Hello, I'm the well renowned Thoadthetoad, who made the insanely popular story, "The Moderation Wars". Now then, I've seen a whole lot of writing contests but they are just terrible, no organazation or rules. Let me just tell you that this is NOT A PLACE to put crappy 5 minute 3 sentence stories that literally anyone could have written. Now then, here's the basic rules:
1. Must not be SMUT. A simple sexual reference or a wink wink nudge nudge is fine, hell, even something a woman in her 40's would read to feel secure is fine, but don't make the characters have ANY contact. This includes: Groping, fondling, HXC (hardcore), anal, buttocks grabbing or sucking. A kiss I can handle, maybe tounge, but don't make it descriptive to where younger users would be creeped out, OKAY?!
2. Story must be within 500 - 1000 words. Please keep it within that so I won't get tired reading, and so that it actually has some structure.
3. You HAVE to have a beginning, middle, and end in your story! No "to be continued" things. You may use the same characters and whatnot, but please do not leave things opened.
4. I would very much appreciate if you put how many words were in your entry. It braces me for it and I won't have to count it all that much. Again, I'd very much appreciate it if you were HONEST with it.
5. This is prose ONLY, no poetry, guys.
6. Must be relevant to the theme, which I will assign every... oh I say 2 weeks would be enough.
7. There can only be 7 entries at the most, because I think I'll die if I have to read any more than that. So if it reaches the cap before the deadline, I'll judge there.
8. No fanfictions of your favorite series unless noted that
So those are the rules, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. I like questions after all.
This rounds theme will be....
Anime
Fanfics are ok, but is strongly unadvised. As I tend to detest fanfics... I hope you all have a good time writing, and I hope some more people come to here instead of the other places. Btw, every story has to have DIRECT link to the theme, even if it's roundabout, I don't care, so long as it's still a direct link from the story to it, no chains.
Judging for this theme was really hard, as the 2 entries (yes 2) where alike in many ways. Both were great, and I look forwards to judging again.
Thoad, this means that you can enter.
In the end, I decided to give Nichodemus first place, as I loved the way that I could picture the image of the story happening, at the start. Alt, you get 2nd place, but I loved your story as well.
Nichodemus wrote this one.
Guardian Angel
The white snow fell on the rugged terrain, covering it like icing on a cake. Lieutenant Roche leaned on his faithful Panzer, a bottle of beer in his hand. As the bitter brown liquid swirled pleasantly in his mouth, a homemade cigarette appeared in his gloved hand. Putting it at his mouth's end, he flicked the steel lighter's cap expertly, lighting the precious cancer stick. The beer had made a ring of white froth around his lips.
The field stretched into the horizon. The golden setting sun pierced the clouds like arrows, Roche bathed in its fading orange light. Good thing he was posted here in Poland. Leningrad was so wintry that your spit froze before it hit the ground. The men there had to have whale blubber rubbed onto them before patrol, or so it was said. Roche shuddered in horror.
He picked up the helmet from the ground; it was bloodied and bent in at a single spot. A sniper bullet's hole. Inside he cursed terribly at the Soviets, filthy beasts, all of them. Whipping around, the muddied ground crunched beneath his feet. Taking a single stride, he placed the battered helmet on his friend's head, for one last time. His friend's gold watch glimmered in the sunlight, his uniform dirtied and crumpled. '**** it!' he spat out harshly in German. **** sniper.
Heinrich had been with him since childhood. Played together, gone to school together, went to the barracks together. Roche recalled the bitter-sweet memories, the pictures flashing past like the black and white grainy pictures at the old cinema. Both had survived the Great War relatively unscathed, teenagers at the time. Now twenty years on, both had answered the Fuhrer's call for soldiers. Patriotic veterans! More like practice targets for the Soviets. Roche gritted his yellow teeth loudly. No more would that quick grin light up Heinrich's face again. All that remained was a grey shell in a uniform, no spark within.
It was all a big bloody mistake. A mistake to let Heinrich go on patrol yesterday. The cursed sniper had spotted his cigarette light, a perfect target that he could not miss. The regret pierced his heart like a razor-sharp sword. A tear hit the snow, dripping from his long thin nose, melting a small hole in the white. A tear of anguish, remorse, torment...If only, if only...
'Sir! HQ just transmitted a message!' a young corporal quipped, saluting Roche.
Roche snapped to attention, back to reality, professional once again. He could not look weak, not in front of his men.
'Right! Let's see what bloody plans they have to get us pass that infernal minefield!'
The wide open field was one of death. For there were landmines under the soil; cruel things that would rip a tank to shrapnel immediately. Roche had seen a battalion trying to cross a minefield before. Not a pretty sight. Blood, gore, eyes and limbs everywhere. Some were blown clear from their uniforms. And the screams, never would he forget those hellish-like shrieks, the last desperate cry grasping at life. Soviets, brutal monsters, every last one of them. Wait till we conquer their beloved Motherland.
HQ's orders were simple. Camp for the night and take a detour across the mountains tomorrow, never mind how hard it will be. An idiot, that's what every last of them were. Buffoons all of them, staying in HQ planning ridiculous attacks, never giving a thought for the men.
Just as he was about to retire into the flimsy canvas tent, he saw something small and dark in the distance, approaching. It threw up large clouds of dried mud and dust. It came from the end of the minefield.
As the truck neared the edge of the ground that was filled with those dreaded Soviet Tavor mines, it turned a sharp corner, plunging straight through, like a confident diver jumping from the platform. Amazingly, it made zigzags here and there, turning ninety degrees at certain points. Roche was stunned, rooted to the ground, his cigarette dropping into the snow. The corporal next to him gulped, boots quaking uncontrollably.
Never had he in his 40 years had he seen such a sight. The driver at the wheel drove confidently, making erratic turns before finally stopping a mere meter from Roche. The engine grinded to a halt, the driver stepped out. He was a young man, a thick mane of platinum blonde hair under his hat, almost covering his bright cobalt coloured eyes. A machine pistol hung casually in his leather shoulder holster.
'Sir, these are new instructions from HQ! Their radio had some malfunction sir.' He saluted smartly, handing a tattered envelope to the still shell-shocked Roche.
'How... how...did you get pass... those...mines...' Roche managed to utter, stammering through his moustache, his commanding bark lost momentarily.
'Well Sir, this wonderful chap helped me get across. Just following his direction and lead. He was wearing a gold watch sir. Walked towards those tents when I arrived.' Roche felt a rock drop in his stomach. His hands trembling, from awe or shock he did not know, as he pointed to Heinrich's lifeless body. 'Is that the man you saw?'
The grin faded instantly from the messenger's face, blood drained from it, his face was shallow, chalky white. 'Yes.' He swallowed abruptly. Saluting quickly, he ran to the truck, starting the engine. He crashed his gears speeding off in the opposite direction. Roche never saw him again.
The last of the evening light faded as twilight approached. Roche turned and look at the flamingo pink and gold clouds. He stood there muttering a long prayer.
The crickets chirped melodiously. The pastel pink skyline turned an inky black, devoid of clouds. A lone star shone brightly, hanging casually in the heavens. It seemed to wink mysteriously at him. As Roche turned around slowly to his Panzer; he swore that he saw a slight ghost of a smile fade across his friend's bloodied face. A guardian angel... watching over them...perhaps...
The tears flowed hot and freely this time.
And Alt wrote this one.
Lukas Laufgruber was a physically fit person. He was muscular, thin, and nimble, his fingers dexterous and quick. His forehead was slightly rounded, and his light blond hair lay on his forehead like inert leaves on the fall ground. His azure eyes were piercing and deep. ***1942*** When the War had gone into full force, Lukas had a strong sense of nationalism towards Germany. He applied for the Wehrmacht without question the day he turned eighteen. Training was relatively easy for him; he was strong and intelligent. He proved to be an adaptive, strong soldier, confident and quick with a rifle, and able to manage the recoil of an MG42 with ease. After he had been through with his training, he was assigned to a SMG team for the capture of Stalingrad. His division was punching straight for the heart of the city, in order to take out the core of the Red Army's defenses in the area. There was relatively little opposition in the bleak city for the majority of the march forward, except for the occasional sniper or small squad. When they went deeper into the city, Lukas noticed a sharp increase in opposition. There seemed to be soldiers in every war-torn building around the squad, from gunners with PPSH-41s to sneaky riflemen packing SVT-40s, and the occasional officer with a Tokarev. They were no match for the Panzer tanks and German weapons. Crisis hit when Lukas' squad reached the core of the Red Army's defense operation. Their rockets were deadly. Weaving in and out of the path of machine gun fire and rockets, Lukas was determined to break the Russian's line. With his MP40 in hand, he deftly reloaded and sprayed blind fire from behind the corner of a burned building. Then, he heard an explosion. The first Panzer had gone down, along with the many people near it, and the second was smoking. Then the second one went down. Rapidly, the situation was turning from good to bad to worse, and he knew it. Sighing, he knew but one thing left to do. He loaded his last clip, and bolted out, firing at the positions that the Red Army had set up. He darted behind cover again, with intense speed. The very air around the defenses of the Russians was painted red with the supple crimson ribbons of blood from Lukas' carnage, and many soldiers fell down, dead, immediately. Lukas rolled quickly behind cover, breathing heavily. He was frantic with adrenaline, and he was sweating heavily. He wiped his forehead, and threw his MP40 to the ground. He knew that there was not a good chance he would survive. Taking out his Mauser, Lukas made one final charge toward the emplacement, firing wildly in many directions. One Russian soldier too particular notice of this Wehrmacht bear charging the defense position. He took out his PPSH, and fired. Lukas felt the impact before he head the shot. Each of the many bullets that hit him had it's own unique macabre impact, wracking his body with rapid flooring shock. Lukas collapsed on the ground, never to rise again, with twenty-five PPSH bullets in his chest and a Mauser to his side.
Thoad, I'd like to judge more. I can judge 'Ghosts' if you want.
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. --------------- Took a quick ten minutes or so-I think it's 501 words.
Nichodemus asked me to list some bad points, so here they are.
I didn't like the ending, because it had not as much descriptive text. I liked some of it, but most of it was average. When writing a short story, your first and last line are very important. (I liked the start.) By that I mean that it was descriptive, but not the main points.
It also had some supernatural power involved, which worked well, but could of been clarified.
Next time Nichodemus, try a action short story, because you could write it very well.
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.
