Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Short Story Contest: Fear (Page 35)

Btw, the word range is 500-3000 words.

Play, I think that's too shot :/

crap!

i never written that much,ill post mine once i complete it

Btw, the word range is 500-3000 words.

I'm guessing you can post them now if you like.

I never like to be the first one to post, because then I'll end up having the worst entry.

The Little Old Writer

Once upon a time, there was a little old hemopheliac man with no name. He was about 85 years old and he lived in a small hut in the middle of nowhere. He didn't have a job because he didn't need any money for anything, so what he did for most of his life was write words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, and more words until he finished his work of literature and sent it in to be published. This was in the 1800s, so there was not any electricity or technology where he lived. He wrote all of his novels by hand rather than by typewriter because he had very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, neat handwriting. And this was amazing because he had only been born with one hand, so he had hundreds of paperweight methods.

One day, this man's life took a horrible turn when he started feeling pains in the joints of his hands. At first he thought it was just writer's cramp, so he quit writing for a few weeks. The pains only got worse. So he walked 15 miles to the doctor and complained about his pain. The doctor diagnosed him with arthritis. He had no cure for him, because he was a doctor in the middle of nowhere, and medicine usually isn't too good there. He said he could never write again.

The little old man walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked until he got home again. He was very sad because he knew his life no longer had a purpose. He cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried until he heard a noise outside. He looked out and saw a fat man with a mustache approaching. He invited the man into his house and asked him what he was doing in the middle of nowhere. The man said that he was the best doctor in the state and that he could cure his arthritis. The man gave him a few tests to make sure he actually had arthritis.
"Can you touch your palm?" he asked.
"No," said the man. "Can't put my finger on it. Not without excrutiating pain."
The doctor said that all the little old man had to do was use his joints as much as possible and arthritis would go away. The old man said he could not do that because it hurt him so much, so the doctor bent his joints for him. Unfortunately his joints had been frozen for so long that the part that he bent just snapped off. The doctor did not know that the man was a hemopheliac, so he just told him to wait for the wound to stop bleeding and then patch it up. The doctor left and the man suffered. He bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled and bled until he finally died of blood loss.

The end.

Oh look, an entry I just disqualified is up there ^^^

The man was content. Satisfied. Not happy, for he never knew of the thing we would call happiness. But nonetheless, he lived his life and was never sad or angry, for he did not know of these emotions either. No one is his world could tell him what he was missing, because just as he didn't know, they did not either.
He was a simple man, a farmer of wheat, the only in his area. The demand was very high, so many people in his community helped harvest and plant it in exchange for food, but otherwise, he was alone in his fields save for his horses. Loneliness would have destroyed his heart, but his was an ignorant world and they did not know this feeling either. He lived this way for many years, just as his parents had before him, and their parents had before them, and their parents had before them... and so on. His body grew older, and he could no longer do the work that was needed during the time between the planting and harvesting.
And so he ventured into town, planning to hire a young man to take his place, but on his way he passed by the butcher and decided he hadn't had good meat in a long time. Walking in, his legs ached from the long travel. He would have used a horse to travel, but it was time to plough the fields. and he asked the butcher "May I borrow a chair, Butcher? I am not what I once was." There was no need for more then one of this profession, and so everyone simply called the man by his career choice.
"Here, Wheat Farmer, there is a seat here." The same went for the man. The title had always belonged to his family.
He slid into the creaky old wooden chair, and sighed. His bones ached, and it would be getting dark soon. He would have almost no time to find a young man for hire, and the chances of him finding a someone to hire had already been slim. He heard the door open, and he glanced over, but it was only a boy of around seven summers and winters, and he was surely working for his family.
"Butcher... I am sorry. Mother has passed away, and we can not find a way to pay for the food. The food we have left has to last the winter for father and I. May we have lengthen our deal?" The Butcher's face looked as if it was made of stone, but in a world devoid of emotion this was a common look, shared by many of the people the man had seen.
The farmer recognized the boy now. His father was the one that came to the farm to move the wheat to the market and distribute what the farmer owed, but only last year had the boy joined in. That was the year his father had the accident, and lost the ability to do much. His son and wife had been supporting his family ever since.
Hmm... The farmer thought. In his world there was no such thing as generosity, people always paid their debts, no matter the cost.
"Put it on my tab Butcher. Son, how would you like to work for me?" It was not a question. The boy now owed him, there was no choice in the matter if he wanted to pay back the Butcher.
"Wheat farmer, if I were to work for you would you allow me and my father to move to the farm? I must look after him, and after working and walking the long way home I may not have the time or the energy.
The request surprised the farmer. He hadn't lived with anyone in... Well, not since his siblings left to work in town, many summers ago. "Why sure, son. You may use the room I had as a child, and it also housed my brothers, so there is much room for your father."
The boy, though maybe not realizing it, now owed the farmer more then he could pay off before the winter. Housing was not included in working for him, and so he would work many weeks before he would pay it off.

-----------------------------------

The boy continued to work even after his debt was payed. Years passed, and he grew into a strong young man. He found he liked the work and the old man, and he became the new Wheat farmer when the old man's bones became thin and brittle, and his great strength faded. A new age passed over the farm. With each generation improvements in technology and techniques had been made, but the new Wheat Farmer had a far superior power in him, of both his strength and his mind. He became a powerful influence in the town.
When he reached his peak, though, he changed. Rumors swirled. He was mad in the head, he had been kicked by the horse, he had caught some illness. But one day, he gathered everyone in the town and began a speech.
"Have you ever felt something gnawing at you inside? A strange... urge? Have you ever felt like something was not quite right? A thought swirling around in your head? Something avoiding detection, something you just can't put your finger on?" People stared at him. They didn't understand what he meant. They had never heard before a metaphor. To them a finger was a finger and could be no else. A fish in a barrel was to be sold. A piece of cake to be eaten. Nothing more, nothing less.
Noticing the strange looks on most faces he continued.
"I will tell you a story. A story that is true." This puzzled the people. Of course it was true, that was the meaning of a story. They had never heard of fiction.
"You all know me. I am the Wheat Farmer. I live on the edge of the town. I used to be like you."
"But one day, a traveler passed through my farm. He asked to stay and for food in exchange to work. He was a good worker, quite angry in his focus. But at night, in front of the fire, he asked me if I would like to learn more about him.
Despite my strange stare he continued. And this is the story he told me.
'Back at home, I got a girl. I came here to find a fortune. You see she's got this rich daddy, and he don't want no poor man marrying his only daughter. But I love her, and she loves me. So I left to find my fortunes elsewhere. So I gonna work and work until her daddy can't hate me me.'
"And I understood. At those uneducated words, I got it."
The crowd looked at each other. At those two words, 'hate' and 'love', they felt it. Emotions raged through them. Hate. Love. For each and every person they had ever meant.


So... the moral is that you can't have one without the other. There is no wet without dry. It's sort of a response to Adam and Eve's creation story. With the knowledge of good and evil, there's both. At the cost of feeling sadness, anger, and hate you feel love, happiness, and you have freedom.
Anyway, I don't really like it. At first it was okay, but I wasn't really sure were I was going.

Also, is it long enough?

Well, this kinda sounds like a poem I wrote for the Poetry Contest, but well... Here goes:
__________
Untitled

A car pulled up the drive, crunching the gravel as it did. The driver-side window rolled down, and a stark white face could be seen, staring out the interior. After a few spoken words to a man near by, the window rolled up. The driver went to the house that lay beyond the drive.

All this was watched by a man, a few hundred yards away, atop a hill.

He crawled ever so slowly down the hill, from his hiding spot on the premisise. He took his time, taking care to avoid detection. He took diagnol courses, contstanly changing direction, to alude detection. Burned out cigerettes and stale beer, still laying in their cans, were scatterec about. Obviously left by some bygotten guard, careless after a long night.

He took care to pass quickly over these spots; they showed where the guards frequented.

Soon, he came upon his goal; a scraggly line of bushes adorned by crumbling, lichen covered boulders over looking the property. It was a fair place, with well-manucured lawns, a pond, and a large porch overlooking it all. The moor, where the Sniper was currently, flanked the manor, giving a good view the house, and being able to see down the legnth of it.

Setting himself up inbetween the larger of the boulders and one of the thorn bushes, he began his work.

He calculated wind and distance, gravity and aerodynamics. Anything and everything that could be put into the equation he made a scenario for. If the target came to the second story window? Covered. The porch? Bingo. The pond?

Soon, he was ready. He began waiting. And waiting, and waiting. This was what a sniper ussualy did, wait. He focused soley down his scope, forbidding hisself to be distracted by his pay, or family, he focused only on his mission.

After a few hours of waiting, he knew something was up. Something stirred deep inside him, but it eluded his attempts to seek it. It was familliar, yet entirely alien to him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but...

The sound of a hand gun being cocked came from behind him. He didnt bother turning over to see his killer. A sole shot rang out, but was barely audible beyond the hill; the work, of a silencer.

The dead snipers assailant turned him over, the shock only ever reaching his eyes, never spreading to his stoic face.

"Oh..."

His brother.
---
Bassicaly a story version of that poem...

I am the 10000th viewer!

This theme is a bit too obscure for me. I think I'll pass this round. Maybe I will enter if I can think of something, but I highly doubt it.

Hi, I'm new here but as I was looking through the forum this caught my eye and I thought I would try it out.

Untitled
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"Bring in the next prisoner!" The Judicatorâs voice boomed throughout the cold metallic court room. His brilliant white robe swirled around the less impressive shriveled old husk of what was once a strong man. Military personnel stood at heightened attention as the two heavy laden doors opened with a robotic swish. From the dark room beyond three men entered. Two hulking solider in their usual dark black Kevlar uniforms, their helmets encasing their heads and visors hiding their eyes. They had always looked like robots, cold, emotionless, non-thinking entities. In between them stood what looked like a dwarf compared to the soldiers, in reality he was an average sized man. His light blond hair bounced as he moved while his sky blue eyes flicked around the reflective room nervously, looking more at the reflections then the actual people. His dark orange jumpsuit clung tightly to his un-muscular form as he bent over from the weight of a bulky metal spine that had been inserted into his back. The guards pushed and shoved him towards a pulsating white button in front of the Judicator's pedestal.

As soon as the man stepped upon the orb, it's blinking stopped and a smooth hydraulic noise pushed a large iron cage from the floor. The man stood quietly as his eyes moved across the room more rapidly, like a caged bird he stood compliant but anticipating an escape.

The guards stepped back from the man as the Judicator pushed himself up on his chair to see over his position. His dark beady eyes stared and looked over the man, surveying him as a king would a treasonous subject, though the Judicator was not officially a king. The man simply locked eyes with him and both stared for minutes on end. The Judicator's eyes seemed glossy and the bags under them hung longer than usual but still they stared, unmoving, though the Judicator twitched every few moments.

"I wonder what his crime isâ¦.he doesn't seem like he could harm a fly." One of the jurymen to the right of the Judicator whispered.

"Give the Judicator time and he'll explain it." The other replied.

"Not like it matters to us anyway, we are, after all, just here for traditionâs sake." The first replied frowning at the staring match that was continuing.

"Shh Chris, your already in trouble with the judicator after that little stunt you pulled yesterday. You should've known better than to challenge him." The other whispered again, though the visor he wore blocked out his face Chris knew that he was frowning.

"The charges were false and the consequence destroyed that family. You know it was wrong." Chris said sitting up in his chair, his grey plastic robe crunched against the white seat.

"Regardless, you do it again youâll probably get kicked of jury. You should be counting your blessings anyway, lucky youâre still even on after what happened to your family in Houston."

"Yeah, thank Godâ¦or whatever the governmentâs approved for us to thank." Chris said turning back towards the prisoner, still locked in a quiet battle with the Judicator. Though the prisoners eyes had seemed to of changed somehow. There was something different about the prisoner's stance. He seemed to shimmer somehow, like a mirage on a hot day. Something was wrong, but Chris just couldnât put his finger on it. It frightened Chris, whatever it was, and, in his fear, he fidgeted in his seat hoping for the Judicator to stop his pointless contest and resume the case.

"So what are his crimes?" Chris questioned a minute later, unable to stand the contest any longer. All in the room turned the eyes toward the Judicator expecting him to lash out at Chris for his interruption of 'the method'. Instead, as the prisoner and he broke eye contact, the Judicator withdrew into his chair and looked about the room as if he had not seen it before.

"Silence please." He said timidly, more as if he were asking instead of commanding, and shifted his eyes back towards his desk beginning to shuffle through the several files, looking for the current case file despite it already being in his hands.

The prisoner had as well shifted his eyes towards Chris and, as Chris stopped eying the Judicator oddly still expecting more of a reproach, met eyes with him.

Immediately they locked and Chris could not pull his away. As he attempted to struggle against the invisible bonds keeping him stationary in his seat, the prisoner continued his staring, seeming to peer into the very soul of Chris. He could feel him probing his thoughts, his memories, his very existence and then all at once the room went black. Several non-coherent whispers loomed in the darkness but otherwise there was no noise. Chris attempted to scream but to no avail as the very breath in his lungs was captured and forced to be exhaled as no more than a whisper.

"Hello Chris." The whispers combined into a melodious tenor forming a beautiful symphony of words.

Whereâ"where am I!? He thought

"Still in your seat, listening to the Judicator's dissertation on the case." The whispers began again and with it the courtroom rematerialized. Chris sighed, never so happy to have been there before in his life, and then disappeared once more into the darkness.

Who are you? How do you know what I'm thinking? Chris frantically asked as he was forced back into darkness.

"Well just listen."

The Judicators voice broke through the blackness and echoed in the never ending vortex of nothingness.
"Prisoner 24895, know to friends and family as 'Jonathan Mosin', you have been charged with mutation of the mind causing a disturbance of the peace. Mainly, you are being attributed the spontaneous combustion cases of District 12 and 24." The still timid, almost confused, voice of the Judicator began to fade away.

The Prisoner? What have you done to me!? Chris's mind cried out as he increased his struggling. It was useless though.

"Calm down. I am a friend."

Friend?! Youâre a mutant! A murder! Chris cried again still struggling.

"I am a psychic, not a mutant and I have killed no one" The whispers said calmly.

Then what about your spontaneous combustion cases!

"Ask your own Judicator. You know well enough your government stages terrorist attacks to gain power." The whispers replied as thousands of news articles flew by Chris, stopped for a moment and then left. Headlines of virus outbreaks, bomb explosions, serial killers all followed by more headlines of the government asserting more 'Protective Authorities', making Judicators basically princes in their own districts. This was not enough proof for Chris, though.

"Just think, what would I gain from destroying those places? A shopping mall? A police station? A school? I have no quarrel with the governmentâ¦." The whispers paused, obviously sensing Chrisâs disbelief. "I would not do this; I have a family to think about."

Thousands of pictures flew in front of Chris's eyes. Bright, colorful, life filled pictures of a family. Pictures that included a younger version of Jonathan. Chris attempted to turn away from the photos but they followed him, swirled around him, and imprinted themselves into his very mind. He shut his eyes in an attempt to get away but they still were there, following and forcing themselves into his subconscious. They were all so beautiful yet still something tugged at Chris's thoughts, told him that something was wrong about all of this.

"You of all people should know what it is like to lose a familyâ¦" The whispers continued, more pictures flew in front of Chris's eyes. His family. His wife, so beautiful, her light blonde hair, sky blue eyes so life filled. His daughter, only a year old, still too young to even begin learning the ways of the cold world she had been born into.

They passed and in their place the coroner's pictures came. His wife now burned to a crisp, his daughter little more than a blackened heap of charred flesh. Chris attempted to scream for it to stop, struggled against his restrains with renewed vigor fought with every fiber of his being but the pictures kept coming. Until finally they stopped, coming to rest on a single news paper headline: 'Terrorist attacks kill Houston Judicatorâs family.'

Stop it pleaseâ"stop it!!! Chrisâs mind screamed into the darkness as he slumped over in his chair squeezing his eyes closed with every piece of energy left in him.

"You see how much it hurts. You know. Donât let them do this to me. Please, save me, cut the neuro-inhibiter signal from the Judicators desk so I can escape." The whispers said, they had changed though. No longer a melodious symphony but a twisted cacophony of deafening shrills. Chris didnât notice and as the court room rematerialized once again, he knew what he had to do.

There sat the button, blinking red not two feet from him. The prisoner, Jonathan, still stood in his cage, pleading with Chris begging for him to release him. Chris complied, in one fluid movement he outstretched his arm and slammed his palm into the button. It beeped loudly and was followed by a loud clank of the metal neuro-inhibitor spine hitting the floor behind the prisoner. He stood their smirking. No longer the man Chris had seen come into the room, but more sinister. His pale skin stretched against his bones, his dark black hair matted and greasy, and his deep inset obsidian eyes gleamed of terror.
Terror is what they would have as well.

In a second he had lifted his arms and bent the cage around him, stepping out the guards began to rain down a hailstorm of bullets upon him. They all stopped around him and soon all that could be heard was the click of empty cartridges. He laughed his despicable snicker and then outstretched his arms sending the bullets right back at the guards. They all fell in bloody heaps.

"I want to thank you Chris." He said as he came closer to the bench. Several jurymen tried to run but were stopped dead in their tracks, strangled by hidden nooses.

"I had tried convincing the good Judicator here to release me, but he isâ¦uncooperative." He continued, glowering at the Judicator. He began to choke the frightened man until finally he could no longer hold his head up and it slammed into his prized pedestal.

"You lied to me! This is not what you said you wanted!" Chris cried as he moved from his stand, more attempting to get away from the fast approaching man than to confront him.

"Hm, I suppose I did." He said, lifting his hands above his head. With his hands, flames rose from the every surface of the courtroom and began to burn it to the ground. The metal groaned and twisted in a horrible screeching sound, Chris tried to cover his ears.

"Sounds bad does it? Kind of like those hundreds of children I burned in the school. That was a good day." He said kicking Chris to the floor, laughing wildly as he did it.

"You lied!" Chris repeated again, struggling to pull himself away from the mad man.

"I know." The man said no longer laughing, pulling Chris across the floor back towards him without even touching him. The dark scowl on his face more frightening than anything else. Jonathan smiled one last time and then snapped his fingers. Chris's neck broke under the force of Jonathan's mind. He stood smiling and then finally, after a moment of taking in his own handiwork, sauntered out of the same hydraulic doors he had came in, whistling all the way.

About 1,958 words.

JUDGE-TIEM!!!!!11!!!1!!!

Awrite, this contest was a bit too long-winded. So, judgey-time.

Bronze Medal

It goes to . . . . .

Sois!

I liked your storyline - it seemed complete, and I liked how it represented the theme. What kept it from the top spot was the excessive description. Too many adjectives, too many adverbs. It overstuffed the piece a bit.

Silver Medal goes to . . . .

Mav!

I liked yours a lot. It followed the sniper's anxiety well, and the ending had a good twist. Problem, however, is your grammar and spelling. And the betrayal at the end is kinda unexplained. Why would his brother shoot him?

AND THE WINNER ISSSSSSS . . . . .

THYLL!

I was really enchanted both by your concept and execution. It best exemplified the theme, with something not quite there always looming overhead until the very end. It was a surprisingly comforting story. And it gets the merit!


Congrats to all! Especially Thyll!

Deadline: TBD

Theme: Freeze

Thyll, contact a mod for your merit.

Cool.

I've had a good story idea for awhile. It fits the theme perfectly.

Is there a character limit? Or is it like unknown?

Word limit is . . . 600 to 4000 words.

Word limit is . . . 600 to 4000 words.

Good, that's easy.

Well.... >.>

Better start writing.

Tomorrow.