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Write a story in which something is broke or broken. It could be anything, a physical item or an abstract concept, just so long as it doesn't work the way it's supposed to. I leave it to you to decide, but you've only got until February 12 to break out your typewriters or quill pens and dazzle us with your words.
Extra double special bonus: There will be trophies! :=
Your theme is broken. :P
:cry:
I'm game for this... and for this story, I'll do one that'll REALLY get ya in the feels.
(For one thing, I not only tell of something broken, but that in the end it does get repaired.)
I think I'll call this story: Uncle Wally's Final Repair Job
--
A young boy soon approached his uncle's workshop. His brown hair blew in the gentle breeze, as did his green and black striped shirt's sleeves. His gray-brown jeans and blue and white sneakers moved with his legs as he made a brisk walk.
The boy soon opened the door and found his uncle. His light gray hair--whatever is left on his head--as well as his fluffy light gray mustache moved slightly as he turned around. The glasses through which the boy could see his uncle's light brown eyes glimmered slightly in the lamp's light. The red-brown apron on the elderly man covered his light gray shirt and blue jeans. The blackish boots made soft thumps as the elderly man approached his nephew.
"Uncle Wally," said the young boy.
"My dear Koleson," replied Wally. "Is something the matter?"
"Some bullies tripped me," said Koleson, "and I lost my grip on my music box. I... I think it might be broke."
"You had a music box?" asked Wally in surprise.
"Yes," said Koleson. "It used to play a sweet song for me, but now it... I don't know."
Wally gently took the box from Koleson and opened it. The song was supposed to have been "Greensleeves", but the box now sounded like some random metal parts tinging a strange rhythm.
"Ah," said Wally. "It is badly broken, but I think it can be fixed. It may take a while, so come back tomorrow."
"Okay, Uncle Wally," said Koleson.
The young boy went home, with hope that he might get the music box repaired.
The next day, Koleson went to see his uncle, but he wasn't there. Instead, it was Aunt Bella, Uncle Wally's wife. Bella was wearing a dark blue--almost black gown. Her gray hair was in curls. Her gray eyes were flowing with tears.
"Aunt Bella!" said Koleson. "What's wrong?"
"Uncle Wally," said Aunt Bella, "is gone. He passed away after he got done with tinkering with that music box."
Koleson's heart sank. The other day he was talking with Uncle Wally, and now he's dead.
Aunt Bella then gently handed Koleson the music box.
"I'll..." Aunt Bella began, choking up a brief moment, "I'll let you know when the funeral is."
At that, the woman exited the room slowly, softly weeping.
Two days later, after the funeral and Uncle Wally being lowered into his final resting place, Koleson sat in his bedroom, holding the music box. Slowly, he opened it.
His eyes widened in surprise when the song "Greensleeves" played... and it played even more beautifully than it did before the bullies broke it.
In a way, Uncle Wally knew his time was short, so this final repair job would not only be his final gift to Koleson, but his final gift to this world.
At least, that's what Koleson believed in his heart of hearts.
--
Nice story!
It freaked me out slightly though: I have an Uncle Wally!
An entry already? Gosh! And it's only the first day of the contest! :shocked:
Extrapolating from this, I think we can all safely expect 14 entries by the time we reach the deadline! :=
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By the way, that's my entry. (laugh)
Quote from: Mandle on Mon 30/01/2017 03:07:33
Nice story!
It freaked me out slightly though: I have an Uncle Wally!
Man... learn something new every day. I assure you, this is (or was) a different Uncle Wally, so yours is safe.
Thanks, Davzare. That's two entries in two days. My theory seems to be holding up. 14 entries, here we come! :cheesy:
For sale: broken shoes, very worn.
(This is my entry)
Thanks, Mandle! That's three entries in three days. We're on track to smash all records! :cheesy: :cheesy: :cheesy:
Momentum... flagging. Inspiration... fleeting. What was the topic again? (roll)
I've had two goes at sitting down to write something for this, but both have had me sitting there looking at a blank page. Still, a week left to pull something out.
Quote from: Stubaron÷ on Sun 05/02/2017 17:05:55
Still, a week left to pull something out.... What was the topic again? (roll)
I feel like a conspiracy has been hatched against me... (http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/Roger_RollEyes.gif)
Great entries, Mandle's entry reminded me of the Hemingway short story and DBoywheeler's was both sad and heartwarming and Danvzare's was funny and creative in its own right. I have an idea myself, I hope I can post it in time!
Quote from: Blondbraid on Tue 07/02/2017 19:51:59
I hope I can post it in time!
So do I. After an impressive early start that was both enthusiastically heartfelt and endearingly half-assed, things seemed to have stalled here at the FWC. I'm still hopeful that we'll smash all records for total number of entries, but I'm starting to have my doubts. :P
Oops.
The story you were looking for doesn't exist.
Quote from: Blondbraid on Tue 07/02/2017 19:51:59
Mandle's entry reminded me of the Hemingway short story
I hope so! It was a deliberate
rip-off parody of exactly that... (laugh)
Quote from: Mandle on Tue 07/02/2017 23:29:22
I hope so! It was a deliberate rip-off parody of exactly that... (laugh)
Oh no you didn't! :=
I do actually have a story in mind for which my previous entry could be the title, but I'm a bit worried to write it for a few reasons:
(1) It's based on a real life story about a truly horrible event, and I have no permission from the real people.
(2) It is so horrifying that I was in tears of grief for both those involved and also for my slightly lessened faith in humanity (but some faith can also be regained in a way)
(3) It might not be appropriate for this contest, which is usually light-hearted, or at least firmly in the realm of fiction.
(4) Writing it might be too emotionally draining.
(5) I don't know if my writing can do justice to the story and the people who lived it.
I'll consider all these points carefully before deciding one way or the other.
Quote from: Mandle on Wed 08/02/2017 03:50:46
I'll consider all these points carefully before deciding one way or the other.
I respect your decision and would certainly never use my position as administrator of this event to pressure you into doing something you're uncomfortable with.
Spoiler
Quote from: Baron on Sun 05/02/2017 17:05:55
(http://www.vanwijst.com/games/smileys/baron_cup.gif) DO IT, MANDLE!!! (http://www.vanwijst.com/games/smileys/baron_cup.gif)
Goodness! I can't believe how shameless and insensitive Baron can be when it comes to the ongoing success of the FWC. (wrong)
Yeah, eventually I had to write the story as it was stuck like a thorn in my mind and I couldn't let it go...
So here it is. I hope it doesn't disrespect anyone still alive or their relatives given the real life story involved:
For Sale: Broken Shoes. Very Worn.
The shoes sat on their shelf behind the dusty store window.
Now, looking back, I cannot say with any certainty if my memories are reliable or if they were shaded by what was to follow. Or even perhaps tainted by the intention of my outing that day.
I suppose all I can do is write down what I believe happened, which is this:
The shoes caught my eye resting there all beaten up and broken on their little shelf. A ray of sun broke through the overcast sky and shone down through the dusty thrift store window to cast its spotlight onto the shoes.
Despite my urgent appointment at the bridge, I felt drawn by this omen and entered the store.
The owner was an elderly Jewish gentleman, and very orthodox if I was to judge by the plaited locks of his sideburns descending from under his black brimmed hat.
He spoke not a word to me as we made the transaction at his ancient dusty register, but for a brief monent we made eye contact and I saw his filled with sadness but with an underlying something. Was it hope?
Hope scared me enough to back away hastily and knock over a stack of the shop's merchandise. I looked up to apologize to the owner but he had already turned his back and disappeared through a door behind the counter.
Back out on the street I looked down at my purchase:
A pair of broken leather shoes. The heel of the right shoe was ajar and I felt a strong and yet strange urge to try to mend it.
Sitting down on the curb, I pried the broken heel off the rest of the way to assess the damage and that was when I found it:
The heel was hollowed out in the middle to form a rectangular cavity surrounded by the fence of nails that had held it in place.
Inside the cavity there was a folded yellowed bundle of paper. I took it out and carefully unfolded it and found that it was a brittle and aged strip of toilet paper upon which somebody had written at length.
I read the cramped writing:
"My name is Berko Fajfer. This is my memoir. My english is bad but I write in english because I think the liberators will speak english. I walked through the gates that lied "Work Will Set You Free" and lined up with the other jews. A jew worker in the striped pajamas came to me and asked "Boy, how old are you". I told him I am 15. He said "Do not tell the guards this. Tell them you are 17.". When I arrived the front of the line a Nazi guard with dog questioned me. The dog scared me more than the guard. It was looking at me in the eye. I knew it was waiting to do its job it was trained for. I knew it was waiting for reward if it did its job. I knew if I made bad move it would be ordered to do its job on me. Later I began to feel same like this dog. I look the guard in the eye and say "I'm 17 and very fit and able to work!". The guard took me to the short line. My family went to the long line. I thought now to take my revenge on Nazis by the only way I can. I will survive. If I survive, their plan to exterminate jews cannot succeed. I will survive. Others are not thinking so. At night Nazis turn on the electric fence and many go out to do suicide on it. The guards do not stop them. I learned the fence turns off at 6 A.M. and I wait to hear the breakers click off and rush out to the bodies. I pull their pants down and take the food they hide in their underpants. The food is soaked with urine and shit but I grab it and hide while I eat it because I know other inmates will beat me and take from me. My belly is full and I feel happy. I feel happy that I have survived like an animal. I am rostered to job duty. Because I have stayed healthy I am put in a top job. I work in the crematorium. My job is to seperate the bodies. The gas they use makes the muscles lock up tight at the last moment of life. The families cling together in fear and are knotted together. The furnace door is not big enough to fit more than one by one. So I must seperate them. I have been given tools. Hammers and steel blocks to break the bones in the limbs and untie them. Some are easier. I know which little ones were clutched tight to their mothers because their muscles are not frozen. They died when the gas made the mother break their little bodies or suffocate them before they could breathe. These are easy to untie. But sometimes I must break the bones. I learned that the Nazis value efficiency first. If I am efficient with my job I get to eat rewards and live. They stood around me and kicked me and spat on me while I ate raw bacon from the floor. Now I am that dog. I find that breaking the bones of the adults can only be done with the hammers and it takes time. But the children and infants. I can break their bones with my bare hands and untie them fast. Being efficient at my job means my survival. I know too that being efficient at my job means the speed of the gas chambers becomes more efficient also. But I do not have any feeling of guilt not even for a moment. I will survive. I will have my revenge on the Nazis by existing."
I stood up from the curb and turned back towards the thrift store, thinking to ask the owner about the origin of the shoes, but the store was already closed.
I took the suicide note I had planned to place on the bridge from my pocket and threw it to the wind. I carefully replaced it with the old yellowed toilet paper.
I walked back to the thrift store a few days later but it was closed due to a death in the family. The owner, I suspect, as it never opened again.
I have often wondered since if Berko managed to survive the camp and have even tried to research his fate, but to no avail.
Berko, whether you survived or not, and wherever you are, I love you.
I must say Mandle, your story moved me to tears, it's very touching.
Strangely enough I began writing on an entry with a similar theme before even reading your story,
but I think it'll need more work before I post it.
Quote from: Blondbraid on Thu 09/02/2017 21:38:57
I must say Mandle, your story moved me to tears, it's very touching.
I cried too when I heard the real story:
A lot of the middle part of the story, the note, came from an interview with a survivor of Auschwitz I saw. I tried to keep the same tone that the survivor had in the interview as he told of the things he had to do to survive: He had his head held up and eyes fixed straight on the camera and spoke of such debasing things with a dignity that I cannot even imagine. He never became emotional. He never spoke a bad word against his captors. He just told his story simply about what kind of unimaginable strength of will it took for anyone who survived those places.
The name in the story is fictional as is the whole story about the note in the shoes, although similar notes are still being found to this day hidden away in artifacts from the camps, one very recently if I remember right.
I only decided to write the story because of the (heavy-handed I'm sorry) moral behind the story of the shoes' buyer.
So yeah, the real person did survive Auschwitz and lived to an old age and actually reunited with one of his liberators, an american soldier, and they revistited the camp together. The liberator said that he had two emotions he felt every day about the camp: That he hated beyond words that such a thing could be even possible, but loved that he had been able to play a role in ending it.
The survivor's great-grandchildren all hugged him and thanked him for their very existance while he cried.
A heartbreaking thing for me was that the liberator was not able to look people in the eye while he told his part of the story like the survivor could, as if he still carried the guilt that belongs in part to all of mankind that such a thing and such places could even be possible.
Thanks for the entry, Mandle. Hopefully, you will inspire more people to join in. :smiley:
wow, that was an intense read. thanks for writing it down Mandle!
Wow! Mandle's story probably got more people in the feels than my story did. I think my entry is about to face some REALLY stiff competition from Mandle and possibly a couple others. But hey, at least I put in a valiant effort, right?
I guess I first got the idea for this story when I read a book about German prisoners of war by Guido Knopp, I don't know the English title but the original title is Die Gefangenen.
My original idea was a much longer story about a man coming home from a long captivity and struggling with ptsd, but when I saw the theme of this contest, and thought about writing
about a person being broken, I decided to take a part of my story and make it into a short-story, maybe I'll make the whole story in the future.
The story and characters are fictional, but I have taken a lot of inspiration from accounts in different historical books and documentaries.
I did my best to handle the subject matter respectfully and to be as accurate as possible, but I'd appreciate your thoughts and opinions on my entry.
A broken man
Paul was in a strange fever dream, drifting back and forth between memories. Sometimes he was a small boy in his bed and his mother was reading a story to him, sometimes he was in the trenches with Dieter and sometimes he was in Gerda's arms. His mother was reading that story about the one legged tin soldier again, the one that ended with a little boy throwing the tin man into the fireplace because he had only one leg and was a broken toy, Paul didn't like this story. He asked Gerda why a pretty girl like her would chose a lanky young man with dark hair like him instead of someone blond and handsome, but Gerda just ran her hand through his hair and said that she liked his hair. He and Dieter were eating in the canteen with their fellow soldiers while Dieter blabbed on about his theory on how soon enough the allied would see who the true enemy was and join forces with Germany to fight the Soviets, then he and Dieter were walking through the Russian countryside. The fever turned it all into a strange haze.
He awoke to Leah squeezing his shoulder and telling him to wake up. He opened his eyes and saw the face of a woman with wistful brown eyes and steaks of grey in her hair. A living saint that woman was, Paul had no doubt about it. The SS had come to her village and started rounding up people, killed her son when he tried to run, and when she screamed at them they had fired two shots into her stomach and left her for dead while her husband and the others were taken out into the forest and killed. She had every reason in the world to hate him and his people, yet here she was, serving as a doctor in this Soviet camp and nursing German prisoners of war back to life. He asked her once why she did this, but she merely put on a sad smile and changed the subject, and that was it.
This time she was waking him up to tell him about another doctor, who would examine him and determine whether he could work or not. Leah did not speak German all that well and broke a lot in Yiddish, sometimes also using words in Russian, which Paul did not recognize, but he understood that much.
He rose from his bed tottering like a newborn foal, for while he had gotten slightly better lately, he was still weak from the fever and dysentery. He reached for his bundle of clothes, some paltry rags that barely resembled a Wehrmacht uniform anymore and a padded jacket, but Leah said he wouldn't need them, he was only going to the next room, and wearing long johns and a long-sleeved undershirt was enough. He followed her to the door and she opened it for him.
Paul felt a vague sense of dread entering the doctor's office, the walls painted in an almost nauseating white and green and very detailed anatomical charts hung on the wall. The only decoration, if you can call it that, was a picture of the black and white face of Stalin against an aggressively red background hanging above the doctor's desk. This doctor was also a woman, but she had a cold, stern look in her eyes. While barely casting a single glance at him, she told him to undress. Paul obeyed, but the cold in the room made him slow.
The doctor rose from her desk and moved towards Paul. He did his best not to think about his underwear, which was lying on a small stool just behind him, or look her in the eyes. He was ashamed, but not just because she was a woman and he was a man, but also for the state he was in. His hair had been shaved off in a futile attempt to combat the lice, and now he had short stubble on his head as well as his chin, since he hadn't been able to shave lately either. He also had trouble keeping his food due to the dysentery, and had lost a lot of weight as a result. Now he weighed only about forty kilo and was little more than skin and bone. He was not a pretty sight.
The doctor pinched and squeezed his arms and thighs and his rear, before she took out her stethoscope. The cold icy metal against his bare skin made Paul's heart beat faster, and when she finally took it away from his chest she almost immediately placed it on his back to listen to his lungs. She told him to cough and he did so, but only managed to produce a weak hiss.
Then the doctor took out a thermometer from her pocket, and Paul was worried at first but relieved when she placed it in his armpit. For a few seconds he mused how absurd it all was that he, as a soldier, had been on the battlefield, facing tanks, mortars, machineguns and many horrors of war, yet here he was, trembling at the thought of a doctor putting a cold thermometer somewhere he didn't want her to. The doctor took it out, looked on it and made a note, then she told Paul to open his mouth. He had already opened it, but she grabbed his face with her hand, forcing him to keep it open, and held up a bright flashlight with her other hand. He did not like this. He got a flashback to when he was first captured, when a Red army soldier stinking of cheap liquor had forced his jaws apart with his hands, looking for gold teeth. Paul didn't have anything of metal in his mouth, but one of the other prisoners was less lucky. The Russian had bashed his teeth in with his rifle and then ripped them straight out of the poor man's mouth, and ever since then, Paul didn't want anyone to touch his face. But the doctor cared little for Paul's feelings on the matter, and moved on to shining the light into his eyes and ears.
At long last she was done with her examination and let go of him. Leah, who had been waiting by the door, walked up to her colleague and they began talking to each other in Russian. Paul didn't understand any of their talking, and instead stood there waiting with his arms wrapped around himself, wondering when he could put his clothes back on, wondered if he could go back to his bed when they were finished, and he wondered if he would ever be able to go back home again. But all of those things depended on what Leah and the other doctor decided. He felt very vulnerable and exposed, and didn't know what to make of any of the two women's words and gestures, they could be saying anything and he would not know. There was no clock in the room, and Paul had none of his own either, for it was the first thing that had been taken from him when he became a prisoner. Then they had stolen the engagement ring with his and Gerda's name on it, then ripped off all emblems and epaulets from his uniform, and then another soldier had taken his boots, and if it hadn't been for another Russian throwing him a worn pair of shoes, he would have been forced to walk barefoot. Strange, how every time he thought he had lost everything, it always turned out that he had one more thing left to lose.
It felt like it had taken forever when Leah finally faced him and spoke to him. "I talk to her, and we agree." she said with her usual accent, the other woman watching her every word. "You are too sick to work, you are too weak. If they make you do hard work, you will grow worse again, and you get worse, you will die." Leah paused for a moment to think. She was good at being a doctor, but bad at explaining her work. "Me and the other doctor, we write you down as invalid. Your sickness has made you, what is the word? Helpless, no, wait, incapacitated! You are incapacitated by sickness, so you cannot work." Paul stared at her, and started to feel like his knees was about to give way beneath him. Leah must have seen his unease, she told him he could get dressed again. He could not get his underwear back on quickly enough, while in the meantime Leah told him that this could mean that he stood a chance to get sent back to his homeland the next time they extradited sick and injured prisoners of war. "See, being incapacitated could be good, in a way…" she said while he struggled to button his undershirt, but his head was spinning with the other, first word she had used. Helpless. He struggled and failed to hold back the tears. Leah thought he was crying from joy or relief at the prospect of one day being sent home, and later on Paul would indeed feel that way too, but right then and there he didn't feel happy, or relieved.
During their stay in the camp he and the other prisoners had been forced to do hard, back-breaking work all day, every day. Maybe some of the prisoners deliberately worked slow due to fatigue or in some attempt to spite their guards, but in the end of the day they had been told that every man had a quota to fulfill, and failure to fulfill their quota would lead to their already meager rations being reduced. The quotas, based on the work of a young and healthy man, were of course impossible to fulfill for starved and weary prisoners, yet Paul had worked until he collapsed, desperate for the promise of just a little more bread. And now, what was he? An invalid? The limited resources of the Soviet Union had led to a strict system regarding who was prioritized when it came to food and medicine, soldiers first, then civilians, and only after that prisoners of war. Now that it was determined that he could not begin working again, he was a at the bottom of that chain. Would he last until the extradition? Even the thought of going home didn't help him, for in the last letter from Gerda, the one where she had written she was pregnant, he had been able to deduct through the censored parts, she had let on that times were tough at home too. The last thing she and their child would need was another mouth to feed, and he would be a burden to his family. If he couldn't work, what kind of man was he?
He felt broken.
Another entry! Thank you, Blondbraid.
I have not yet begun to procrastinate. :=
All right, deadline looms:
Dances With Winds
The Don sat proudly in the saddle like it was a throne, lord of all he surveyed. Anything that fell beneath his gaze seemed to bend to his iron will, regardless of allegiance or proprietorship. The Don was born and bred to conquer and command, and woe betide the man or beast who thought they might ignore his pretension. With a soldier's grim discipline he would wield the whip at the faintest hint of disobedience. There was no spirit in all the land immune to his ruthless domination.
“Ha, Chico!†he barked, not bothering to spur the great stallion on which he sat. The beast instantly sprang into motion, knees high in the impressive trot that the Don insisted upon. The slightest stumble or imbalance and the stallion would feel the sting of the whip, and so he focused carefully on the rough trail ahead.
Except now that they rounded the hill his eye caught the rolling hills on the other side of the river, soft and green like a bed of moss. Chico knew those hills from his youth, a lifetime ago in a long forgotten dream. There the long grass shimmered in the wind like hair on a dog, stretching endlessly unfenced towards the great mountains beyond. In the days before he was Chico he knew the feel of those soft grasses beneath his hooves. Back when there was no whip to fear and no stream untasted. Back when he was Dances-With-Winds.
A sharp spur to his flank brought him out of his reverie. Those days on the soft unfenced grass were long gone. Dances-With-Winds was gone. He was crushed beneath the weight of the yoke and saddle. Only Chico remained now, a sorry slave to an indomitable master. Even now he trembled at the thought of being broken in the ring, his days filled with merciless beatings and white eyed-terror, his nights spent shivering in solitary confinement. But the tremble itself was enough to have the bridle pulled painfully and the whip brought down hard against his thigh. There was no room now for even memories of happier days.
But still there was a glow to those distant hills as the lowering sun caught the sheen of a recent rainfall. Not the parched oppressiveness of the valley heat up there. Chico felt the dryness in his throat that seemed to last from noon to night. He was a hollow wretch, but he dared not even thirst for something more.
Again the whip snapped down and the spurs dug in. Escape was impossible, of course. The river that separated him from the hills meandered in a deep gorge, and the river itself churned with icy waters over jagged rocks. The only ford was miles downstream, and guarded jealously by an agent of the Don. And his experience of the other direction was even worse: more and more Dons, with meaner and meaner tempers. And anyway he'd never escape the whip and spurs. His cell was made of leather and wrapped about him, even through him in the case of the hated metal bit in his mouth. He carried his jailer and his jail with him wherever he went. There was no escape from himself.
Again the whip bit flesh, and he was sure this time it drew blood. He was a broken spirit, and now his body was being broken too. What difference did it make, though? A short sharp bursting of the flesh, or a long thirsty grind to decrepitude? But he dared not rebel. And yet he couldn't bring himself to fully surrender, either. So he was neither rebel nor slave. He was just broken.
The blood flew from his flanks and now his withers and his shoulders too. The bridle pulled sharply and the spurs dug deeply. But the connection between pain and feeling inside Chico was now broken. He was galloping, full bore, down the hill, a crazed look in his eye. On his back the Don bounced about like a scarecrow, furious at his treacherous steed, but still too dignified to be thrown from his horse. Death before dishonour was his creed, and now it would be put to the test. For the gorge loomed ahead, and the horse's aching muscles seemed to find new vigour and speed for the last leg of his mad dash. Would the Don's will at last be broken? Or would it be his body broken on the jagged rocks of the river far below? Either way, his breaking was now inevitable. Chico would not break on the rocks, though. He was already broken. Not broken like a draft animal, no. The one called Chico was shattered like a crystal plate. There was no Chico anymore. The last of Chico splattered uselessly on the shrivelled weeds beneath the whip of a broken man. Whatever was left, it was not Chico. Whatever was left would soon dance on the winds across the gorge and up to the cloudy hills beyond.
And then he left the ground behind, breaking the bonds of earth and servitude in one tremendous bound. The writhing tumult broke on the jagged rocks, but the wind danced clean away.
Thanks, B.
Okay, the deadline is nigh. Does anyone need an extension? Last chance to ask for one.
And that does it for the entry phase of our contest. Now voting begins.
Each AGSer gets three two votes to cast. I thought had a third vote, but turns out it was broken. :=
Given the wildly varying nature of the entries, there are no categories. Just vote for the story you liked the most. You can cast both your votes for the same story if you like.
Our contestants are:
DboyWheeler: Uncle Wally's Final Repair Job
Danvzare: Error: Unable to display post
Mandle: For Sale: Broken Shoes, Very Worn (both the full-length version as well as the Hemingway version)
Hazel: Oops
BlondBraid: A Broken Man
Baron: Dances With Wind
Stupot+: Couldn't find the time or the inspiration to finish his story, but that failure still counts under this theme. :=
Voting closes in 72 hours. So read and vote while there's still time! :cheesy:
Both my votes have to go to Mandle on this one for the full length Broken Shoes story
My two votes go to:
Mandle: Showing a person with a will to live despite the evildoers' attempts to kill him (or at least break his spirit)
Baron: The title just sounded like a fart joke, so just the title alone won it the vote.
I vote Baron and Mandle.
I liked Blondebraid's entry, but since I'm limited to two it missed the cut...
My votes go to Mandle (obviously) and Hazel (for being similar to mine :P).
My first vote goes to Mandle for writing such a tear-jerking story about real-life events, a very strong story indeed.
My second vote goes to Baron, for bringing back memories of Spirit (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlSmlkDbE1s), if nothing else.
Also, happy you liked my entry, Kconan! I must admit, I was hesitating to post it since I felt the theme and subject matter were too close to Mandle's entry,
but I'm glad someone liked it.
I'm going to be voting today. I just have to find a block of time later on to read all the entries.
Today was yesterday, Mandle! ;)
I vote Mandle and Blondbraid. In a way, I regret not writing a similar story about imprisonment during World War II. That would have really weirded everyone out. (roll)
Quote from: Baron on Thu 16/02/2017 04:27:14
Today was yesterday, Mandle! ;)
Yeah, I know. Sorry... I was rushing yesterday to try and get three different things finished for the upcoming "Chronicle Of Innsmouth" game, and still only managed to get one finished. But...getting closer on the other two...
Anyways, I have a break from work in a few hours so will do my reading then and vote.
Oh, two votes? Okay. It's gotta be Mandle and Blondbraid.
I vote Blondbraid for this line alone even though the rest of the story is also wonderful: "Strange, how every time he thought he had lost everything, it always turned out that he had one more thing left to lose." Damn, that's good writing!
And I vote Baron for his amazing story and the abrupt shift in main character from the rider to the horse. That's incredible writing right there! I even had to go back and reread the paragraph to make sure I had understood what Baron had done with the direction of the story. Pure inspiration! Also, I always feel worse for animals in stories than humans when things go bad, so the feels-count was through the roof for me on this one.
And the winners are...
(http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/Broken_1stPlace.png)First Place: Mandle
(http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/Broken_2ndPlace.png)Second Place: Baron
(http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/Broken_3rdPlace.png)Third Place: Blondbraid
And that does it for this round of the FWC. Personally, I feel that DboyWheeler getting snubbed was too bad. I really like his story. But that's democracy for you. :wink:
Thanks to everyone who participated and I turn it over to Mandle. :cheesy:
Congratulations Mandle, Baron, and Blondbraid.
A lot of entries this month, all of which were top notch. :grin:
Congrats to the winners! You are going home with awesome trophies to show for it.
Quote from: Ponch on Fri 17/02/2017 14:00:18
Personally, I feel that DboyWheeler getting snubbed was too bad. I really like his story.
I really liked it too! But you broke the third vote! I tried clicking on it so many times but nothing happened!
Thanks everyone for the honour of hosting the next round!
I'm thinking hard on the theme...
Quote from: Ponch on Fri 17/02/2017 14:00:18
Personally, I feel that DboyWheeler getting snubbed was too bad. I really like his story.
Yeah, I didn't expect to place at all... just thought the theme was an excuse to flex my mind.
Congratulations Mandle and Baron! Both of your entries were great, and very touching, reads!
Myself I'm happy with third place. When I first posted my entry I was really unsure of it,
so I'm very happy to see tat some of you liked it.
Congrats Mandle! A well deserved victory.
Quote from: Ponch on Fri 17/02/2017 14:00:18
Personally, I feel that DboyWheeler getting snubbed was too bad. I really like his story. But that's democracy for you. :wink:
If only there were more votes to spread around.... (roll) ;)