Messages

It's up in the air whether I enter this one or not. I'm having serious computer troubles and am very busy. Don't count me out though.

Arrgh! Computer troubles, I can't check often. My votes go to Daniel H and TwinMoon. Kudos to everyone for making this one one of the most successful compos ever!

I finished it! You can start the voting now if you like, or wait for anyone else. Entry in original post.

By the way, there are so many entries this time could we have a longish voting period? Say 2-3 days?

Guys I'm real sorry, but could I get a wee bit of an extension? Maybe 48 hours if that isn't too much? I've worked pretty hard on this one, and unlike my other fiction, is a bit of a sappy love story. Stay tuned...

Just a wee warning I may have to annoy everyone by asking for an extension. The story is written but I'm having trouble finding time to type it.

A Little update, the Title I've chosen is 'Dead Rising' and it's not what you think!

It's about 1/3 done and should be up before the deadline.

Wahey! I'll be sure to enter this. Shouldn't that be september 15-29th though?

EDIT:

Finally I have an entry, sorry for holding up the contest but I worked hard on this one, hope you like it!


Dead Rising

All the answers I got were on the morning of the 99' Dead Rising. The townspeople aren't free about it during the year, all you get is blank stares and bland denials of knowledge. The occasion is something you don't talk about.

The town is so small you can see the 'Welcome to Willamette' sign from the 'See You Again Soon' one. A community of 500 or so souls, and half that many people.

I had stopped there for a coffee on my way through. I got talking to one of the waitresses for so long, before I knew it, it was dark outside. Funny, it was the first time in months I'd spoken over a few sentences to anyone at a time. There was something about the people there, a comforting anonymity you felt as the only stranger in town.

When I mentioned that I had to get back on the trail again, the waitress, Sarah, stopped me. It was far too late to drive, and the next town was hours off, she insisted. Why not stay here, she suggested.Stay at my place,you can leave your car here and get it in the morning.

Well, why not? I wasn't thinking so straight and her sudden generosity caught me off guard. I allowed myself to be led by Sarah into an old cream sedan, owned by her father, she said.

The house was a tall, white, beautiful period building, clearly a former courthouse or the like. An empty flagpole poked out above the door.

I was too muddled at the beginning to even notice the food I was shoveling into my mouth, but as the meal went on, my head cleared a little, like it hadn't in months. These were people I could talk to, anonymous friends who could offer advice without the history that pervaded everything I heard from others. I began to open up about myself, my life. What had happened.

The woman's father was an open and talkative man, looking like nothing so much as a child's drawing of his grandfather. He didn't seem at all disturbed that his daughter had brought home a strange man, complete with tales of his tragic past, for dinner. He said as soon as I canme in he knew I was troubled. He instructed me to sleep on it, and in the morning I'd have all the answers I wanted.

At first I insisted on finding a hotel, saying that I had imposed on their generosity far too much already. They weren't having any of it. This huge empty house, she said, is just waiting for someone to fill it.

The next day is so clear in my head that it's as if I'm living it every time I shut my eyes.

The sunlight flows in through the giant window beside my bed, a stark counterpoint to the yesterday's gray, overcast look. I get up and shower quickly. There's no sign of either Sarah or her father.

As I leave the house, after penning a note thanking them for their generosity, I notice the absolute stillness over the town. A few hundred metres down the road an oldish couple sit on the front of a car, talking quietly to each other.

I walk ito the centre of Willamette and all around me people are in twos and threes, heads close in intimate talks with each other. In the distance I spot Sarah and her father with a middle aged woman wearing a beautiful blue dress.

Someone taps me on the back. I turn and see a tall man of unguessable age, hair down to his shoulders, smiling at me. He wears an expensive bespoke suit and a look of sublime contentment on his face.

'I expect you're wondering who that woman is.'

'Well yes, an aunt or?' I leave the question in the air.

'Ha, no, that woman is Patrice Belkin, Sarah's mother.'

'But...'

'In case you did not know, she died on the first of March 1988.'

'But...'

'Before you ask, let me tell you a little story. Don't worry, it won't take long.' He smiles even wider and begins, 'In 1964 a child of Willamette died. How she passed is not something I wish to get into but on Christmas morning we buried her in the little cemetery behind the chapel. In a town this size a death is a blow to everyone, a child is...' he trails off slightly and he isn't smiling anymore,

'What that woman went through I can only imagine. A few days later, on the 30th, she came out for the frst time since the funeral. She wasn't wearing black, she seemed normal at first but we noticed that she was talking to her daughter still. None of us wanted to give the poor woman any more troubles than she already had, so we, uh, played along.' At this point he pauses, and slowly, like the rising sun behind the mountains, the grin returns to his face.

'It was Father Simon who saw her first, the little girl everyone loved tugging at his robe, her arms outstretched to hug him, like she did half the town.'

'The next day, well, she was gone. Her mother knew this and she moved on. the next year it wasn't just that woman who got to see an old face. So there you have it, stranger. Willamette's big secret. We don't talk about it, save for today, because there's nothing really to say, is there?'

I take this all in in mute astonishment but I don't for a minute question what he says. It doesn't feel like the sort of thing anyone would make up. I do have one question though, 'Where is the person you want to see?'

'Aha, well son, here she is.' He spreads his arms out wide, as if to embrace the whole town. 'And now, I shouldn't detain you, because it looks like someone wants to see you.' He points behind me.

I turn and there she is. There is nothing ethereal or ghostly about her. not made of fog or dreams but real, solid and in my arms again.

We talk for hours and hours about everything. How things are, how they were and finally, where they can go now, after this day ends.

As I hold her tight the dawn is approaching. I know when I let her go, she'll be gone once more. She whispers almost inaudible in as I release her.

'Take it slow and enjoy every minute of it. I love you.'

***

We do take it slow, Sarah and I. Every year we make a visit to Willamette, to meet with friends, old and new. To see those people in the next room. We travel a lot, talk a lot, about how someday we'll settle down, maybe think about the future.

For now though, we take it slow, and we enjoy every minute.

Time Gentlemen please!

Winner: Olaf
Runner(s) up: R4L and Daniel H

Well done all of youze, this was a great competition. I don't really have a prize as such but I do have a recommendation:

Buy this album:http://www.amazon.com/Tonights-Night-Neil-Young/dp/B000002KCC/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1221172348&sr=8-1

Thanks everyone for the entries, special mention to TwinMoons tale (which I loved) for its tension and pacing.

Fantastic turnout guys! Voting starts now. 1 or two votes as you please. My vote goes to TwinMoon for his astoundingly good horror story and to olafmoriarty for his clever play on the text adventure genre. Voting ends at midnight sept 14th GMT. Well done all, well done indeed.

Does anyone need anymore time for other entries? I don't like for it to come down to just the two.

Just upload it here.

Hello there all and sundry. As winner of the last competition (by one vote no less) I'm here to start the next compo. This one will be very loose.

No Rules on medium, length or content. I want no restrictions, if people want more time, they can have it. No one wins when there are too few entries.

The title is 'Tonights the Night' or if you like just 'Night'.

Enjoy.

Wahey! Cheers Dudes and Dudesses. I'll start a knew one soon.

Also unsurprisingly I vote for my esteemed competitor. I like the role reversal thing, it ties up really neatly too.

Wahey another entry! It's never nice to be the only one who bothered. It's a hell of a lot longer than mine.

Theres my entry, I'm not sure if it's really in the spirit of the competition but anyways.

THANK YOU. Finally a simple one. Expect an entry soon...

Edit: Here we go. Right, it's about 700 words and is extraordinarily nihilistic, as well as being a wee bit gory. You've been warned.

The Key

   A Living room. The wallpaper has separated from the wall underneath and is sloughing off like a snake shedding its skin. The floor is covered in used plates and take-away pizza boxes. Little light reaches past the grimy window to illuminate the tiny, dank room.

   On a couch in front of an expensive, enormous TV, sit three blank faced men. Pieces of stray food cling to their clothes. The only sign of life is when they deign to blink briefly before returning to their silent vigil.

   On the television the picture is crystal clear. A fresh faced young man talks into the camera in a reassuring faux-American accent.

   â€˜Hello and welcome to…’ At this, he turns to his left side and the camera swings around with him. The audience are on their feet, chanting and waving. As one, they say ‘FIND. THE. KEY.’

   A brief look of disgust flutters on our presenters face but is quickly replaced by his trademark grin.

   â€˜And let’s see who we have on the show tonight!’ A massive screen lowers itself behind him and we see a still image of a frowning young man.

‘James Regwin has been in and out of institutions all his life. From the age of thirteen he was described by a judge as being an “irredeemable criminal”. For a recent conviction of armed robbery he was sentenced to death. Thanks to our joint venture with the fine people at the Ministry for Mercy we have give him one last shot at freedom.’

   Again he turns and says ‘What have we given him?’

   â€˜ONE. LAST. SHOT.’ The crowd seem ever more zealous. A woman in the front row is visibly in tears.

   â€˜Without further ado…’ The screen shows a narrow alley in the centre of a city. A nondescript white van opens its rear doors and dumps a man out. He lands heavily on his side, clearly stunned.

   He scrambles up and grabs a nearby pole for support, his eyes darting about. He breaths heavily and then starts walking quickly out of the street.

   The alley opens out onto a wide broadway, red bricked and blazing with sunshine. A few people are milling about, clearly not here for the shopping. One man stares at James and immediately races after him. Seeing the man, James sprints in the opposite direction. A close camera captures the tears and terror in his eyes.

   More people join the chase; a woman dressed in black appears out of a shop doorway and lands heavily on James’ shoulder.

   She falls but he manages to struggle on. Some of the pursuers are carrying weapons now.

   In the studio, the presenter seems bored with proceedings ‘It seems our competitor has reached the first milestone.’ Loud boos emanate from the crowd. On screen James mounts a motorbike and speeds off. Almost immediately he is followed by a four by four, screeching out of a garage.

   The camera switches to overhead CCTV shots of the bike racing down the main streets of the city. James looks nervously back over his shoulder and loses control of the motorbike. The front wheel turns and the bike flips end over end, catapulting him into the pavement.

   His leg is twisted almost out of its socket and one of his arms is clearly broken. Blood streams from a long cut in his forehead and he spits feebly in an attempt to clear his throat of fluid.

   It’s not long before the cars pull up. Hungry eyed contestants swarm around his broken body, brandishing their knives. James opens one eye and manages to croak out a weak syllable.

   â€˜Please.’

   He finds no mercy in their eyes, nor in the studio with the rabid fans and the bored presenter, or even the passers by or the dead eyed watchers at home.

   As they carve his chest apart, not even stopping to end his suffering, he slumps back against the wall. One lucky contestant brandishes the shiny piece of metal, the joy of greed lighting his world. He holds the key, but not to what he thinks.

        He possesses only the privilege of being the next contestant.

Bizzarely, this is becoming popular.

This very competition is contributing to the demise of the creative writing competition, things are far too constrained as it is and when the thing lapses into self parody you know you're doing something wrong.
In the next competition there should be:
1.No word count limit or minimum. This stifles creativity, no one wants to shoehorn their 2000 word epic into 400 words or likewise stretch a clever little idea over 1500.
2. A vague Title. 'Beach' was good. 'Something Stupid' was not. You should not pin it down to a genre or location, nor should you put ideas in the writers heads. Ideas should come naturally.
3. More openess. Voting should not be restricted to entrants, nor should it be a crime to discuss the stories before the end of the competition.
4. No limit on the medium. Post it here or host it somewhere else, and the responsibility is with the Competition host to collate them into the top post.

Finally, don't give up hope, give this one another shot but make it less restricted and I guarantee that you'll have more entrants.

Enter this as an entry or not as you wish.

ICH VOTENSPLOCKEN FUREN TUOMAS...EN