WINTER 2015 SHORT STORY CONTEST

[Nazi Flower Power]

All hail our wise and glorious judges! Any news, guys?

[Vancon]

All hail our wise and glorious judges! Any news, guys?

School projects are the bane of Nationstates.

[Prusslandia]

I really need to watch out for these. I'm definitely participating in the next edition.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I really need to watch out for these. I'm definitely participating in the next edition.

I will try to get the next one stickied to make it easier to find, but I am not sure if the mods will do it or not.

[Laerod]

All hail our wise and glorious judges! Any news, guys?

I'll get them done by March.

[Nazi Flower Power]

All hail our wise and glorious judges! Any news, guys?

I'll get them done by March.

And you did! Thank you.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

"Judge not, lest ye be judged."

It follows that if I start judging others, eventually I will be judged.

I don't feel like judging short stories, so I'll be judging this based the assumption that it's a poem instead.

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.

By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.

How did I get here?

It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.

He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.

I couldn’t.

I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.

That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.

It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

Narrative/content: 8/10
It's sufficient.
Imagery: 10/15
Fine, I guess.
Emotion:: 8/10
I don't really care as much about emotion in poetry as some people would have me care.
Metre: 0/10
None whatsoever.
Rhyme, alliteration, and similar devices: 0/10
Again, nothing.
Other formal considerations: 2/15
Paragraphs, I guess? I mean, it's weird to write poetry in paragraphs, but at least it provides some structure
Style: 0/25
Terrible. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was reading prose.
Bonus: 0/5
No bonus.

Total: 28/100

I think my rubric needs work.

[Nazi Flower Power]

"Judge not, lest ye be judged."

It follows that if I start judging others, eventually I will be judged.

I don't feel like judging short stories, so I'll be judging this based the assumption that it's a poem instead.

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.

By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.

How did I get here?

It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.

He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.

I couldn’t.

I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.

That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.

It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

Narrative/content: 8/10
It's sufficient.
Imagery: 10/15
Fine, I guess.
Emotion:: 8/10
I don't really care as much about emotion in poetry as some people would have me care.
Metre: 0/10
None whatsoever.
Rhyme, alliteration, and similar devices: 0/10
Again, nothing.
Other formal considerations: 2/15
Paragraphs, I guess? I mean, it's weird to write poetry in paragraphs, but at least it provides some structure
Style: 0/25
Terrible. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was reading prose.
Bonus: 0/5
No bonus.

Total: 28/100

I think my rubric needs work.

I love you! Let's see if it works....

[Nazi Flower Power]

Hey, judges... Any word?

[Forsher]

Hey, judges... Any word?

Yeah, my bad, I'll get on to it straight away.

[Forsher]

Britanania - A Cool Night

Characters: 7/20

In some sense, the character doesn't seem entirely there: not really fleshed out/lacks substance. That may be deliberate but the story doesn't convince me that this is so. However, we do get that sense intrigue that he has very well. The emotions of the character, except right at then end, come across very well. The ending? It doesn't have the emotional fluidity, if that makes sense. Kate we don't meet but she doesn't seem particularly interesting.

Plot: 11/20

It's intriguing, it definitely does that well and keeps the interest in it. A large reason for that is that it is very efficient: we meet the character, things happen, it ends. It is always moving towards its finale, which is a good thing, to an extent.

Setting: 7/15

Sparse, but it does what it needs to: we know where we are and we see a bit of the characters in the setting. However, it would be nice to have some more smaller details. Also, the timing of the memorial doesn't quite seem right. I feel as if the story is more at the stage of "flowers for the grieving widow" than some sort of memorial: a lot of friends and family will still be hearing about the murder. If it weren't for the sign, I'd put this down to the character's being dead and, therefore, temporally out of whack.

Creativity: 4/15

It reminds me of the Sixth Sense (dude, doesn't realise he's dead) and, to an extent, my vague recollections of Ghost (the more romantic side of this story). The sheer efficiency of the plot and setting also doesn't leave much room for the creativity to come into its own. That being said, this is pretty open-ended so I guess this score is really reflective of the genesis of a not fully developed idea.

Style: 8/20

I've recently been reading Philip Pullman's retellings of some Grimm fairy-tales: the style of this very reminds me of that. However, the story doesn't feel as if it's meant to be an original fairy tale: it has the tempo and the efficiency of those retellings but it doesn't quite have the fluidity that creates the finished article. Furthermore, the word choices in some parts seem fancier than what they're describing (esp. trek). Also, the starting quote seems a little unattached. Doesn't stop this from being an enjoyable little read, though.

Grammar and Spelling: 3/5

The spelling is good, but the grammar doesn't always quite seem right.

Bonus: 0/5

In terms of how I think it's meant to be, the classic rubric is appropriate.

Total: 40/100

Schiltzberg - The News Report

Characters: 11/20

Robert, oh what have you done? You start off being reasonably sympathetic (despite the line about power at the start), and then you end up being decidedly not... but the story doesn't really give a point to this. The motivations for killing Henson and the reaction to the phone call ring true. The purchase of the cheeseburgers and having $350 on hand, doesn't. In fact, the purchase of the dagger doesn't really do much except make Robert look stupid (generally, slow deaths are more painful deaths, and why spend that much on a dagger when you could use a kitchen knife?). Henson and Fanny are more natural and don't seem to have these inconsistencies: even when Henson's being subjected to a drawn out death, in an apparently reasonably public place. That being said, the visions in the lift did add something more to Robert, but for such a Robert-centric story, he doesn't seem to cut it.

Plot: 10/20

We're introduced to the problem pretty quickly, we reach the solution fairly naturally. The problem is that given what we know about Robert, aside from the phone call, the way we move from coming up with the solution and the implementation of it doesn't happen particularly naturally. This robs the plot of some of its interest and the involvement it generates.

Setting: 5/15

Chicago. A tall building. A desk in an office with apparently pretty good soundproofing. I feel as if we should know a bit more about some of these places.

Creativity: 7/15

Put upon employee goes rogue, kills boss. That's the core of what happens here. We can also add in financial pressures and, arguably, feelings of inadequacy. The bit in the lift is the most creative part but the character doesn't really seem to engage with this: it is merely something that happens to him.

Style: 13/20

Sometimes the sentences could pay to be shorter. Variety in sentence length is definitely desirable and to many strings of compound sentences can break up the story's punch. Likewise, there was one bit in the dialogue where you stopped it to insert a "He said". This broke the flow for the reader and doesn't really seem natural for the thought structure of our first person narrator either. Similarly, Fanny probably would have contracted "How is work?" Some of these uses of "said" "continued" etc probably happened because the pacing, while as a whole good, was moving a bit faster than it needed to for that section and where you wanted to slow things down these words were used to get a semblance of that.

Grammar and Spelling: 3/5

Some of those semi-colons should have been colons and bracketed thoughts don't need capitalising.

Bonus: 0/5

Again, this story fits quite well within the classic rubric.

Total: 49/100

[Forsher]

Occupied Deutschland

Characters: 17/20

They're fun and they really do seem quite alive. This is especially true of Mike who also generates interest. Mariah strikes me as a character that could have easily been a cliché (and, indeed, probably would be in, say, my hands) but here there are no worries in this sense: everything's sweet. Also, you should be commended for how naturally the story manages to explain why Mariah is even at the party in the first place. I guess this ties in with their both having imaginable problems.

Plot: 15/20

Basically, a dude wants to avoid something by getting drunk alone and then a chick turns up and presents both a problem and a solution for that aim. It's extremely character driven, to the extent that I don't feel as if the plot is so important... what the something actually is feels to me as it's more a character thing (and, indeed, is done very well).

Setting: 10/15

There's a party with some drug taking happening, it's in the country, there's a fire going on outside and people drove here. Not really much but none of it wants further description or focus.

Creativity: 10/15

It seems like one of those small, realistic fics or something of that nature. However, in some ways it seems like it's more a small episode of personal growth. I am also a fan of the central premise: get drunk to avoid doing drugs. Chucking two apparently different characters together and revealing a greater commonality (or ability to personally connect) than one would expect isn't so original, but is done well.

Style: 17/20

To an extent, some of the things in the above category are also relevant here. Certainly, without the very communicative nature combined with the other features adds up to what is probably the perfect sort of style for this. On the odd occasion there are bits that perhaps could be phrased differently for greater fluidity but they don't matter much in the grand scheme.

Grammar and Spelling: 5/5

Nothing that worried me.

Bonus: 5/5

For the relative irrelevance of the setting and plot.

Total: 79/100

[Forsher]

Fralinia

Characters: 12/20

A nameless hunter with a nameless family, although we do learn a bit about the hunter both physically and psychologically (the latter of which makes sense). We also get a bit of the uncle's personality as well, which is good. However, they both seem... archetypical? The horse is loyal, though.

The Hamlet dwellers' reaction is lifelike but I feel as if the phrasing let them down a bit.

Plot: 9/20

A hunter is nervous/edgy over the ritual he must perform. It's a plot that moves forwards well and generates some interest bit is also not particularly compelling. The end is arguably foreshadowed with another case of apparent ritual failure.

Setting: 9/15

Well, there's a mountain hamlet and a larger village. The description at the start was good and one did get a sense of the distance between them, even before we were informed of this fact. On the other hand, I am not entirely convinced either of them is climatically suitable for hemp production.

There were some details about the other places but their ideas weren't conveyed as well. Also, the bright colours seemed a little out of place with the physical location and the apparently ancient setting.

Creativity: 6/15

Sacrificial blood ritual in an apparently ancient mountain tribe/village? Nervous first timer? Talkative, tea drinking, elderly uncle? Equinox? The stuff about the horses is the most creative element.

Style: 9/20

At times it seems unintentionally stilted and, perhaps, could have done with some dialogue. That being said, the tone adopted works.

Grammar and Spelling: 3/5

A couple of times things seem slightly amiss, e.g. "a rough hemp cords".

Bonus: 1/5

For having a purpose behind the formatting. Also, some of those things mentioned in the creativity section help ground the wider work.

Total: 49/100

Apologies for the double post: I wasn't going to do another one so soon but I found myself with some unexpectedly long loading time.

Also, been quite a few nameless protagonists thus far. Must be fashionable.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Fralinia

Characters: 12/20

A nameless hunter with a nameless family, although we do learn a bit about the hunter both physically and psychologically (the latter of which makes sense). We also get a bit of the uncle's personality as well, which is good. However, they both seem... archetypical? The horse is loyal, though.

The Hamlet dwellers' reaction is lifelike but I feel as if the phrasing let them down a bit.

Plot: 9/20

A hunter is nervous/edgy over the ritual he must perform. It's a plot that moves forwards well and generates some interest bit is also not particularly compelling. The end is arguably foreshadowed with another case of apparent ritual failure.

Setting: 9/15

Well, there's a mountain hamlet and a larger village. The description at the start was good and one did get a sense of the distance between them, even before we were informed of this fact. On the other hand, I am not entirely convinced either of them is climatically suitable for hemp production.

There were some details about the other places but their ideas weren't conveyed as well. Also, the bright colours seemed a little out of place with the physical location and the apparently ancient setting.

Creativity: 6/15

Sacrificial blood ritual in an apparently ancient mountain tribe/village? Nervous first timer? Talkative, tea drinking, elderly uncle? Equinox? The stuff about the horses is the most creative element.

Style: 9/20

At times it seems unintentionally stilted and, perhaps, could have done with some dialogue. That being said, the tone adopted works.

Grammar and Spelling: 3/5

A couple of times things seem slightly amiss, e.g. "a rough hemp cords".

Bonus: 1/5

For having a purpose behind the formatting. Also, some of those things mentioned in the creativity section help ground the wider work.

Total: 49/100

Apologies for the double post: I wasn't going to do another one so soon but I found myself with some unexpectedly long loading time.

Also, been quite a few nameless protagonists thus far. Must be fashionable.

Hey, I'm just glad to have scores coming in. Besides, I make consecutive posts all the time.

[Forsher]

New Kvenland - The Soldier

Characters: 12/20

Mikhail's almost dull. He's not particularly interesting, in part because it's almost as if we know him already: unprepared, unwilling and not in a good place. That being said, where we'd expect difficulty in accepting that people have been killed, Mikhail's more soldiering is murdering. Sadly, I felt that this didn't tally so well with 'joining up to protect my family'. He also has better English than he is given credit for. The Americans we don't get to know too much about but more on them later. Their threat to kill him also doesn't really convince given that Mikhail's about to kill himself when they meet him but somehow it works.

Plot: 9/20

Soldier looks to end it all, encounters a last moment event of interest, discussion, argument, killing and then death. It's a functional plot but it really doesn't do anything other than that. It's a bit like how we find Mikhail at the start. There is a slight subversion of expectation in the way that Mikhail ends up being killed but this just creates tension between the characterisation and the plot.

Setting: 12/15

The scene is set well. We know what we need to know and we learn it in naturally. The physical landscape also contrasts nicely with the situational setting that we get: a somewhat sci-fi US/Soviet war.

Creativity: 9/15

The friendly soldiers not being so is more creative than the situation. However, the way it is written makes one initially think 'WWII' but it turns out not be. Also, the absence of MAD and the presence of the mechas (even if unmet) also work in "The Soldier's" favour.

Style: 10/20

I don't know what a VTOL is: stylistically, this story almost assumes too much. It's also almost too varied in its sentence length and seems to chop and change between long and short. This breaks up the flow and slows the story down. Given what happens, the tone and the general mood of the character, it should flow slowly but it's more as if it moves through gears slowly.

Grammar and Spelling: 2/5

A couple of typo type things and the use of semi-colons instead of colons.

Bonus: 0/5

The rubric seems appropriate.

Total: 54/100

[Laerod]

I don't know what a VTOL is:

Wikipedia is your friend.

[Forsher]

I don't know what a VTOL is:

Wikipedia is your friend.

It's funny, if I'd read The Soldier when I was eight, I probably would've known that.

[Nerotysia]

Also, been quite a few nameless protagonists thus far. Must be fashionable.

What's in a name?

[New Kvenland]

New Kvenland - The Soldier

Characters: 12/20

Mikhail's almost dull. He's not particularly interesting, in part because it's almost as if we know him already: unprepared, unwilling and not in a good place. That being said, where we'd expect difficulty in accepting that people have been killed, Mikhail's more soldiering is murdering. Sadly, I felt that this didn't tally so well with 'joining up to protect my family'. He also has better English than he is given credit for. The Americans we don't get to know too much about but more on them later. Their threat to kill him also doesn't really convince given that Mikhail's about to kill himself when they meet him but somehow it works.

Plot: 9/20

Soldier looks to end it all, encounters a last moment event of interest, discussion, argument, killing and then death. It's a functional plot but it really doesn't do anything other than that. It's a bit like how we find Mikhail at the start. There is a slight subversion of expectation in the way that Mikhail ends up being killed but this just creates tension between the characterisation and the plot.

Setting: 12/15

The scene is set well. We know what we need to know and we learn it in naturally. The physical landscape also contrasts nicely with the situational setting that we get: a somewhat sci-fi US/Soviet war.

Creativity: 9/15

The friendly soldiers not being so is more creative than the situation. However, the way it is written makes one initially think 'WWII' but it turns out not be. Also, the absence of MAD and the presence of the mechas (even if unmet) also work in "The Soldier's" favour.

Style: 10/20

I don't know what a VTOL is: stylistically, this story almost assumes too much. It's also almost too varied in its sentence length and seems to chop and change between long and short. This breaks up the flow and slows the story down. Given what happens, the tone and the general mood of the character, it should flow slowly but it's more as if it moves through gears slowly.

Grammar and Spelling: 2/5

A couple of typo type things and the use of semi-colons instead of colons.

Bonus: 0/5

The rubric seems appropriate.

Total: 54/100

Thanks! My main disappointment, like I told Laerod, was the spelling errors. Goddamn phone...

I'll work on my style next time.

[Vancon]

This is a little story I wrote one day when I was bored. I hope it's enjoyable

A Cool Night

"True horror is looking around and seeing the world for what it is-ordinary"-the Author

The night was cool when I left my office building, and I paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze. My respite complete, I began the trek back to my flat.. Halfway there, I absently checked my watch. 23.56. I sighed; I was getting home later than I would have liked, and no doubt she would be furious at my truancy, although by morning Kate would be her usual, chipper self.

I opened the back door and took the stairs to the 7th floor. Swiftly, silently I went to my flat door, and after fumbling around to find my keys, I realised I left them at the office. However, I noticed the door was left unlocked. I smiled. Of course Kate left it unlocked. I would rebuke her teasingly for being so trusting, I thought as I made my way gingerly through our flat.

She was already asleep as I crept cat-like into our bedroom. I smiled, gazing upon her goddess-like appearance and I thought myself the luckiest barrister in London for having her as my wife. I kissed her softly on the forehead before returning to our lounge and slept on the sofa. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that Kate had already left. Odd, I thought, but not completely unusual. I also found my spare keys gone, some dubious prank on her part, no doubt, a playful punishment for my coming home late.

I left my building after quickly getting dressed. I was off work today, but I was in the habit of dressing for the office regardless. I took a walk around our Soho neighbourhood, hoping Kate would be back when I returned. She wasn't, and with my curiosity piqued, I checked the diary to see if anything was going on I forgot about.

I checked our answering machine to see if she left me a message but all I found was a recording from one of her friends, something about meeting up at a pub we frequent.. Thinking I'd surprise her, I went to their planned rendezvous.

As I was nearing her auto on foot, I saw the two of them get into our car and drove off. Naturally, and slightly perturbed, I followed. Traffic is always terrible so I was never too far behind, and always close enough to see the motorcar. Finally they stopped and entered a building-I didn't even check to see where we were as I shadowed them inside.

They entered a large room as I looked in terror at the sign perched on the wall.

"Loving son, friend, and husband murdered last midnight."

Characters: 13/20
Barely interesting, yet still above par.
Plot: 9/20
Yes there was the basics for a plot, but not a substantial one.
Setting: 9/15
I found it interesting how this story's setting was simple enough for it to make sense yet still have it be able to be put wherever.
Creativity: 9/15
Unexpected ending, but otherwise, it was kinda cookie cutter.
Style: 12/20
The addition of quotes was a nice touch, but not really outstanding.
Grammar and Spelling: 5/5
Bonus: 0/5

Total: 57/100
It was interesting, albeit not anything overly new.

Here is my contribution to this contest. I hope that you like it!

The News Report
A short-story by Schiltzberg

I held the dagger between my fingers, and I thrust it into the depths of his being. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My name is Robert Flange, and I am a humble news reporter for the famous Channel Four Nightly News. My job is to deliver America what she wants; a story, and I do not think that anyone can deny that that is exactly what I did.

The date: August 18. The time: precisely 10:08 am. Why or how I remember the time, I do not know, but I do. It is written in my soul, as if fate, luck, or superstition had planted it there like a seed in the soil. Because of this, I cannot forget the date nor the time; the event is of such great magnitude, such great power, yes, such great, glorious power.

At that time, 10:08, I walked into my boss’ office. Now, my boss, Mr. Forest B. Henson, was very strict, and he only wanted and received the best from his reporters. Today was a slow day in the news, as it had been for the last few weeks, and Mr. Henson was not going to hear of it any longer.

“How long until you find a real story, Flange?” he spat at me in a demeaning tone from behind his desk. “Our viewers can only take this crap about invasive species and dog shows for so long. Ha! And that’s what it is; crap!” He chuckled at his attempt at a joke, and continued toward the door of the office before he paused and checked his watch.

He turned and looked me right in the face. “You’d better get a good story by tonight,” he said, “or you’re fired,” and he continued out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately, I felt a lump in my throat. I knew that there was no way that I could find a story that pleased Henson’s short-sighted brain in that time. I had heard rumors too. Ben Josephes had told me that once Henson threatened to fire you, he would keep his promise if you didn’t do exactly what he asked. Ben said that that was what happened to Robbie Jenkins, who I replaced when I was hired six months ago. I knew I was done for.

Now, I don’t know if I have said this already, but I was a mediocre news reporter, and I made a humble salary of around 25,000 dollars per year, which is not too much for a small family of three. Yes, myself and my wife Fanny lived in an apartment on the north side of Chicago, just a few miles from Lake Michigan, with our then-two-year-old son David. With Chicago prices being as they are, 25,000 dollars was only really enough to keep the apartment and put food on the table, and even though Fanny constantly dreamed of getting away on vacation, we simply couldn’t afford it. The thought of losing that job made my stomach turn in a knot, because I knew that we would certainly not be able to continue our humble lives as we knew them if I was not bringing in any cash. I had to find a news story, and I had to find it fast.

I started out in my usual spots, along Michigan Avenue, around the police station, and down the pier, but I couldn’t find anything. “Of all of the days for there to not be a shooting, it just HAD to be today,” I thought to myself.

I walked down to a McDonald’s to grab something to eat -- by now it must have been around noon -- and I ordered two cheeseburgers with no pickles; I hate pickles. While I waited for my order, I couldn’t stop thinking about my task. I kept telling myself, “You HAVE to find a good story today! You have to, or else Fanny and David are out on the street,” and then it hit me; if I wanted a good story, I would have to create one!

When I finally got my cheeseburgers, they had pickles on them, but I did not really care at that point. I ate them quickly, and got out of the restaurant to get to work.

I knew that I would have to carry out a crime, but the only problem was that I had never really broken the law before in my life, and I had no idea where to start. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure what I would have to do that would make a story interesting enough to allow me to keep my job. Then my phone buzzed. The text message was from Henson.

It said: “Hey Flang, make sure you get your story in by 6:30, and make sure it’s not crap XD!”

That was just too far. The thing that pissed me off the most was that he had spelled my name wrong. Everyone knows that Flange is spelled with an “e.” Even the jocks in high school who called me “Toilet Flange” knew how to spell it, and Henson did not. The rage inside me was already built up so much, and this text was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I could feel the steam screaming from my ears, much like how air screams out of a teapot. It was at that exact moment that I realized just how to get Henson’s attention: I would kill him.

Looking back on it, I realize that what I did was a bit extreme. Sure he was an asshole, but I guess he did not deserve to die. But then again, I was not getting paid enough for all of the crap that I had to put up with at the office, and with all honesty, I have to say that I have no regrets.

Just as these thoughts were filling my head, my phone rang in my hands. It was Fanny. It was as if God had sent her to call me at that precise second so that I would forget the evil thoughts that were causing me to dream of horrible things.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Hi, honey,” she replied back. “How is work?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual stuff,” I lied. If she only knew…

“Will you be back for dinner tonight?”

“Yes, but I probably won’t be home until 7:00 or 7:30, because Henson’s on my ass again.”

She responded saying, “Rob, you need to stand up for yourself for once. If you do whatever Henson says, he’ll keep treating you like a bug.” She continued, “If you want to get noticed, you’ve got to cut the head off of the snake.”

I do not think that she realized the irony of her words, but this was just encouragement for me to kill Henson. I have said that perhaps her call was a message from God, and perhaps it was. Whether it went the way he intended for it to go or not, I will never know.

Fanny and I engaged in a debate about whether or not we should send David to preschool this year, and I was originally against it (Seriously, who sends their two-year-old to preschool?), but Fanny was very passionate about it, so I eventually gave in because I honestly couldn’t care less.

After she hung up, I went back to thinking about how much I loathed Forest B. Henson. As if on cue, I got a new text from him saying: “Flangue, it’s 2:47, and I haven’t heard from you yet. Where the hell are you???”

At least he didn’t forget the “e” this time.

As a news reporter, I had been exposed to most of all the best black markets, and it was not long before I found a weapons dealer. For the safety of his identity, I will call him “Bob” from here on out. Anyway, I met with Bob, and it took about half an hour to convince him that I was not in fact there to rat him out to the police, but once that was over with, we got down to business.

He had the whole bananza; guns, knives, ropes, wires, time-bombs, everything. He asked me what I was looking for, and I told him, “I want my victim to die a slow death, but still be in a lot of pain.” Bob suggested a knife.

The one I picked out had a red handle. Red; the color of Henson’s blood. It was a humble dagger, but it still had a fine tipped point that was certainly capable of getting the job done. It was small enough that I could easily conceal it by tightening it to my back with my belt without anyone suspecting a thing. Bob cut me a deal on the knife, and I got the five-hundred dollar dagger for a mere three-hundred-fifty bucks.

I did not have much money to spare, but the thought of life after Henson was worth much more than the price I paid.

Now, the time was about 4:17 when I make it back to the news station. I entered the lobby, got into the elevator, and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. Insanity started to set in. There was a shadow on a wall of the elevator. It started out as a dark blob, and I took little notice of it. Then, it started to move. The shadow took the shape of a bird, then it transformed into some sort of dragon-like creature. I was amazed by this, because I had never seen a shadow move in this way before.

By this point, the elevator had reached the sixth floor. The door opened, but no-one was there. It closed again, and it continued up very slowly. This elevator denied chronology. After passing the seventh floor, it went up to the eighth floor, then, while it still continued up, opened at the sixth floor again. Then, it continued up to the third floor, then the eleventh, and then it opened at the sixth floor again. I could not understand how or why this was taking place, and to this day I still have my doubts about whether or not it really happened.

I eventually made it up to the eighteenth floor, and I praised God for this. I proceeded directly to Mr. Henson’s office, but I found it empty. While I waited, I sat in the chair behind his desk, and stared at his picture of himself that was conveniently placed directly across from it.

I started to drift off, but then I heard his voice outside the room. The door creaked open, and he walked in on the phone.

“Yeah, could you get that done? That would be great. No, that was for tomorrow. Just a second.” He locked eyes with me and pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

He was on the phone for another four minutes, and then he hung up. Seeing that I was still in his chair, he asked, “Could you get up please?”

I obeyed, and went towards the door. I locked it, and then went back to sit across from Henson.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, “just fine.”

“I didn’t get your report yet, you have something prepared right?”

“You see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I pulled down the blinds of the window that connected the office to the outside hallway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, legitimately confused.

I pulled out the knife and placed it on the table firmly. “This,” I said.

He was baffled, and he started to say something, but his voice trailed off.

“Get on the ground,” I ordered him. “Get on the ground!”

“Get on the ground?” he asked jokingly.

I grabbed the knife and held it up to his throat.

Slowly but surely, the words left my lips. “Get… on… the ground.”

He looked down at the knife, then up at me, then down at the knife, and back again. His hands slowly rose into the air, and he helplessly knelt on the floor beside his desk.

“Take off your belt!” I demanded.

“My bel..?” he started, but I cut him off by shouting “Do it!” in his face. His hands were shaking as he slowly took it off.

I tied his hands together with the belt. He started to cry, but then I kicked him in the stomach to shut him up. Then, I looked disappointedly at his face. He looked nervous, and I could tell that he was starting to sweat.

“Take off your sport coat,” I said. This time he didn’t complain. I ripped the right sleeve off of the blue coat, and used it to gag him.

Then I started to taunt him by threatening to stab him with the knife. By this point, he was in great desperation, and I have to admit that I was enjoying every second of it. I looked around the office for something else that I could torture him with. I grabbed the stapler, but only to see his reaction. The second I went for it, his eyes grew to the size of oranges and his face shriveled in terror. I softly chuckled to myself and set the stapler down.

I decided to taunt him some more.

“Do sit-ups,” I said.

He immediately started the exercise, and I had to cover my mouth to conceal my laughter. His face was like that of a sick dog; obedient and submissive, while on the verge of vomiting. I watched him rise and fall to and from sitting position maybe fifteen or twenty times, until fatigue overtook him and he was forced to stop.

“You look healthy to me;” I said, “ten more!”

He slowly went up for his first of the ten.

“Faster!” I shouted. “Faster you piece of crap!”

He moaned and wept, but I told him to shut up.

He lay on the ground, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He breathed heavily -- maybe sixty or seventy times a minute!

When he had calmed down, I got up and began to pick papers off of his desk. “You said you wanted a story, huh?” I said to him. “Well here’s your damn story!” I yelled, and I threw all of the papers at him. One of the books that I threw must have been five-hundred pages long. He lay on the ground defeated.

I continued by saying, “You said you were going to fire me right?” I pulled a cigarette lighter from my back pocket and started to light the papers on fire all around him.

He looked at me frantically and his eyes begged me to stop, but there was no going back now. I had taken this to the point where there was no turning back. I pulled a burning book from the flames, and I placed it neatly back in its spot on the bookshelf. Before long, the whole shelf was on fire!

The fire alarms went off, and water sprinkled from the ceiling. He murmured and squirmed away from the fire on the ground. His eyes rolled around wildly like bingo balls do when the carton is turned. I looked at my watch. 6:26. The time was right.

I grabbed a pen from his desk and began to scribble on my news report sheet. Red ink; how fitting. When I was finished, I thrust the paper at him.

“Accidental fire on the eighteenth floor of the Channel Four News building. One dead.”

After he was done reading, he looked up at me submissively. I laughed so hard that I threw up. I went to pick up the knife, and he resisted and kicked with all of his might. “Coward,” I said. I looked at him with pity, but wished execration on his soul. I held the dagger between my fingers, and thrust it into the depths of his being.

Characters: 17/20
I'm no fan of assholes, but this was pretty nifty. I haven't read anything like this one before, and it was well done. The characters of Henson and Flange were each enjoyable, and imagining this in a Spiderman type vein made me smile. Good on you.
Plot: 16/20
It was interesting, what with the whole murder thing, but still there were few faults. By that I mean that some things could've been left out, like the pickles thing.
Setting: 10/15
Abnormal MC in a less common job, albeit one that is frequented by heros.
Creativity: 10/15
A potentially very mundane story had it's future changed into a very nifty one.
Style: 13/20
Above par, but nothing unheard of.
Grammar and Spelling: 5/5
Bonus: /5

Total: 71/100
Excellent work here.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Yay, judgements.

[Laerod]

Yay, judgements.

More lost souls for the purging flames!

[Schiltzberg]

Here is my contribution to this contest. I hope that you like it!

The News Report
A short-story by Schiltzberg

I held the dagger between my fingers, and I thrust it into the depths of his being. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My name is Robert Flange, and I am a humble news reporter for the famous Channel Four Nightly News. My job is to deliver America what she wants; a story, and I do not think that anyone can deny that that is exactly what I did.

The date: August 18. The time: precisely 10:08 am. Why or how I remember the time, I do not know, but I do. It is written in my soul, as if fate, luck, or superstition had planted it there like a seed in the soil. Because of this, I cannot forget the date nor the time; the event is of such great magnitude, such great power, yes, such great, glorious power.

At that time, 10:08, I walked into my boss’ office. Now, my boss, Mr. Forest B. Henson, was very strict, and he only wanted and received the best from his reporters. Today was a slow day in the news, as it had been for the last few weeks, and Mr. Henson was not going to hear of it any longer.

“How long until you find a real story, Flange?” he spat at me in a demeaning tone from behind his desk. “Our viewers can only take this crap about invasive species and dog shows for so long. Ha! And that’s what it is; crap!” He chuckled at his attempt at a joke, and continued toward the door of the office before he paused and checked his watch.

He turned and looked me right in the face. “You’d better get a good story by tonight,” he said, “or you’re fired,” and he continued out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately, I felt a lump in my throat. I knew that there was no way that I could find a story that pleased Henson’s short-sighted brain in that time. I had heard rumors too. Ben Josephes had told me that once Henson threatened to fire you, he would keep his promise if you didn’t do exactly what he asked. Ben said that that was what happened to Robbie Jenkins, who I replaced when I was hired six months ago. I knew I was done for.

Now, I don’t know if I have said this already, but I was a mediocre news reporter, and I made a humble salary of around 25,000 dollars per year, which is not too much for a small family of three. Yes, myself and my wife Fanny lived in an apartment on the north side of Chicago, just a few miles from Lake Michigan, with our then-two-year-old son David. With Chicago prices being as they are, 25,000 dollars was only really enough to keep the apartment and put food on the table, and even though Fanny constantly dreamed of getting away on vacation, we simply couldn’t afford it. The thought of losing that job made my stomach turn in a knot, because I knew that we would certainly not be able to continue our humble lives as we knew them if I was not bringing in any cash. I had to find a news story, and I had to find it fast.

I started out in my usual spots, along Michigan Avenue, around the police station, and down the pier, but I couldn’t find anything. “Of all of the days for there to not be a shooting, it just HAD to be today,” I thought to myself.

I walked down to a McDonald’s to grab something to eat -- by now it must have been around noon -- and I ordered two cheeseburgers with no pickles; I hate pickles. While I waited for my order, I couldn’t stop thinking about my task. I kept telling myself, “You HAVE to find a good story today! You have to, or else Fanny and David are out on the street,” and then it hit me; if I wanted a good story, I would have to create one!

When I finally got my cheeseburgers, they had pickles on them, but I did not really care at that point. I ate them quickly, and got out of the restaurant to get to work.

I knew that I would have to carry out a crime, but the only problem was that I had never really broken the law before in my life, and I had no idea where to start. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure what I would have to do that would make a story interesting enough to allow me to keep my job. Then my phone buzzed. The text message was from Henson.

It said: “Hey Flang, make sure you get your story in by 6:30, and make sure it’s not crap XD!”

That was just too far. The thing that pissed me off the most was that he had spelled my name wrong. Everyone knows that Flange is spelled with an “e.” Even the jocks in high school who called me “Toilet Flange” knew how to spell it, and Henson did not. The rage inside me was already built up so much, and this text was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I could feel the steam screaming from my ears, much like how air screams out of a teapot. It was at that exact moment that I realized just how to get Henson’s attention: I would kill him.

Looking back on it, I realize that what I did was a bit extreme. Sure he was an asshole, but I guess he did not deserve to die. But then again, I was not getting paid enough for all of the crap that I had to put up with at the office, and with all honesty, I have to say that I have no regrets.

Just as these thoughts were filling my head, my phone rang in my hands. It was Fanny. It was as if God had sent her to call me at that precise second so that I would forget the evil thoughts that were causing me to dream of horrible things.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Hi, honey,” she replied back. “How is work?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual stuff,” I lied. If she only knew…

“Will you be back for dinner tonight?”

“Yes, but I probably won’t be home until 7:00 or 7:30, because Henson’s on my ass again.”

She responded saying, “Rob, you need to stand up for yourself for once. If you do whatever Henson says, he’ll keep treating you like a bug.” She continued, “If you want to get noticed, you’ve got to cut the head off of the snake.”

I do not think that she realized the irony of her words, but this was just encouragement for me to kill Henson. I have said that perhaps her call was a message from God, and perhaps it was. Whether it went the way he intended for it to go or not, I will never know.

Fanny and I engaged in a debate about whether or not we should send David to preschool this year, and I was originally against it (Seriously, who sends their two-year-old to preschool?), but Fanny was very passionate about it, so I eventually gave in because I honestly couldn’t care less.

After she hung up, I went back to thinking about how much I loathed Forest B. Henson. As if on cue, I got a new text from him saying: “Flangue, it’s 2:47, and I haven’t heard from you yet. Where the hell are you???”

At least he didn’t forget the “e” this time.

As a news reporter, I had been exposed to most of all the best black markets, and it was not long before I found a weapons dealer. For the safety of his identity, I will call him “Bob” from here on out. Anyway, I met with Bob, and it took about half an hour to convince him that I was not in fact there to rat him out to the police, but once that was over with, we got down to business.

He had the whole bananza; guns, knives, ropes, wires, time-bombs, everything. He asked me what I was looking for, and I told him, “I want my victim to die a slow death, but still be in a lot of pain.” Bob suggested a knife.

The one I picked out had a red handle. Red; the color of Henson’s blood. It was a humble dagger, but it still had a fine tipped point that was certainly capable of getting the job done. It was small enough that I could easily conceal it by tightening it to my back with my belt without anyone suspecting a thing. Bob cut me a deal on the knife, and I got the five-hundred dollar dagger for a mere three-hundred-fifty bucks.

I did not have much money to spare, but the thought of life after Henson was worth much more than the price I paid.

Now, the time was about 4:17 when I make it back to the news station. I entered the lobby, got into the elevator, and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. Insanity started to set in. There was a shadow on a wall of the elevator. It started out as a dark blob, and I took little notice of it. Then, it started to move. The shadow took the shape of a bird, then it transformed into some sort of dragon-like creature. I was amazed by this, because I had never seen a shadow move in this way before.

By this point, the elevator had reached the sixth floor. The door opened, but no-one was there. It closed again, and it continued up very slowly. This elevator denied chronology. After passing the seventh floor, it went up to the eighth floor, then, while it still continued up, opened at the sixth floor again. Then, it continued up to the third floor, then the eleventh, and then it opened at the sixth floor again. I could not understand how or why this was taking place, and to this day I still have my doubts about whether or not it really happened.

I eventually made it up to the eighteenth floor, and I praised God for this. I proceeded directly to Mr. Henson’s office, but I found it empty. While I waited, I sat in the chair behind his desk, and stared at his picture of himself that was conveniently placed directly across from it.

I started to drift off, but then I heard his voice outside the room. The door creaked open, and he walked in on the phone.

“Yeah, could you get that done? That would be great. No, that was for tomorrow. Just a second.” He locked eyes with me and pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

He was on the phone for another four minutes, and then he hung up. Seeing that I was still in his chair, he asked, “Could you get up please?”

I obeyed, and went towards the door. I locked it, and then went back to sit across from Henson.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, “just fine.”

“I didn’t get your report yet, you have something prepared right?”

“You see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I pulled down the blinds of the window that connected the office to the outside hallway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, legitimately confused.

I pulled out the knife and placed it on the table firmly. “This,” I said.

He was baffled, and he started to say something, but his voice trailed off.

“Get on the ground,” I ordered him. “Get on the ground!”

“Get on the ground?” he asked jokingly.

I grabbed the knife and held it up to his throat.

Slowly but surely, the words left my lips. “Get… on… the ground.”

He looked down at the knife, then up at me, then down at the knife, and back again. His hands slowly rose into the air, and he helplessly knelt on the floor beside his desk.

“Take off your belt!” I demanded.

“My bel..?” he started, but I cut him off by shouting “Do it!” in his face. His hands were shaking as he slowly took it off.

I tied his hands together with the belt. He started to cry, but then I kicked him in the stomach to shut him up. Then, I looked disappointedly at his face. He looked nervous, and I could tell that he was starting to sweat.

“Take off your sport coat,” I said. This time he didn’t complain. I ripped the right sleeve off of the blue coat, and used it to gag him.

Then I started to taunt him by threatening to stab him with the knife. By this point, he was in great desperation, and I have to admit that I was enjoying every second of it. I looked around the office for something else that I could torture him with. I grabbed the stapler, but only to see his reaction. The second I went for it, his eyes grew to the size of oranges and his face shriveled in terror. I softly chuckled to myself and set the stapler down.

I decided to taunt him some more.

“Do sit-ups,” I said.

He immediately started the exercise, and I had to cover my mouth to conceal my laughter. His face was like that of a sick dog; obedient and submissive, while on the verge of vomiting. I watched him rise and fall to and from sitting position maybe fifteen or twenty times, until fatigue overtook him and he was forced to stop.

“You look healthy to me;” I said, “ten more!”

He slowly went up for his first of the ten.

“Faster!” I shouted. “Faster you piece of crap!”

He moaned and wept, but I told him to shut up.

He lay on the ground, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He breathed heavily -- maybe sixty or seventy times a minute!

When he had calmed down, I got up and began to pick papers off of his desk. “You said you wanted a story, huh?” I said to him. “Well here’s your damn story!” I yelled, and I threw all of the papers at him. One of the books that I threw must have been five-hundred pages long. He lay on the ground defeated.

I continued by saying, “You said you were going to fire me right?” I pulled a cigarette lighter from my back pocket and started to light the papers on fire all around him.

He looked at me frantically and his eyes begged me to stop, but there was no going back now. I had taken this to the point where there was no turning back. I pulled a burning book from the flames, and I placed it neatly back in its spot on the bookshelf. Before long, the whole shelf was on fire!

The fire alarms went off, and water sprinkled from the ceiling. He murmured and squirmed away from the fire on the ground. His eyes rolled around wildly like bingo balls do when the carton is turned. I looked at my watch. 6:26. The time was right.

I grabbed a pen from his desk and began to scribble on my news report sheet. Red ink; how fitting. When I was finished, I thrust the paper at him.

“Accidental fire on the eighteenth floor of the Channel Four News building. One dead.”

After he was done reading, he looked up at me submissively. I laughed so hard that I threw up. I went to pick up the knife, and he resisted and kicked with all of his might. “Coward,” I said. I looked at him with pity, but wished execration on his soul. I held the dagger between my fingers, and thrust it into the depths of his being.

Characters: 17/20
I'm no fan of assholes, but this was pretty nifty. I haven't read anything like this one before, and it was well done. The characters of Henson and Flange were each enjoyable, and imagining this in a Spiderman type vein made me smile. Good on you.
Plot: 16/20
It was interesting, what with the whole murder thing, but still there were few faults. By that I mean that some things could've been left out, like the pickles thing.
Setting: 10/15
Abnormal MC in a less common job, albeit one that is frequented by heros.
Creativity: 10/15
A potentially very mundane story had it's future changed into a very nifty one.
Style: 13/20
Above par, but nothing unheard of.
Grammar and Spelling: 5/5
Bonus: /5

Total: 71/100
Excellent work here.

Thank you!

[Ever-Wandering Souls]

Yay, judgements.

More lost souls for the purging flames!

Someone say Souls?

[Forsher]

Yay, judgements.

I should be able to get the rest (or most of them) done next week. This one's a bit hectic... test on Friday and an assignment due next Thursday. Luckily the latter has been made shorter because they were too disorganised to get it written earlier but it still kills my weekend.

Why I haven't done any more since mid-April though doesn't have such an understandable reason. Frankly, I am in even more awe of Laerod.