this is what he meant. Rebecca came running down the stairs and saw his dead corpse and yelled at the top of her lungs, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

653 words exactly. Please comment and tell me any wrong points in the story if there are any.

@samdawghomie: Interesting, a little odd. . .you seem to use a few too many adjectives though (but I think all of us do sometimes :P) and your sentence structure needs a bit of variation. How cute though, that he dies from falling down the stairs your sentence fluency is a bit tired in places, but I'm very picky about stuff like that.

Sorry alt...

Um, the main issue with your story, is that you didn't go out there. Also, it was uninteresting (sorry if you pissed of with me).

If you need help with themes, just fling your imagination out there. I don't care what you write, as long as you can explain the link to the theme.

Oh, and I will begin to judge shortly after we have 4+ stories.

Nich, I need a story. You to Thoad.