FanFiction Holiday Writers Contest

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Bremen, Dec 11, 2012.

  1. Hello everyone! Based upon the recent idea of show casing some of our great authors, I would like to make a contest!


    This contest will be the first of its kind to Fan Fiction.

    The Rules

    • The Deadline is DEC. 31st @ 11:59 PM Central Time Zone
    • All pieces sumbited for the contest will be posted on this thread and one must wall me so I do not miss a piece.
    • All works must be SHORT STORIES or POEMS
    • You can only send in one poem and only one story.
    • Writer about what YOU want.
    • Have fun writing!

    There will be awards for

    Best Overall Poem -

    Most Creative Short Story/Poem -

    Best New Author (based on reputation in contests) -

    Most Descriptive Story/Poem -

    Best Overall Story -

    Best Overall Work (will not be eligible for other overall awards) -

    The winner of the Best Overall Work will recieve a prize for their efforts!

    Awards will be announced on January 1st.

    We also need judges for this contest (they cannot enter). Judges will be based on the amount of people who enter. Every judge will be required to write a story to "apply" for the position, and every judge will be required to write a story for exhibition on the 1st.
    Note: Judges will follow a specific rubric and should abide by all the rules when reading a story. If a judge has a problem, then they won't judge.

    Authors who have entered:


    Happy Writing AoK!
  2. Sounds cool, I might be able to put something together in time. Count me in.
  3. Stora already wins. Hmph.
  4. Oi if this ever works out I could judge good luck.
  5. Should it be holiday related?
  6. Wandering down the alleys hollow,
    Windows sagging, doors collapsing,
    Ruined glass and ruined souls,
    A traveler looks at the corpse of beauty.

    A dying breath long ago taken,
    Infinite surrender having been the final choice.
    A tale of such woe he never heard,
    This inspector of the corpse of beauty.

    Death is life, the traveler thinks.
    For the heart of the corpse keeps beating.
    Windows sagging, door collapsing,
    And yet the sound of music.

    A happy, rhythmic, beautiful song,
    Of a beauty long forgotten
    Rings softly through the alleys hollow
    And still the heart keeps beating.

    Enter the heart, the traveler does,
    To see into the life of the dead.
    No more music, all is quiet,
    Silent are the alleys hollow.

    Inside the heart of the dying beauty,
    A single, sad corpse plays
    Plucking at strings long frayed and broken
    Singing a song of sorrow.

    For the corpse of beauty never dies,
    Yet never lives anew.
    The tiny village rests, peaceful, waiting.
    For the Writers to come again.
  7. Oh yeah, sign me up, by the way.
  8. Sign me up.
  9. I'll enter if this cursed Writer's Block ever leaves ._.
  10. Ugh I hate Writer's Block
  11. Reflections- short story.

    The church bells chime solemnly in the distance. Midnight. A man and a woman lie on the sand, gazing at the stars and laughing quietly, the waves gradually inching towards their barren feet, black as the night it reflects.
    They are alone, but for the moon in the sky and the stars in their eyes, the deserted field at their backs, and the sand at their feet.
    Only the woman has a worry, and her troubled mind cannot keep from dwelling on it as she tentatively twists the ring on her left hand. She is to be married tomorrow. But her partner clasps her hand and her worries ebb away with the tide, for she will not be alone...

    . ****

    A hunched over figure glared into the gloom. Her bones rattled as she got up from the wall and walked through the graveyard. Her fingers brushed the headstone of her beloved, and she sighed, glancing at the ring on her boney finger. Beside his grave was a space, reserved for her.
    There was no-one living within a kilometre from this place, but she was never lonely, for the ghosts of the family and friends she once had keep her company.
    Her mind had disappeared and was replaced by a dark void, and her heart was already five foot under. She awaits her death patiently, but she is now so far from human she wonders if it is possible. Blood still trickles through her frail body, but her soul has long since left her, and she wanders aimlessly through the desolate landscape that used to be her village.
    She is not the same person that once waited at the aisle to be married, to the man she never saw again.
    He had drowned in the sea he knew all about, after falling off the boat they had planned to sail away into the sunset on.

    She can picture that last night in her head, hear the church bells ringing even though the church is now but a few stones, and the graveyard a playground for ghosts, and her current residence. She is but a shell of her former self, and as she feels her life drawing to a close, she will not leave her beloved's side, not even now, at the twilight of her life. Her ghost has left her body already, and she watches as her and her fiancée's ghost dance together in the moonlight, oblivious to the fact they are dead.
    The ghost of a man and a woman lie on the sand, gazing at the stars and laughing quietly, the waves gradually inching towards their barren feet, black as the night it reflects...
  12. Poem- the emotion cloud

    It hangs in the air,
    The big grey cloud
    It's cries of thunder
    Echo around.

    "What is it?"
    I hear you wonder,
    "What is it saying?"
    For that is no thunder.

    I look at the cloud,
    It weeps tears of rain
    But that Is not normal,
    For they're tears of pain.

    "What Is it?"
    I hear you demand, "Please explain,"
    "Why is it crying?"
    For that Is no rain.

    They are shattered dreams,
    Echoed into the night
    For, that is no thunder
    My dear, you are right.

    "What is the cloud?"
    I hear you ask, "What is it?"
    My dear please be patient.
    The cloud is sadness.

    It hangs in the air
    The big grey cloud
    It's cries of distress
    Echo around.

    Thousands of people
    Contribute and share
    Their feelings with many,
    Through this cloud in the air.

    "What is the cloud?"
    I hear you ask, "What is this?"
    My dear, please be patient.
    The cloud is sadness
  13. Sign me up.

    And yes, I've been feeling quite depressed lately
  14. Only American kids do that whole "Oh I'm sad so I must be depressed" thing.

    Anywhere else in the world, especially Russia, people don't just go and diagnose themselves with a clinical condition. Life sucks, it happens.
  15. There have been writing competitions for as long as FF has been around. I'll judge. I'm not writing a new piece though. You can check out my earlier writings. "Gnath of Ycha", "Maximum Voltage", "The Death of Matthew McClain"
  16. Ehh, sign me up.


    It's the color of clouds, it's the color of silence. It's elegance and fluffy childishness rolled up into a faint puff of crystalline ice, it's snowflakes dripping down an endless canvas of gray skies.

    It's so much more than just white.

    It's the color of the snowbank she's buried in right now, trying desperately to muffle screams tinted with dementia.

    White paint doesn't cover up red stains on a canvas.

    It's the color of the scarf's warm threads, the one that seems to suffocte her the longer she stays in the mindnumbing snow.

    White on white is pure nothingness.

    It's the color of the sheets of paper he so hastily scribbled a few last wishes on.

    White out doesn't mean it was never there.

    It's the color of the slippers she was wearing when she dropped his final note in horror, the color of the miniature, silken bows laced around the top of the flats.

    White is not the only thing you see when you fall into a dead faint.

    It's the color of the Christmas snow that falls onto his coffin, as she watched with a half-choked sob.

    A white Christmas does not guarantee joy for everyone in the world.

    It's the color of the dress she wore, out of respect for his loathing of the darkness that still lurks around every corner.

    White doesn't chase the dark thoughts away, she finds, after an eternity in that white dress, shaking hands and forcing smiles.

    It's the color of the ice that she tries to bury herself in for an hour after the funeral, slowly freezing but numbing to the pain.

    White is the color of gloves that pulled her back up, and onto her feet.

    It's the color of the unpainted drywall of his new room to be, drywall that shattered as soon as her fist connected with it.

    White dabbled brushes won't cover his entire bedroom. The scent of the paint won't chase his away.

    It's the color of the little stuffed bunny rabbit she finds in his closet. She briefly remembers his tales of his favorite childhood toy.

    White rabbits dance through her dreams and her nightmares, and she falls asleep with the ragged animal in her arms.

    It's the color of the puffball at the end of a Santa hat that her old best friends force on her. She gazes into the mirror before taking the hat off and leaving.

    White is the color of cotton puffs your boyfriend used to fetch you to remove your nail polish.

    It's the color of the beach sands, when her parents force her to 'get out more and enjoy a social life.' Like anyone cares about her anymore. She's so far gone, that she doesn't care.

    White is the color of the old coral piece she slips into her pocket the last morning of her island trip, watching the sunrise. The only sunrise she's seen since Christmas.

    It's the color of the sun if she stares at it too long, she remembers. He told her that, long ago, when the two watched a sunset over winter vacation.

    White damages your corneas, he said. He had then laughed and said that he really had no clue what he was saying. She had laughed along with him, her pleasantly musical voice carrying along the rocks that dotted the coastline of North Carolina.

    It's the color of the sheets the first night she sleeps alone, without a certain stuffed rabbit.

    White is the color that is helping her heal.

    It's the color of the pillow she cries into one last time, before waking up one January morning to frost. For some reason, she finds herself remembering the days he would yell and run through the grass, trying to trample as many footprints into it as possible.

    White is the melting frost that no longer stings: the memory only fills her with a pleasant warmth. The icemelt is numbing her heart and opening her soul. Just a little bit.

    It's the color of the thick sketch paper pad she brings with her on the plane home. She doodles, and she completes a willow tree before a pang races through her and she is reminded again of the pain.

    White is the peaceful color of a healer, the color that reminds her that the pain isn't necessary, and will not last.

    It's the color of the white lace hearts she hangs up for his birthday. She doesn't cry once at the small celebration. She manages a smile.

    White is the color of true smiles and flashed teeth.

    It's the color of the last snow, on the day she finally lets it go and forgives him for what he did.

    White is the color of the ribbons on her late Christmas gift. She carefully unwraps the pale blue paper, and discovers a box left for her. She knows who it's from, and she immediately pulls out the notebook he used to love so much.

    It is the color of recovery.

    She hurt, for the holidays. She healed, for a winter. And as spring dawns, she receives a gift more valuable than its tangible factor.

    She's given hope, enough hope to move on.
  17. This is my short poem that I wish to be entered, hope you like it.

    Be warned, for this is the place my mind resides.

    The dreams, the hopes, and the darkest nights.

    These places I go, yet no one knows.

    How deep this cave, how long this cove.

    This doubt, this worry, I always hurry

    To scurry from this flurry, of thoughts.

    These thoughts, they seem, to leave behind

    A trail of wicked intent.

    A plan, a scheme, I feel my heart is spent.

    And over my dreams, a fear doth lean.

    I wander, lost, all hope abandoned

    Not a single soul in sight..

    And I start to feel compelled, to fall into the light.

    I then wake up to a world that's sound asleep.

    It's then when I begin to lightly weep.
  18. That story was really good :eek:
  19. Sorry posting soon I just didn't have time:)
  20. Oh my gosh!!!!! This was it I was over. Wait lemme reword. This journal, I can, the, museums, tabloids, fame, money, power!!!
    Hey old man!!! Ahhh I thought I want to be just like Indiana jones a famous archeologist. To be famous. And not be a evil little person like Irana Spalko.
    "Here baby!" she gave me a wet kiss on the cheek. " Happy birthday!" Mary was my true love. I remember when we met. An airport, it was wired alright. I tore open the present. It was a ticket, a plane ticket. "Were going to Mexico!!!!!" she brushed out screaming. "I, I, can't belive it" I stuttered. Next thing I new we were in Mexico. The thing Mary didn't know was what was buried under the hotel we were staying at.
    After a few adios or whatever they said, Felis navi da, maybe? Oh well we were here I waited for nightfall. I snuck down the hallway and out into the lobby of the hotel. The big gold globe had two country's staring at me as if I was wanted. I was soon going to wanted to be killed. I stumbled outside. I saw a bush, many bushes, and a red glowing dot. Like an idiot I stepped toward it. I touched it. It generated no sound as the shock courses through my body. My eyes glowed red. My heart was pumping so fast my veins felt like they popped. I looked at my arms, they were blood red. Rage cursed through my body and in less then 10 seconds later I was gone. Back in the hotel room by my wife, but this time not to kiss, or say hi to her.

    Indiana jones and the outcast ( unofficial of course)