# Post your contest entrys here!!



## Kementari (Mar 29, 2003)

This is the thread for everyone to post their short storys that are to be judged. Good luck everyone!


----------



## Uminya (Mar 29, 2003)

Should the members post their stories as posts or as attached documents, Kem?


----------



## Kementari (Mar 29, 2003)

Um it might be easier just to post them since attachments are sometimes hard to load on some computers, unless the story is really really long. It doesnt matter either way


----------



## HLGStrider (Mar 30, 2003)

*ME FIRST ME FIRST! he he*

The tunnel connected two beaches, going under a rocky cliff. Standing at one end, I could see the light at the other. It smelled damp and salty. There was even a pool of brackish water on the floor, left from that morning's high tide.
I entered second, third if I counted my brother's flighty German Shepherd who trotted nervously at the end of her leash. I balanced upon timbers and driftwood logs, keeping my feet out of the water.
I hadn't expected to go beach combing that day, let along splunking, so I'd worn my clogs: backless, felt cloth, short soled shoes. I had to grip them with my toes to keep them on my feet. I now kicked myself for this, dreading soggy socks and wondering if barefoot would be a bad idea.
My brother, Ben, passed me the dog's leash at the end of the tunnel. She didn't want to go down the fifty degree, slippery slope to the beach below, and Ben felt he had other responsibilities.
"Hold Sally. I'm going to help Grandma," he said. Slowly the eight members of my group, ranging in age from fifty-seven to a year and a half, gathered at the end of the tunnel. Ben reclaimed Sally, and we helped each other down the remaining two yards onto the beach. 
The first twenty feet of the long, narrow spate of land between the tall, red cliffs and blue, pounding Pacific ocean was river rock, though it seemed absurd to use that phrase when dealing with the sea shore. The rest was sand. Oregon beaches don't have picturesque white or yellow sand. The sand is brown or gray and hard packed. Commonly it spends hours a day under water, for these small beaches can easily be consumed by the tide.
There was no one on "our" beach, so we claimed it quickly. Taking possession is human nature. Words such as "ours" and "mine" are terms of endearment as well as words of description. This beach was now ours just because we were the only ones upon it at the moment.
Ben let Sally free, and she began to trounce about, running up to the edge of the surf and daring the water to take her on. On top of my dad's shoulders, my baby sister Kelly squealed at the waves. Grandma was still expressing concerns about the tide. The water at the bottom of our only escape route had made her a little nervous, but upon being told that the tide was going out, she stopped worrying.
We began to walk down the beach. The sun was bright and in that sheltered place the wind was calm. It felt good to be there. Up to that point the whole vacation had been typical of coastal Oregon: rainy. Now it was beautiful.
A large rock sat half in the water, half out, covered in barnacles and pools of salt water. Despite warnings from my mother and my annoyingly inconvenient shoes, I scrambled up, gazing at fossils of barnacles embedded in the rock. I reached the peak and stared down into a foot deep pool of clear water, ten feet below. Suddenly afraid of falling, I backed down.
When I reached the bottom, a wave swirled up and surrounded me. It made my rock a temporary island.
"Good-bye, Heidi," my brother called out.
"I guess you'll have to swim for it," my dad stated. 
A minute later the water went down, and I walked to join them.
Along my way I picked up rocks: agates, polished stones, and any other stone that caught and held my eye. I placed them in my pocket. My favorite was a dark green rock just the right size for me to be able to close my hand around it. It pleased me to no end, and every few minutes, I'd take it out to reexamine. I showed it to my family. 
"I think that's jade," Grandpa commented. 
Further enamored with the green stone, I skipped about in my clogs.
"It is my favorite," I informed everyone, leaping over a tide pool. I wanted to say "Most favorite ever," but I reminded myself of my age and resisted the baby talk.
My pockets were by now very heavy, partly due to my relations having started helping me in my quest for interesting rocks. I started to be more selective though I still thumbed through my stash from time to time. I began to wish I knew a little more about geology. I wondered if my green stone was really jade and if there was a chance that the yellow-orange one was amber. I thought many things.
"Hey, look at this." Ben presented me with a label-less, plastic bottle.
"Does it have a message in it?" I asked hopefully.
"No," he scoffed. "Look at the cap." I took it for thorough investigation. To my amazement the letters on the top were not English but Japanese. It wasn't a message, but it was similar. This bottle had once been way on the other side of the ocean, far away. I held it tight. Perhaps I could put a message in it. . .perhaps I could put my name and e-mail address in it and someday when someone found it I would get it back. . .perhaps it would make it all the way back to Japan. . .
We found two more bottles and a lot of wooden beams.
"Maybe they came from one of those Japanese, lumber boats Matt told me about," Grandma suggested.
"No," Grandpa responded. "Some of them have nails in them. They were probably part of a structure on a boat that was washed off in a storm."
"This is good lumber," my dad joked. "We should back the pick-up down here and gather it up." 
We walked back down the beach. The walk back took less than half the time the first walk had. Just as we reached the tunnel, just as I was picking up a final rock, and just as Ben reattached Sally's leash, a young couple emerged. 
"We got out just in time. . .the tourists are coming," I laughed, feeling somehow violated. This beach was ours not theirs. I swallowed this down and scrambled back up the slope. We walked back to the other beach. It was bigger, inhabited by dozens of kite flying, castle building vacationers. I felt no need to claim it.
I gripped my bottle in my hand, imagining the note I would compose, imagining reaching Japan, imagining going back to my beach someday. My clogs slapped against the sand, reassuring me that it was a good day.


----------



## Rhiannon (Mar 31, 2003)

I have two entries (I am right and multiple entries are allowed?), which I'll post separately. Here's the first (in two posts because of its length):

*The Story Without End* 
_by Charis M. Ellison_ 

Once upon a time, an old man lived in a great house, all alone with his books and paintings. He was known to Andre only to as Grandfather. When Andre’s parents brought him visiting, though, the first thing he did was look at her picture. 

Her picture hung in the library, above the pearly marble fireplace, and between the two tall cherry wood bookcases. She sat on an overstuff tapestry chair, leaning on a small table. An open book lay before her, and a rose in a cut glass vase stood by her elbow. Sometimes he thought that rose changed, from deep red, to pale pink, soft peach or creamy white. But the light in that room was always dim, clouded by smoke from his father’s cigars, and the old man’s pipe. 
Sometimes when Andre stood staring at the picture, the old man would come up behind him, leaning on his young shoulders, and look over his tousled head at the painting. 
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” he would say. “Always a beauty.”
“Did you paint it, Grandfather?” Andre asked once, surprising him. 
“Yes,” he said, and turned away. 

Andre grew taller, older: Grandfather grew smaller, stooped and bowed and shriveled, and ever more ancient. He had stopped selling paintings long ago, keeping the dark misty scenes of woods and castle for himself. 

Time went on, passing in an undisturbed flow of days and months and years. Andre went away to university, and met a girl with bright, laughing eyes. He married her, and soon after, when their first babe was due to come, Grandfather wrote to him, in a narrow, shaking hand that crawled over the page like a spiders web. He asked Andre to come, and live with him, in the large, lonely house, and to bring the girl with laughing eyes with him. They went. 
One day after they came, when his wife was in bed and Andre sat with his grandfather before the library fire, he asked who the girl in the painting was. 
“Beauty,” the old man said. Then he went up to bed, leaving Andre alone to ponder. 

The old man grew older, and no one remembered he had ever been anything but old. His limbs were withered and his face seamed like old leather, the lines forming letterless words that told the story of a life that stretched on without beginning or end. 
When Andre’s daughter was laid on the old man’s lap, he smoothed gnarled fingers over the sleek dark hair, as she stared up at him, black eyes large. “Beauty,” he whispered. The baby girl turned her face, looking at the portrait above the fireplace through the soft haze of smoke that ever lingered in that room. 
Andre and his wife, the woman with eyes that laughed, eventually moved from the great dark house, when Rose, their black-eyed daughter, was a small, slender-limbed, sylph like creature. Andre’s wife was ill, and he hoped that by taking her away she would be well. But he brought his daughter back often, visiting, to the great, dark, lonely house of Grandfather, where she sat on the old man’s lap, tracing the lines of his face, as though to read in them the letterless story that was seen but not told. 
Once, on such a visit, Andre looked into the smoke clouded library, where fire flickered dusky light over the rows of books, and the paintings that leaned like forgotten memories against the limbs of the furniture. There, standing before her picture, was his daughter, the old man leaning a little on her should, looking over he black head. 

The illness of Andre’s wife grew no better and no worse for many years, a straight line across the charts of the doctors he brought from everywhere and its neighbors. They prescribed and studied, and got in the way of the household, until Andre sent them all away and cared for his wife himself. He sat by her side and held her hand, until the day the laughing eyes closed quietly to rest and did not open. 
Now he could be called an old man by some, but he was still a boy in the eyes of Grandfather, who was only more ancient than ever, and who wrote to him, in a narrow, shaking hand that crawled over the page like a spiders web. He asked Andre to come, and live with him, in the large, lonely house, and to bring the girl with laughing eyes with him. They went. 

Rose was now a young woman, and her hair was black and her eyes laughed silently. She sat on the carpet beside Grandfather’s chair, leaning against his legs, and his gnarled fingers would smooth over the sleek dark hair. They sat together, and gazed up silently up at the painting together, and he told her stories, stories never finished, stories without ends. 
One night Andre sat before the library fire, across from his grandfather and his black-eyed daughter. The light picked out the lines upon his face and shone off the snow in his hair. They sat quietly together, and Andre’s grandfather began another story, another story with no end.


----------



## Rhiannon (Mar 31, 2003)

*The Story Without End- continued*

_ In the days when I was a young man,_ he said, _and I was young, once- I married, to a girl with the brightest eyes I’d ever seen, the loveliest in the world. We had six children together, and the first five- three boys and two girls- all took after me. Fair haired, light eyed, handsome, tall. The youngest, though, my baby daughter, was like her mother born new again; eyes black like her mother’s, hair as dark a midnight. _ And his hand smoothed over the raven strands of his great-granddaughter, beside him. _My wife died in the birth, but the girl-child was well and strong. I called her Beauty, because she was, like her mother, and she was the light of my house. _ 
_ Beauty was a young woman when my business failed- I was a merchant then, not an artist, and I was still young as I measure time now. We lost all that we had, and I took my children and the ashes of my wife away, away from cities and towns, away from smoke and soot and society. We had a cottage in the country, barely large enough for all of us. But it was all there was. _ 
_ Life was different there, and everything we knew had to be forgotten, and all but breathing learned anew. My children, all but Beauty, were like me in temperament- afflicted with pride, and it made this new life harder. My Beauty, though, was like her mother. She gave all she had, and the light in her eyes made you wish to do the same. 
It took time, much time, but we, even my daughters, grew into the life of that place, or were shaped to it, and found content of a sort. We forgot- and who can miss something forgotten? but the letter brought every memory back to us sharply, worse than the ache invading my bones the later years. 
This letter called me to return to the city, that there was some chance that something of what I had before could be reclaimed- a false hope, but I am a man, and a fool, and led by lesser callings than truth. I went, but Beauty did not wish it. She begged for me to stay, to not go, to send perhaps one of her brothers. I wish I had. _
The firelight reflected off the sheen in his eyes, and Rose took his gnarled old hand, laying her cheek against it. 


_ Life was different there, and everything we knew had to be forgotten, and all but breathing learned anew. My children, all but Beauty, were like me in temperament- afflicted with pride, and it made this new life harder. My Beauty, though, was like her mother. She gave all she had, and the light in her eyes made you wish to do the same. _ _ I asked- for I have said I am a fool- what my children wished brought to them on my return. Silks, my daughters said, satin, lace. The lists were long and costly. But Beauty would say nothing, had not spoken since pleading for me to stay. I called on her to wish for something, some gift, to make up for my going, but she only shook her dark head. I asked her again, and again, until finally she said that if she must wish, let it be a rose. A rose? I wondered. Yes. Beauty wanted only a rose, and nothing else that she would tell of. 
In the city, the newly recalled debts were more than I had coin or will to pay, and I left with less than I had come. I left without a rose for Beauty. 
On my returning journey, empty handed, the snow fell faster until I could see nothing at all, but white, and then not that, for the wind stung my eyes and I closed them against it. 
Then the snow stopped, suddenly and without sound. The wind died a sudden death, and I opened my eyes to the sight of a courtyard, the court of a great, dark castle full of shadows. 
I had ceased to think long before, and now I only breathed. Had my mind and will not been frozen, perhaps I would not have trusted such a place as that. But they were, and I did, and it was done. I know not how, but I was fed, and bathed, and after I had slept was fed again, and found food in my packs, and coin. But my thoughts were still not wholly my own, as I prepared to leave, for in the center of the barren court there grew a thorny bush, with a single rose as its heart. 
Without thought, or act of will, I took that rose, for my Beauty. _
His story paused in the telling, and his hand tightened on the knobby wood of his cane. When his spoke again his voice was rough, and he leaned forward and stared into the flames as though he could see all that had happened taking place again in their dancing light. 
_ The roar that followed the theft of Beauty’s rose shook the earth, and a great black wind knocked me to the ground. Even as I scrambled to my knees, still clutching the blossom, I saw that it was not a wind, but a great creature, a Beast, dark as night and far more terrible. He struck me down with his gaze, and held me motionless. He said no words that I remember, but a bargain was struck, with someone other than myself, for I was paralyzed, without speech or movement or thought or will to do any of these things. And then I was swept up and away, and the black wind became white, for the snow and ice swirled through it. 
Later I would learn that the Beast looked into my heart, and saw its center; my Beauty. My precious baby daughter, the child of my lost wife, the strength behind my step and the light behind my eyes. It took many years, but I ceased to blame myself for her fate, because the bargain was struck not with me, but her. 
I found my way home, but I can not remember how. I remembered nothing but that I had brought the rose for Beauty...Beauty’s rose. I woke from the shadow that had fallen over me on the day my Beauty left. 
When my Beauty left to become his. _


He sat silent, staring. Rose sat so as well, staring up into the lines of his face, where the tears, as silent as he, trickled over the deep grooves of time. Andre stirred, raising his head.
“The painting,” he said. “What of the painting?”
The old man looked up. “The painting. I painted it, in the nights after my daughter was taken from me, when I no longer looked into her room to see that she slept peacefully, or kissed her forehead good night, or saw her smile when she came down in the morning. The strength I had to find was something of my own, and I was un-used to it. If I slept I dreamed of my Beauty- his Beauty. I like to believe,” he whispered, “that it means she is well. The rose- it is the self-same rose- but it changes, in the seasons. You have seen it, Andre. I have watched you watch. And sometimes her face is different, the eyes closed or open, her lips together or apart...but she always smiles...” His voice faded into the darknesses around his chair, but Rose’s came from the light thrown by the fire. 
“It will be all right,” she said quietly. She stood and kissed his cheek. “He loves her.”


----------



## Rhiannon (Mar 31, 2003)

...and my second entry (much shorter).

*White Bird* 
_by Charis M. Ellison_ 

The little white bird fluttered pathetically at the bars of its golden wire cage. 

A callused brown hand reached out, rapping against the bars, and the small creature fell back against the seed-scattered floor. 

A forlorn white feather drifted to the ground. 

“Don’t torment it,” a soft voice said timidly. The bird tilted its head, peering out at a small white child-woman. She sat by the window, and the intricate pattern of the golden wire grill that covered it cast strange shadows over her face. 

“I shall do,” the man said roughly, “exactly as I please.”

The child-woman seemed to grow smaller at his voice. “Of course you will,” she said timidly, and he sat back satisfied. “Only...”

“Only? Only!” He was in his feet in a rage and as the woman-child shrank back the bird called shrilly and beat its wings, trying to fly in the tiny golden cage. “What do you think you mean by ‘only’? Eh?”

“Only...don’t torment it.”

“Don’t torment it, don’t torment it!” His arm froze in its violent movement just above the cowering white-clad shape and turned aside, smashing through the table where the small white bird’s cage rested. 

The small white bird was thrown to the ground and spun around and around as its cage tumbled. 

“I shall torment it as I like!” The floor shook as the door slammed, and the master of the house was gone. 

“Don’t be afraid.” The woman-child gathered up the cage and the fluttering, crying bird. “Don’t be afraid of me.” She slipped a finger through the bars to touch the trembling white feathers. “Don’t be afraid of me,” she repeated. 

Setting the bent cage on her lap she looked at it, running her white fingers across it carefully. They found an edge that didn’t belong. 

They found a hinge. 

A little door edged open in the golden wire bars of the cage. The little white bird cowered away from it, afraid. 

Small white fingers crept in slowly. “Don’t be afraid of me.” Carefully, she gathered the little white bird into her hand, and drew it out of its cage. 

It trembled white against the white of her hand, and its tiny heart pounded beneath her thumb. 

“Don’t be afraid of me.”

She ran her slender white fingers over the golden wire of the window grill. She had found an edge that did not belong. 

She found a hinge.

The bars of the window pushed outward and the sunlight cast no shadows on her face. 

She lifted the little white bird and kissed its trembling white feathers. With both her hands she cradled it, lifting it out through the window and into the sunlight. It made a tiny sound. 

She opened her hands flat. 

The little white bird spread its wings, stretching them out. 

It gathered itself, and then it took flight. 



Behind it, the child-woman gathered her skirts, and slipped silently over the window ledge.


----------



## Ol'gaffer (Apr 1, 2003)

Here's my story.

The Morning of Mr. Atkinson
Written By Ol’Gaffer


He pulled the trigger back and fired, the recoil threw his hand back and the gun broke his front teeth, the bullet pierced the back of his head and threw the pieces around the sofa and floor. Blood spurred in great streams from his nose and mouth and stuff came out from his ears. His lifeless body bent like a knife onto the couch.

“Mr.Atkinson, you must understand that you just aren’t a valid candidate for a loan as great as that. You live alone in the Bronx and from what you’ve told me you lost your job this morning.” He was sitting straight in a comfortable chair with linen on the sides, in a room that belonged to the manager of the bank. He trembled within and his eye twitched nervously, the hat that he held in his hands was crumpled into the heavy grip that fear caused him. “I, I know, but I can manage to find a job and I need this. Their gonna take my house. My mom don’t live with me no more an-“ he stuttered. The manager looked at him from behind his square glasses, “yes. I understood that your mother passed away some time ago. Cancer was it?” He began to cry, why did that man have to repeat what had happened to ma? It’s not nice. “Y-y-yeah, she” he sneezed into his handkerchief “she jus’ didn’t wake up one mornin’.” He looked at the manager with teary eyes and sneezed again, he crumpled his hat. The manager pushed his glasses back with his front finger and looked at the papers again, he searched for a good position from his chair and bent foreword, he lowered his voice to what he thought wasn’t too patronizing. “Mr. Atkinson-“ “Dale.” Dale interrupted.
The manager made something of a smile to his face, “Mr. Atkinson” Dale hung his head, people always spoke like that when they won’t help, he thought. “You have to understand that a.. Mentally challenged person without a job isn’t the safest bet that we have to loan money to” he probably continued but dale didn’t listen. He got up and thanked him for something that he couldn’t think of right then and walked out with tiny steps of the room and through the bank to the street from which he headed home.

His boss had a nice room on the second floor that he hadn’t been to since he had started here, though that was less than 6 months ago, it was at the top of some metal steps and an high alley that made him queasy if he looked down, but he rarely was up there so it didn’t bother him.
His boss was a nice man, quite old but really smart, possibly the smartest person that he had met after ma. His boss was sitting at his table and was looking at some papers that had his picture on them. “Hi boss” Dale said cheerily as he came in. His boss looked up from the papers and smiled wearily, “Atkinson, come in, come in.” He said with a formal voice which didn’t sound too friendly dale reckoned. He sat down to the wooden chair that creaked a little from his weight, the wooden floor also wasn’t in the best shape. “Atkinson, how long have you worked here?” His boss asked, Dale counted his fingers. “Musta been six months or so,” he said as formally as he could. His boss looked at the papers again, “and how long has it been since your mother died?” He asked without looking at dale, which was highly rude according to him, “3 months sir.” Dale replied with a shaky voice, this really wasn’t something that he wanted to talk about, “why?” he asked. His boss looked at him from the corner of his eye, “Atkinson, making paper isn’t a hard job, all it requires is that you focus into what you’re doing. And it seems that for the past 3 months or so, you haven’t focused into your job.” He looked at Dale and tapped his fingers together, “whaddya mean sir?” Dale asked him scared, his boss bent a little forward, “I mean that I’m gonna have to let you go Atkinson, this just isn’t working out. I mean, I can understand a few weeks, but 3 months! I’m sorry, here’s your last pay check, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave within the hour.” He gave Dale some papers and signalled him that he could leave. Dale walked out of the office stunned, he walked all the way down without feeling dizzy, he went straight to the bathrooms. He sat down into a cubicle and cried.

He walked out of the pawn shop next to the bank. He had used his last pay check and bought the most important thing of his life.


----------



## Anamatar IV (Apr 1, 2003)

*All praise the English teacher for this recent assignment*

From the Depths

Small pockets of air rushed to the surface as the thing moved great and dark as a cloud. Soundless beats upon the water and he propelled himself forward, moving faster than any other. His mouth gaped upon and closed quickly as he glided smoothly. His coat of natural mail shimmered as he moved from the depths to the surface, on the brink of two worlds. With powerful strokes he shot himself into the salty air and showed his sharp, yellow teeth, as if glaring angrily at the bright sun. With a startling splash he crashed back into his own world and returned to the depths.
He searched for its meal which had yet to come. Maybe it was that all others were afraid of him, or maybe they had all already been eaten by others. It did not matter to him why his food was not coming.
He surfaced once more. The sun glinted off his sleek body and drops of brilliant water descended from it into the waters below. He dropped headlong under, and with as much speed as he could, dove at the dark grasses. Before long, a small fish, no larger than a child’s finger, was in his mouth praying hopelessly for salvation from these deathly jaws. Prayers were not answered and the small fish was devoured mercilessly. Wisps of red blood floated up through the dark waters. The great beast was not satiated yet. He wanted more. Indeed he was lucky to have come upon this small fish so easily, but it was not enough as a meal for something of his girth.
Suddenly he saw something out of the corner of his squinted eyes. What was it? A dead fish? Yes that must be it! It glistened as only the scales of fish in the golden sunlight can. The predator undulated and soared to his meal. He sputtered up out of the water. White foam broke off in all directions as this great beast leapt out of the water. The dead fish hung limply on the beast’s tongue as it thrashed and splashed loudly before crashing back under.
As it ate, the beast felt something. He seemed obliged to return to the surface. Maybe he thought there would be more food or maybe he just wanted to surface once more. The predator turned around in his tracks and looked at the surface from below. A cloud seemed to hang over the water. It did not matter. The beast launched himself up suddenly, scaring anyone who was nearby. He jumped higher than he had all day. He saw the water, the crisp surface like glass. He put his head forward and prepared for the splash into the immeasurable depths, but with a loud thud, he hit the wooden floor of a small fishing boat, killing himself instantly. The foul reek of the dead fish permeated.
“That’s one fine catch,” I said to myself, still trying to catch my breath from the scare I received from the fish’s terrific escapade.


----------



## Talierin (Apr 2, 2003)

*The Great Poobah (aka rhiannon) decrees I should enter this...*

Sand trickled ever farther and farther down, minutes moving slowly along. Stones were raised, inch by inch higher, until they towered over the plain. More sand and minutes passed. War came, stones fell, ruined, broken. People left and forgot. Steady stream of grains trickled onward. Time did its work. Rain, snow, unleashed their fury down. Stone turned to earth. Sand ran on. People came. Stone grew tall. The hourglass turned. Sand falls. Time passes. 

Finis


----------



## Lantarion (Apr 14, 2003)

*My Entry*

Here ya go. It isn't exactly a short story, but it's something like that.  I hope you like it. Most of the names in it are part of a language I am making, and actually mean something [eg. _Iltinta_ = 'Ever'light']. But any further questions concerning it are welcome. 


These are the words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.

And it came to pass that Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, raised his glass hand and unlocked the Four Fathers who had slept since their Dawn. And they who are named Endri, Nothlis, Lomarron and Vit’Rál took up each their shining figures and blessed Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, with the Gift of Death. And they set about the making of a dwelling place, for their city was too vast for them.
Endri broke his capsules with his teeth, and from them issued forth the Olosi, the Four Trees. And seeing Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, lying dead and yet blissful they wept, and turned to water before the eyes of the Four Fathers. 
And Nothlis, who is called the Wright, took the boughs of the Olosi and struck them thrice with his hammer Ýmm. A voice resounded that was made manifest, and they spread like forgotten leaves into shapes vast and habitable.
Then Lomarron was puzzled, for the Lands floated at unease amongst the tides of the Olosdindri –waters; so he fashioned for them roots proud and magnificent, that crept under them and fastened them tight. But Nothlis was envious: and dropping his hammer, whilst the others slept, the Lands were splintered beneath their crusts. Lomarron wondered when the Lands wept with towers of fire; so he quenched them with his foot and in those places grew things of green.

Now Vit’Rál saw these things occur, and he never slept. So he called to Nothlis to fashion with Ýmm a globe of unseen white flame, for the things of green had need of it. Nothlis was puzzled, and tried to create this thing; and when he could not he was angered, having been tricked into mockery; but he hid himself, and showed forth merely his embarrasment.
So Vit’Rál pardoned him, and went about the making of the unseen Sky-waters. With his eyes he wrought them, sending spirits to carve the mysteries into writhing forms. Some of these spirits grew tired and fell asleep, and drifted wantonly down towards the Lands. Many were lost in the great Olosdindri– waters, but many landed amongst the things of green, and there slept. When the Sky-waters were complete Lomarron took pleasure in its forms, unseen but vivid. And he set about the banishing of greed from himself, wherefore he made things of different shades and colours and planted them beside the things of green, by whom the spirits slept. Nothlis was a great aid to him then, for Lomarron had little knowledge of living things; and ever the designs of Nothlis were cunningly put into the mouth of Lomarron. 

These are the words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.

The glass hand of Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, did not sleep, but it hid and multiplied. When the tears of the Sky-waters fell to the Lands that were named the Ma’agri, he emerged and broke; his splinters were innumerable, and they dwelt then inside the spirits who slept beside the things of green, and made them mortal. Then they awoke, and saw about them the things of green that were dark and unpitying; and Nothlis laughed in mockery at them, for the ashes and dust of Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, had settled in him and in none else. He mocked the Sky-waters in his heart and bit into the Ma’agri, and they were made turbulent. 
Vit’Rál knew of this, and was wrathful, having his counsel scorned. But he knew also the plight of the Awakened Conundrums (for they love and yet destroy), and called again for Nothlis. He came, and his pride was grown to a shape terrible to behold, with horns of self-destruction on his hame. “You call me, maker?” he sneered; and at this Vit’Rál lifted his hand, and Nothlis was fractured into two; the other side was changed to ash and dust, that glided over Ma’agri and there quietly settled; the other was left to sleep in its new form, a spirit still in the making. 
And now Vit’Rál called his brother-fathers to him and pleaded them to kill this thing, sleeping and potential. But they would not, and they took a strand from the Earth-roots and bound Vit’Rál, and he let them. Then they fashioned the Sleeping One, with gentle strikes and furious love; and he was ready.
He rose and shimmered; and at that Vit’Rál knew he was humbled. He rose and laughed; and at this Endri smiled, and earth was renewed. He rose and sighed; and at this Lomarron was puzzled, but loved him. His name was Ká.

Witness these words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.






These are the words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.

Now of Ká, who slept but has risen, can be said: He is quivering and muti-faceted. For his spirit is housed in a million faces, of forms splendorous and excellent, or quiet and humble.
As King of Stars he as presented to the Fathers, of whom he was the last. His corona was of white fire and his eyes of laughing crystal, and nothing could darken him. 
Now Ká, who slept but has risen, was called later the _Vardári_, the Great Friend; for his glance was tuned upon the stirring creatures of the Ma’agri. 
“These shall be the lords of the earth,” said he sadly, but blessed them; and they became aware, and they woke. And it was Ká, who slept but has risen, that named them the Awakened Conundrums, from following anecdotes born.

It came to pass that among these confused things, wandering through the things of green in darkness, there was one whom is called only the Her’Aja; he had thought and was awake, and roused his fellows. And the Her’Aja looked to the Sky-waters, from whence they had come, and said: “Can the King of Stars not shed his corona where lands are blind?”
And Ká, who slept but has risen, heard him and was pleased; and he sent his brightest star to travel by the courses of the Ánacoruo, that the Globe was named. But in the lands far from the Ma’agri the ashes and dust of Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, had risen and taken form; and now they leaped as bolts of cackling ice to stop the star from arriving. But Lomarron was watchful, and taking up the old Hammer of Nothlis he struck at the ashes and dust made manifest, and they were smitten. Two parts stayed in the Sky-waters and there abode, growing hard and steadfast; seven parts fell back down, and sung bitterly in the Olosdindri- waters. One part returned to Ká, who slept but as risen, and said the two Words: _Órastë, indoron_! And The World-fathers pitied him; Lomarron have him the shards of Ýmm, Endri spoke words of thanks back, and Vit’Rál blessed him with the Gift of Knowledge. So was born of the ashes and dust of Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, the first of the Angel-kings.

These are the words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.

But now the _Iltinta_- star shone brightly from a distance, and its light brought solace to the Awoken Conundrums; the Her’Aja was pleased, and swam over the Olosdindri to the places where the ashes and dust of Îr, he who is enshrouded in smoke, coughed and rested slyly. They were beginning again to dream, and its shape was growing. But Her’Aja was not daunted, and he thought: “It lies there only; yet I am troubled.” So he strode over the barrier-swords and spoke with the ashes and dust, whom he named Ekka. But it spoke first.
“Hail, born one! Well swum,” he sneered; at this Her’Aja was not daunted, but in that hour was vessel to the spirit of Endri, and said: “Know these the words of the Angel-king: _Órastë, indoron_! You are not welcome here.”
And Ekka frowned, whereupon four stars collided and melted. “You will burn, though the light of your eyes is bright.” At that Her’Aja was not daunted, but drew from him the winds of Endri; and spoke the word of Banishment. Such a gale was blown that earth was flattened where it had towered, and seas were hushed. And Ekka was spread as a screaming glimmer over the wide spaces far from the Ma’agri: and so he was stilled. 

The waters then flowed in his favour, and harnacing them he came to the soft sands of the Ma’agri. “Where have you been, and what light is in your eyes?” he was asked. 
“Abreast to gods we may exist, yet in ourselves we are undaunted. _Órastë, indoron_!” said Her’Aja, he whose eyes are as of flame. 

Witness these the words of Anar’Ji, who was scribe to the Righteous.


----------



## moon cloud (Apr 16, 2003)

*here's mine*

“You’re still here” he said.

She stayed still, her back to him, feet hanging over the side of the bank and trailing the water. The moonlight painted her black and silver, dark strands of hair clinging to pale shoulders and arms like lacquered, creeping ivy. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew they’d have drunk in the colour around them, deepend to a cold, midnight blue. 

His eyes focussed on the cobweb material of her dress, stretched across a chain of buttons, her spine. The skin exposed between the parting in her hair and the shimmering fabric shone transparently, delicate lace with small candles flickering behind, like moonlit flashes on the black rippled water lapping her toes. He thought of grabbing this skin, digging his fingers in and watching the red prints spread across. Leaving his mark on something so beautiful would perhaps ingrain a part of himself inside this beauty. Let her remember it whenever she lay on her back and felt the fingerprints squeezing under the flesh, reminding that whoever was on top of her would never be the same as him, would never have broken in and stayed there.

He walked forward, hand reaching out and shaking, frightened of his own thoughts. He was directly behind her but she did not turn to face him, did not even flinch. She knew he would not do it. 

The hand was warm, felt strangely alive and alien when he finally rested it gently between her shoulder blades. She could detect all the little intricacies of life in this hand, the blood bubbling, the soft grooves on each palm, the slight dig of square edged nails. It was a hand that could not hurt her, even now, when it wanted to. She bent her head lower, feeling a stab of shame when her eyes rested upon her own hands, that would and could twist and tear his flesh to livid welts while he let her. He was caged inside her already, though he did not know it.

“You will be cold” he said, eyes falling on her bare white feet floating on the water, outlines distorted as the waves slopped over. Starlight bounced in all directions, like scattered mirrors.

“Then warm me”.

His hand hesitated, but only for a fraction. It departed from her flesh, not leaving the bruises he intended, but finger prints that glowed inside. She felt another stab. He was not aware of the love he left on her.

He stooped and reached into the water, lifting out the numb, trailing feet like a prize catch that needed to be treated with the utmost care. She swung her legs towards him so they were sitting by the water, facing, her feet on his lap, his hands gently rubbing them. The skin felt like cold rubber and looked worse, transparent and webbed mauve. She liked it like that, him touching what he would not normally touch, his eyes contaminating something with the beauty it lacked, just because it was hers. It would be nice to go on forever like this, leading him deeper and deeper with no trail of breadcrumbs to find his way back. It would be nice, but it would be wrong, and the situation was wrong enough already. She had already promised somebody else just this night. Given them something that sparkled.

His hair was like silver ribbons, eyes a clearer blue than her own, unchanged by the surroundings. The bones of his face straight, beautiful in their symmetry. Beauty under the skin, not just a silken layer covering something worn out, deteriorated, like her own. She had chosen to end this weariness one day. Tonight she had decided to be with the person who could smilingly lead her where he could not follow. This was the only way she could release him from his prison. Let the walls disintegrate. 

“You know this will be the last time you look at me. We may meet again, speak words, but you would not want to see something so supposedly pure walking towards her tomb, fading before you, away from you. And I could not bear to look upon what could have been, the radiant ghost of myself standing so close to you that we blend together.”

His hands stiffened. She could feel sorrow flowing through them, bones aching with grief. 

“Why can it not be?” he said in a muted voice. Something small and diamond-like slipped down his cheek, into the water. It was carried away.

“Love should not have walls, be they brick or skin and bone. It should not reduce you, or take away your spirit. Your love for me binds deep and wretchedly, though you do not know it. Your longing for a beauty you already possess keeps you an angry prisoner, hoping to both kiss and kill his guard.”

“That is untrue. I could never hurt you.”

“Do not pretend I don’t know your mind. Those hands, so tender on my skin, are wishing to tear and bruise a way inside. Don’t you realise you’re already in, just burrowing deeper? You will not find the purity you seek. Only darker rage and frustration that I am not all I appear, cannot give you what you assumed.”

He stayed still and silent for a time, head lowered. Frail pink sunlight began to pierce the ripples of the water. He could see the autumn leaves floating on it’s surface, like fallen stars.

“These hands, this mind may betray me, but these lips never will” he said, and leant across. She bent towards him before he could reach all the way, meeting him in the middle, their lips fitting together softly, delicately, the world around them fazed out as if all of it’s life had been poured into them. Senses finely tuned, skin festive and almost soar to touch, hair blowing in the breeze and mingling together.

She shifted forward, he lay down and their bodies unfurled and pressed together like they were two halves of the same delicious fruit. The cobwebby dress began to tear as his arms slid around her, locking her to his body as if he would never let go. Slowly, her eyes flickered open, now as bright as his. 

“You’ll have to let me go sometime. I think it would be easier if it were now.”

She felt his grip loosen, painfully. She could still feel the bind of his arms compressing her ribcage. Perhaps he really had left his mark.

They stood up together, faced each other with the jewelled water swirling below and leaves falling from above, like golden drifts of fairies.

“I will always remember your beauty. It looks even sweeter from the outside” he said.

“I have no need to remember your beauty. I already carry it with me. I already pine for its wearer.” she whispered. 

They kissed one last time, painfully, with lips swollen and unwilling to let go. Then, as the dawn light fell upon them, each turned to leave, the others tears still wet on their cheeks.


----------



## Aerin (Apr 18, 2003)

*Cough* This was written a fair time ago, during lectures in school; I know it's not very good, but I've been told it's pretty funny...

*Spiffy of the Manly Chin* 

Spiffy of the manly chin wasn't the bravest of men - his only accomplishment (he thought) was the manliness of his chin. Though he never carried a weapon, he always won fights. What he did not know was the quivering of his adversaries was not from fear, but from laughter. One fine day he encountered a merry band of travelers on a quest. Spiffy asked if he could join the joyful entourage.
"Of course!" was the cheery reply. 

They had not journeyed many leagues when they found themselves trapped by villains. Spiffy strode confidently to the front of the seemingly insignificant band. 
"Fear not, my hearty companions! I shall frighten our foes with my devilish good looks and manly chin!" 
With much swaggering, Spiffy approached the leader of the horde. 
"Tremble before me, you mountain of scum! Quiver and fear my manly chin!" 
The leader of the milling crowd began to laugh hysterically. Spiffy and the now subdued band passed through the laughing crowd and escaped to freedom. 
"How did you make them laugh so hard?" asked one unfortunate quester. 
"Laugh???" roared Spiffy, "Laugh!? Ha! They were not laughing; they were shaking with fear before my manly chin!" 
The other in the company looked at each other, but wisely said nothing. 

They traveled on for some leagues. They entered a dark, damp forest death seemed to hang in the very air. The seemingly pitiful band squeezed together, though it would not offer them any added protection. The wind moaned through the dense trees like a living thing. The very trees themselves seemed to speak of doom while crowding closer to the melancholy band.
Spiffy felt uneasy. _I must keep my manly chin up, thought he, my looks alone should be enough to chase away the gloom that penetrates my very bones_.
Suddenly, the forest noises died. The thick fog closed like a heavy curtain about the depressed questers. A voice spoke from the blackness around them, "You shall not leave this forest alive. I have knowledge of your quest, and I shall be the one to stop you from achieving your goal! Muahahahaha!"
"Enough!" cried Spiffy as he strode forward, "Enough of this nonsense! You shall kneel before me; tremble as you gaze upon my impressive physique and quiver as you view my manly chin!"
What Spiffy did not know was that this malevolent force was incapable of laughter.
"I see no manly chin to tremble before!" The voice was dry and sarcastic.
"You don't think my chin is manly?" Spiffy's lip began to shake, and tears threatened to overflow his eyes. "But my chin is so handsome...so...so...manly!"
The voice spoke from the tangible shadows, "If I can keep this 'Spiffy of the manly chin', the rest of you may go."
"But he is our loyal companion!" piped up a member of the nefarious band.
"If you wish to share the terrible fate of Spiffy, then by all means, stay!"
"Good-bye Spiffy!" cried the nefarious band as they sped out of sight.
"NOOO!!!!!" screamed Spiffy, "I am too beautiful to die!"

*The End*


----------



## sepdet (Apr 19, 2003)

*Balustrade stones*

I still see her in my dreams -- but more often, in my nightmares.
Every prince must have a damsel, you know, and she was mine. No one could remember what king had imprisoned her in that tower, nor how many centuries she had been trapped there, the symbol of chastity and slavery. The story went that a dragon had been menacing the kingdom, and that she had been placed there for her protection, lest the King's heir and heir-maker be lost and the kingdom founder.
The tower was the last structure left standing. The castle had long ago fallen into ruin, green ivy creeping over its crumbling stones, or sand drifting over the lower walls where the shifting sea had advanced to embrace them. Fragments of stained glass glittered like jewels in the cracks. Nothing but nesting cormorants dwelt there now, apart from the princess herself.
Perhaps the dragon had destroyed the kingdom in the end, leaving the princess its sole survivor. Like some Sleepwalking Beauty, she would stand at the rail, dress flapping in the wind, white arms gleaming from afar. Daystar, they called her, the white girl who gleamed at the tip of a stony spear piercing the very clouds.
I was drawn thither by such tales. I came by boat so that I might catch a glimpse of tower and maiden glittering in the pale dawn. She was not there, when I arrived, but I felt her eye upon me. After many days of exploring the maze of ancient masonry, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, glanced up, and saw her face high above me like a moon, fixed upon mine.
It took me more than a month, but at last I scaled the pitted stone walls, reached the top, and swung my leg over the stone rail. She was sitting on a carved wooden stool, and before her was an iron table set with goblets of wine, trenchers of bread, and bowls glistening redly with pomegranite seeds. She was busy embroidering a piece of cloth. She did not look up when I fell, panting and exhausted, onto the flagstones.
I could only stand slack-jawed, watching dumbly as her fingers flew and danced, wielding a needle of bone. She stitched with white thread on blinding white silk, so that I could make out no design. The cloth itself was only a wide band that was flung over her lap like a belt, and on either side of her, the ends of the strip were rolled upon huge silver spools that turned minutely as she labored at her neverending task.
"I have come to free you," I told her.
She did not speak.
"The dragon is dead," I told her. "And you are queen now." 
She raised gray eyes and sought mine, then set the cloth aside and rose, moving to the balustrade. Slowly she surveyed her father's ruined kingdom, green and wild, and the endless blue sea. Then she turned back to me with a grave smile. "I am still the princess. Are you my prince?"
Even her words were silken.
I was snared fast in the same spell. Days and nights passed. Sometimes she would sew. Sometimes I would sing. I never touched her in all that time, for she was still the princess. Often I told her stories about the world, coaxing her to follow me into it. Yet I might as well have been pleading for a statue to live. And I am not Pygmalion.
Finally, one night, when a storm at sea was raging, and the thunder rolled, and the rain sluiced down, I coaxed her up onto the parapet to watch. Her dress whipped around her, black hair fusing with the storm. She laughed out loud. I saw a glimmer of life in her eyes at last, and as she turned her face to mine, I assumed part of that smile was meant for me. Taking her cheeks between my hands I planted a kiss on her lips.
Lightning flashed. We were thrown down and lay stunned while the rain drummed against us. The stone railing had cracked, and, impossibly, the tower had begun to burn like Babylon. White flames danced. I took up the roll of cloth and cast one spool out over the back rail. It fell like a shooting star and glimmered far below, where I could see many loops of it lying tumbled across the ground. I knotted the other end securely to the table. Then I held out my hand.
"It is a sign!" I called. "The spell is ended, the tower falling! Come with me."
She held my eyes gravely. "I am still the princess," she said gravely. "Are you my dragon?" She turned away and walked back to her place at the rail.
Her arm was cold and as hard as alabaster when I set my hand upon it to pull her away. Not with the strength of Atlas could I have budged her. And so I left her there, on the ledge overlooking the sea, the balustrade stones crashing down around her, steam wafting from the water below as it filled with the fiery debris.


----------



## Zale (Apr 19, 2003)

The time has come to post my entry. I do have a more Tolkien-like work in progress, but as it is 9 pages long - and looking to be almost full novel size - I didn't think it would qualify as a short story.
I'm not too sure about the quality of this one, but I'll let you lot be the judge of that. Here it is:

The Question Of Sanity 

26.12. Christmas was boring, as usual. I was driven by a seemingly endless stream of relatives to my room, my sole refuge in a house determined to be festive.
Once there, I turned contemplative. The family, with their trivial anecdotes and tedious jokes, were driving me mad. No doubt about that. Madness! Now there’s an interesting subject. What is meant by madness? Are the insane completely self-unaware, or do they not care? Perhaps more importantly, what can drive a person mad, what can push them over the edge? Surely it depends on the mind – stronger people must require more push. How do you push? That’s something to think about.

27.21. Today was slightly better. The annoying extended family are gone, leaving me with just the nucleus. Not that that’s much better. My brother, for example, thinks he’s clever. He thinks he’s an intellectual, and we’re all cattle, brain-wise. I’ll show him! Since when has he thought about anything important, like our sanity? Threatened by his supposed superiority. Sanity! It’s been bugging me, this state-of-the-mind business.
The more I think about it, the more I’m tempted to experiment. Can you push yourself, or would it be like trying to pick yourself up off the ground? Of course, I suppose you could always use other people for leverage. Cast yourself from them. Yes! No-one ever declared themselves mad, with any degree of sincerity. Yet it’s all too easy to point the finger, and say: He’s a lunatic. It must depend on other people’s opinion on your sanity. In which case, the trick is to convince them you’re mad, not yourself. Then maybe you will be. I will be.

02.01. Haven’t thought much for a while, hence nothing to record. The hangover yesterday didn’t help. It derailed my every train of thought, so I stopped thinking and just was. Today, thankfully, I feel healthier.
I think another crack in one’s armour is habit. Habit helps us to hang on. The habit of sleeping at night, for example. I should start breaking habits, like sleeping at night.

03.01. It is harder than I thought. I have no idea where to begin. Breaking old habits, and establishing eccentric new ones, helps, but not much. There are certain barriers – how much pain can you inflict upon yourself before you stop? Some time, I think, before I break that habit. But there are others. Respect to other people? Their property? Etiquette? It all has to go. I think I’ll eat only raw vegetables for a few days.

05.06. My stomach hurts. It makes it easier to not sleep. Sleep! No wonder insomniacs are irritable; at least they get some sleep. I’ve had none! Poor old me. I’m going to try raw meat for a while.
I think other ignoring people’s perceptions of you is the key. To be a spoilt child again, not caring, not even realizing that it’s wrong. Right or wrong. Is what I’m doing wrong? Some people say madness is evil: so what of me, driving myself insane?

08.06. I’ve got a ticking clock. Very loud, very old. The tick is erratic. It’s driving me nuts. Excellent! Not just at night, when I’m not sleeping. I carry it with me everywhere. My brother is worried. I think he knows what I’m up to, and he doesn’t like it. Too bad! The show must go on. Actually, I’ve forgotten just why I’m doing this, but I know it was important. So I won’t stop. I ignore other people now; they try to ignore me. Perhaps loneliness will do.

09.01. Forget all the physical deprivations, it’s what’s inside that counts. They were just distractions.
Every man for himself, in his cave. We light fires against the terrifying dark in the entrance, and desperate not to be alone shout to the nearest neighbouring caves. We can never leave our own; we don’t know the way out. I’m putting my blaze out – no lights on, upstairs or down – and losing my tongue.
I can feel them now, the mental strings that bind you to the world, to sanity. It’s like a spider’s web, with me in the middle. So what’s at the other end of the strings? What keeps them up? Where are my scissors? To snap, to snip, to sever – to let go, to plunge through the void of madness. Look out below – here I come.

16.01. I’ve done it now. They’ll be so mad at me – Mad! That’s what I am! Isn’t it? Am I? No, I’m sane, the only one, I _know_, they’re all mad. Are they? It makes no sense. Why am I writing? Why not! No sense, no sense. I can’t stay here, that’s clear. They all hate me – and so they should. Or is it so should I? Got to get somewhere safe! No-one is safe from me! Or it! It’ll get everyone – it got me. Or did I get it? Confused – that’s what I am. Getting away – a holiday, a vacation, a _break_ . Where shall I go? Anywhere that’s not here. What is “here”? I am! I need to get away from myself! Filthy, deprived, crazed, broken thing! I despise it. I doubt I’ll be seen again.


----------



## Kementari (May 1, 2003)

*Contest Winners!*

This is where the final desicions are to be announced.

The three judges are me, Ciryaher, and Bethlarien.

I will post my desicion tomorrow for sure


----------



## Bethelarien (May 1, 2003)

Alright. Let me just start off by saying that I really, _really_ enjoyed all of the entries. I have to admit, they were all better than I expected they would be. It was a difficult decision, and so I would like to thank everyone for participating, and also ask that if I don't choose you, you don't hate me for the rest of your life.

Enough of that. My two personal favorites were the one by Moon Cloud and Balustrade Stones by Sepdet. Both were, in my opinion, excellently written, as well as very original. So I'm using the criteria Elgee posted and giving the winning piece ratings out of 10. Just my way of doing it.

*Character development*-8. Because it was a short story, the characters weren't developed fully, but it was certainly a good beginning.
*Plot*-9. Very well done, almost a 10 imho, but not quite.
*Meaning*-Um....7. I don't really understand what's going on--perhaps the story could be changed a bit to explain it more?
*Emotional content*-a perfect 10. This story focused on love, and did an awesome job. Couldn't have been better in this respect.
*Word usage*-8. Good words, descriptions, but try using more vividly descriptive words. If that makes any sense.
*Logic and Sense*-7. See the note about meaning.
*Personal enjoyment*-9. It would be a 10, but I can't completely enjoy something I don't entirely understand.
*Subject Matter*-10. Like I said for emotional content, it was written about love, which can be a difficult subject to write on. Nevertheless, it was well written, and I think Moon Cloud deserves the blue ribbon.

So, my decision is in favor of Moon Cloud, and her untitled but excellent story.


----------



## Kementari (May 2, 2003)

Alright I have finally come to my decision. It was incredibly hard to make because I was blown away at the talent that was shown during this contest. I mean, you people are unknowns? and alot of you are younger than me! you should be prefessional writers. I own alot of short story anthologies and everyones stories were more than fit for being published, they were just as good or better than alot of the published storys I have read. Just: Wow...

I could *not* pick just one story I found it impossible because all of your styles are completely different. I think that all could have won, but there are two that stuck with me, and i guess they applealed a bit more to my individual taste of writing, and they where "White Bird" by Rhiannon and Lantarions's entry.

Rhian's story was vauge, mysterious, but very meaningful. I'm not going post how my picks meets all of the criteria, but I thought this story, or message, was beautifully and skillfully writen; you might argue that it was too short and you never got to know the characters or anything but I would completely have to disagree with that, for starters the two human characters had apparent personailty traits (they werent wooden).

Lanty's story was excelent as well. He is definatly in league with Tolkien for creating his own mythology. To me it was believable; it was like I had found a peace of parchment in a ruined city with its ancient mythology writen onto it. I can hardly believe that something like that came out of someones imagination. It was very skillfully writen. I cant argue about the mysterious characters or plot because like i said, it could have been real.

Well done! I am extremely impressed. I'm not a very good critic but i hope i was able to explain why I think those two storys most deserved to win


----------



## Zale (May 3, 2003)

(Sorry if this is in the wrong place, I'll delete if asked - please PM)

Unrecognised! I'll have to try harder to impress you all next time...


----------



## Rhiannon (May 3, 2003)

Congratulations Moon Cloud and Lantarion! 

And thank you very much, Kementari. I'm honored. 

(Don't worry, Zale- I have multiple form rejection letters from literary magazines floating around here. I say it helps me learn to take rejection well)


----------



## Kementari (May 4, 2003)

Zale you did *not* go unrecognised! I thought your story was good; morbidly funny sortof, well hard to describe, but I have never read anything like it, i really liked it. I really do mean it when I say I could have chosen anyone of the stories to be the winner...but it is very diffcult when they are all different (your story stands alone completely)


----------



## Zale (May 6, 2003)

I always try to think out of the box but I have to admit that this story wasn't completely my own idea. I started writing it shortly after having read Iain M. Banks' "The Wasp Factory" - now there is a truly original writer.

To minimise the pain of losing (not for me, I'm fine with it) would it not perhaps be better for the next competition to produce an ordered ranking of the stories?


----------



## Bethelarien (May 7, 2003)

May I reiterate that this thread is to announce the contest winner(s). It is not to request people to read your stories, or make suggestions, etc. Please take these things to a different thread, as it interferes with the purpose of the thread. Thank you.


----------



## Kementari (May 7, 2003)

> _Originally posted by Zale _
> *
> To minimise the pain of losing (not for me, I'm fine with it) would it not perhaps be better for the next competition to produce an ordered ranking of the stories? *



That sounds like a really good idea 

And thanks Beth for getting to that first. Sauronbill though your story was good it was not entered in the contest


----------



## Lantarion (May 7, 2003)

Thank you very much, Kem; I suppose I was hoping for my 'thing' to have that effect. 
And I'm glad you were so understanding; after al, it wasn't a short story at all! As Ol'gaffer has kindly pointed out to me 
Ah, but Ciryaher hasn't posted his vote! Where is that forgetful old boy..


----------



## Bethelarien (May 7, 2003)

I'll PM him to remind him. Hopefully he hasn't forgotten.


----------



## sepdet (May 8, 2003)

*belated congratulations*

to the winners, whose words are indeed mithril-silver, and to a great group of writers here.


----------



## Uminya (May 9, 2003)

Alright, I've finally finished reading ALL the stories, and here are my choices:

#1) Moon Cloud's _Untitled_ story. I loved the imagery, and they dialogue put me right there. Lots of emotion, very vivid, yet cold. Powerful.

#2) Zale's _A Question of Sanity_ story. This series of journal entries just caught my eye right away with the form, and as I read, I was more and more intrigued. I enjoy the way that the speaker's thoughts change not only their content, but also their process.

#3) Ol'Gaffer's _The Morning of Mr. Atkinson_ story. I felt a deep sympathy for the main character, and I liked how you had the end come before the story. Very dramatic.

#4) Sepdet's _Balustrade Stones_ story. I liked the fairy-tale feel of the story with an anticlimacitic ending. I sensed a lot of emotion and liked it.


It was hard to choose, and there weren't ANY bad stories. All of them were good and I liked reading each of them  Congratulations to those who made it on a list, and I give praise to _all_ of the writers. Everyone did great!


----------



## Ol'gaffer (May 9, 2003)

Wow,  I made the list!

Wow....


----------



## Zale (May 10, 2003)

Not unrecognised! I feel much better now. My next story will be even better. With a plot line.
I'm planning it already... So when's the next competition?


----------

