WINTER 2015 SHORT STORY CONTEST

[Schiltzberg]

I assume this is open to any genre? If so, I have a neat little idea for a tale that I'd love some feedback on.

Also, must it be in first person? All of the entries (I admit I did not read all of them) that I looked at were in 1p, and I want to know before I actually put this down.

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

I now challenge you to wrote an entire short-story in second person! Hahahahaha!!!!!!!!!

[Nerotysia]

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

I now challenge you to wrote an entire short-story in second person! Hahahahaha!!!!!!!!!

Eh, I've done it. It's not super hard. It's hard to get it right, though.

[Forsher]

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

I now challenge you to wrote an entire short-story in second person! Hahahahaha!!!!!!!!!

I'll tell you its score in advanced.... 71/100, no style or bonus points plus some other flaws. Also, it's disqualified for being submitted by one of the volunteer judges.

[Nerotysia]

I now challenge you to wrote an entire short-story in second person! Hahahahaha!!!!!!!!!

I'll tell you its score in advanced.... 71/100, no style or bonus points plus some other flaws. Also, it's disqualified for being submitted by one of the volunteer judges.

I think you're just a perspective-ist. Why you gotta hate?

[Occupied Deutschland]

My submission:

Tilt the bottle, keep it back, don’t let himself fall over. Hold for a moment to drink, then bring it down. Mike had grown very good at repeating that pattern for the last half-hour or so, even as keeping his balance became harder and harder. This was the last of his beers, but, thankfully, he still had his bottle of whiskey beside him to keep him company. This was going to be a good night. A shitty night, but one more night without what he wanted would be good, anyways.

Mike leaned back slightly in the camp-chair. With the loose-jointed flow of the halfway-drunk, he cocked his right arm to the side so it rested just behind his head. Empty bottle grasped in his fingers, he disposed of it the same way he had its five brothers. A quick snap forward and release!

The bottle spun end-for-end in a rather pretty arc to crash just to the side of the fire-pit where his other bottles were contained. The bottom half of the bottle broke off and rolled off into the grass. The top merely lay on the ground with its label towards him, as if calling attention to his bad aim. The last thing he needed on a night like tonight was mockery, especially from his beverages.

“Shitstick!” Mike cursed. He’d have to go pick that up, now. In the meantime, he was going to grab his whiskey though. Mike leaned over the arm of the chair and wrapped a hand around the neck of bottle at his feet. It was hard to control himself, but he wouldn’t give in to temptation. No matter how much he wanted to. He wouldn’t be beat, and that meant distracting himself as best he could. Even if only with half-measures. Damn he wished he had a radio or something, anything to distract him.

“I haven’t seen you miss like that since you were late for the bus. Losing your aim there Mikey-boy?” A blond-haired girl emerging out of the darkness at his side asked.

Mike jerked slightly at the voice, glad he was sitting down so he didn’t stumble from disorientation as he whipped his head around. Raising his arm back up with his new bottle of much stronger stuff in hand, he glared at the girl who’d disturbed his misery even as he began to try and get-up. She waved slightly and grabbed another chair from the other side of the fire-pit and dropped it near him.

“It’s a side-effect of losing my goddamned mind, so yes.” He snapped, hoping the hostility and the blasphemy would chase her away.

For some reason, it didn’t.

Mariah sat in the chair next to him, without even asking, and glared right back at him. Doing his best to ignore her, Mike petulantly screwed open the cap on the whiskey, and took a heavy swig. He was going to—no, he had to—get fucked-up. He wasn’t going to let some goody-two-shoes high-horsed judger-of-all-that-was-evil spoil that. It wasn’t her problem, and he shouldn’t have to be forced to deal with her bible-thumping while he dealt with his problems.

Now studiously avoiding eye contact with the girl, Mike fished his cigarettes out of his other breast-pocket and casually flicked one onto his lips. It wasn’t really what he wanted, but it was all he would allow himself to have. Every little bit helped distract his mind. Even Mariah’s presence at least gave him another thing to think about. Twisting the lighter from the same pocket around, he flicked the wheel a few times, but failed to get a spark. Fuckwaffle, did she have to keep staring at him like he was some animal in a zoo doing tricks? Yeah, he was nearabouts drunk, if that was even a word. But some people weren’t as righteous as her!

“Oh come on, how far gone are you already? Give me that.” Mariah leaned over and snatched the bottom of the lighter, prying it out of his fingers. Operating it much more smoothly than he had, she lit it on the first try and held it on the tip of the cigarette.

“Who are you and what have you done with Mariah?” Mike mumbled past the filter even as he breathed life into the cig. Usually Mariah wasn’t one to condone his, or anyone’s, particular life choices. Girl only ever came to these types of parties to drive friends who weren’t as uptight home. Or maybe she was conducting some kind of science experiment. It was the kind of thing she’d do. She was probably writing a paper about the ‘psycho-social effects of ethanol spirits on the human male in isolation’ or some shit.

“I couldn’t stand to see you in such a pathetic state. Besides, I know you won’t listen to reason anyways, and I’m too tired to try. It’s been a shitty night.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. Mariah never swore. “I can sympathize.”

“Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink? That’s supposed to be the gentlemanly thing to do in these situations.”

Mike was forced to acknowledge Mariah’s presence as he looked at her, uncertain if he’d heard what she’d just said correctly. He only realized his mouth was hanging open when he felt his cigarette begin to fall out.

“I told you it’s been a shitty night.” Mariah repeated, as if this explained the completely out-of-character request. This just had to be some kind of variable she was introducing into her science experiment or something.

Shrugging, Mike reached out with the whiskey-bottle, “I’m not a motherfucking gentleman, in case you hadn’t noticed, but would the young lady care for a drink?”

Mike had still expected a refusal. Had just assumed it was all a bad joke. He wasn’t prepared for Mariah to grab the bottle and tilt it above her and take a respectable swallow. She handed the bottle back with a series of light coughs. Mike eyed the bottle to be sure it was still whiskey and hadn’t somehow transformed into water.

“Holy Fu—Shit girl, shouldn’t you get outta here and talk to somebody? You know drugs don’t solve your problems and all that fucking sh—stuff, right?” Mike belatedly realized he’d slipped up twice in his attempted self-censoring. Fuck.

Mariah coughed again, “You’re not exactly the person to be criticizing me on that one you—you—druggie.” Mike frowned but didn’t argue the point, “Besides, I can’t get out of here. One of my supposed friends just drove off in my car with her boyfriend with nothing but a note. A note! Can you believe that? Didn’t even have the decency to tell me in person, just stole my key and took off to go slobber over—eugh.”

“I’m…Sorry?” Mike ventured as Mariah went quiet for a moment, unsure what he was supposed to say. That was messed up, but it was why he never left his keys around at parties like this. Of course, that meant he sometimes drove when he really shouldn’t. But on the dirt-roads late at night around here there wasn’t a lot to worry about. Plus it meant none of his friends ever banged in the backseat like hers might be.

“Yeah not as sorry as she’s going to be. Things are going to happen to that girl. Bad Things.” Mike was capable of hearing the capital letters in those words. Still in a slight state of shock at Mariah’s presence, he numbly handed her the bottle again as she held out a hand. She took another drink and gave it back.

“What the hell is that, anyways?” Mariah asked, letting out a long breath as if that would clear her mouth of the taste. She still didn’t sound natural saying ‘hell’. As if it were a foreign word she was being careful to pronounce right.

Mike snorted slightly, glad the conversation was at least drifting back towards something he knew how to handle. “Really cheap bourbon. Yes, it is supposed to taste just like gasoline smells. But it gets the job done.”

Mariah laughed lightly at that, but seemed to sober all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. I’m bothering you aren’t I? I’ll—“

“Everyone has a bad night. Would you like a puff of a cigarette, too?” Mike asked, holding out the cancer-stick she had lit for him moments earlier. “If you just hold the smoke in your mouth it’ll get rid of that nasty aftertaste. Replace it with the taste of walking through campfire smoke, but I always thought it was an improvement.”

Mariah started to bring a hand up, then hesitated.

“No pressure. There’s probably some soda or something back in the house that’d do the same thing.”

This seemed to convince her for some inexplicable reason and she took the cigarette.

“Great. Now I’m definitely going to hell.” Mike said theatrically as Mariah blew out a puff of smoke. She accomplished the deed with an absence of coughing that told him she definitely hadn’t inhaled. Maybe that super-pious holier-than-thou bullsh—stuff was good for self-control at least. He could use some of that.

“You were going there anyways, you can’t complain.” Mariah sniped, handing him back the cigarette.

Mike grinned slightly despite himself as he took a sip of the whiskey, holding his cigarette hand over his heart as if in pain. “Yes but I was going for my own accomplishments, not leading others into sin.”

Mariah shook her head, stealing the whiskey bottle from Mike again as he lowered it from his lips. “So what are you doing out here?” She asked, following it up with another small snort from the bottle. “Besides breaking glass all over God’s green Earth?”

Mike traded with her, exchanging the cigarette for the whiskey. This was not how he had thought things were going to go at all. He had expected some kind of lecture from the girl like she usually gave him. Not a…welcome distraction and banter.

“Avoiding some of the stuff going on inside.” He answered, trying to be as vague as possible and steer the conversation elsewhere. That topic probably would lead into a lecture and he was having a hard enough time as it was.

He wasn’t successful. Mariah cocked her head, “You mean people do things you don’t like? I thought you were Mister do-everything? Senor Adventure himself? The Grand Poobah of partying?”

Mike smiled for a moment at the last one, but then got the urge to yell at her and vent a week of his troubles on the goody-goody girl. But he knew that would be unfair. Instead he took an extra-long pull on bottle before switching with her again and taking a puff of the cigarette to calm down. It wasn’t her fault, it was his.

But goddamnit he’d stayed out here to avoid bullshit like this! He didn’t want to talk to people. He didn’t want to drink with people. He wanted to get shit-ass wasted out here away from everyone to drown his cravings in what they weren’t focused on before the girl he diddled every so-often came out here high off her mind and they, hopefully, banged in the back of his truck. He didn’t need anybody judging him for his weaknesses, least of all a moralistic stick-up-the-butt type like Mariah, even if she was temporarily slumming it with him.

“Sometimes the Poobah gets pooped out. Nice, warm night out isn’t it?” Mike said, mentally kicking himself for how obvious and contrived the attempted change in topic sounded.

“It is. So nice you don’t want to spend it inside with anyone and you’d rather get drunk out here alone?” Mariah pressed, leaning towards him slightly more than simple interest would dictate. Either that or she was already a bit tipsy from the drinking. How much had she had? Hell, how much had he had? Where had the top half of the bottle gone?

“Yes. Because getting drunk is a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Because the Poobah of partying is trying to kick his cocaine habit. And because Mister do-everything can’t do that very well when his female bedbuddy and her friends are snorting lines in front of him!” Mike realized too late he was almost screaming and squeezed his eyes shut to force down the knuckle-popping tension in his extremities. She didn’t deserve this and he was being an asshole for forcing it on her.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just…Sorry. It’s been, like, a week and I’m…I’m just sorry. Can I have a drink?” Mike sheepishly reached his hand out and was relieved when Mariah handed him back the bottle without delay. Once again he was glad for the chair being there to support him as he took a long chug from the bottle and the stars above him spun a bit too long. He lowered the bottle and reflexively deposited it back in Mariah’s outstretched hand. She spirited the bottle away somewhere, he couldn’t tell where.

“Well, way to just go and upstage my problems.” Mariah said coldly. Mike frowned and turned his head to the girl, but was relieved to see a very slight grin on her face. He was immensely relieved it wasn’t the ‘I-told-you-so’ face he’d imagined. Nor, surprisingly, did it contain any of the arrogant condemnation he’d expected. A little bit of light-hearted mockery he could stand, from her. It distracted him.

“Hey, you’re the one who came out here and started mooching off my whiskey and stealing puffs off my cigarette.” Mike said back, with a close imitation of the both the cruel voice and the grin, though he couldn’t quite match it. His voice still quivered slightly from the shouting. “You mess with the bull, you have to step in its shit, or something like that.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the expression.” Mariah said.

Mike shrugged as he, for the first time that night it seemed, relaxed and leaned back in the chair. He realized every other time he’d done so he’d had a bottle in between him and the stars. It was a very nice night out, just like he’d said. “Good enough for the girls I go with.”

Mariah giggled next to him, and Mike suddenly realized how odd the two of them could look out here alone if anyone came out. Particularly someone he knew with a coke-habit of their own and a pair of tits they showed to him occasionally. It was probably the poor alcohol-induced judgment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“No offense, but the girls you go with aren’t all that good.” Mariah said in the same halfway-offensive manner as she’s addressed his outburst.

Mike smiled slightly, though he wasn’t quite sure if it was from the way Mariah had said it or what she’d said. His response should have been to leap to the defense of his…fuckbuddy. Explain why she really wasn’t all that bad. But he couldn’t. Because Mariah was right. There was a reason neither he or she referred to each other as boyfriend-girlfriend. They just fucked. That had been enough when they were both in the ecstatic haze of a coke-high, but then he’d gone and quit. Everything they’d had in common was eliminated with that one simple act.

“Yeah, well, in their defense, I usually make the girls that go with me less good than they really are. Like you, for instance. Can I have another drink?” Mike said as he held his hand out for the bottle. Mariah obliged, albeit it seemed to take her a moment to find the bottle.

“Mike, I’ve spent four years getting pressured to drink, smoke, and suck, stroke or sit on cock by guys much more persuasive than you, not to even mention better looking. You’re overestimating yourself if you think you would be the one to influence me into doing anything I didn’t want to.”

Mike choked on the sip of whiskey he’d taken, and it burbled upwards into his nose. His pain got a sympathetic laugh from Mariah as she grabbed the bottle to allow Mike free reign to cough and patted his back as he leaned down to try and clear his throat.

The coughing fit lasted a considerable time. The moment Mike thought he’d gotten it under control he’d either recall what Mariah had said or she’d look at him with the fuck-all best obviously insincere look of innocence he’d ever seen and send him into another round of hacking. It didn’t help matters that now he was practically crying from the burning in his nose and squeezing out a laugh in-between coughs.

“Jeez, you can’t hold your liquor, you can’t throw, you whine about your own problems instead of listening to the lady’s, and we’ve already covered the fact that you aren’t a gentleman. Whatever do these girls see in you?” Mariah said.

“I’ve got a really big cock for them to sit on.” Mike said without thinking. He tried to come up with something that would make it clear that had been a joke, but failed.

“And you’re a really bad liar as well, I was getting to that one.” Mariah supplied quickly, patting the back of his head as if he were a child.

Mike sputtered for a moment, vainly trying to come up with a counterargument. He finally settled on sticking his tongue out and giving her a raspberry.

Mariah rolled her eyes, “Then of course there’s your terrible immaturity.” She said in the voice of a teacher clucking over the antics of a particularly ill-behaved pupil.

“Well I’m rubber and you’re glue.” Mike spat back, raising himself back up and snorting his nose into the air. Despite being proud of the line, he realized he’d been horribly bested by the girl. Ordinarily that might annoy him somewhat, but the absence of malice and the distraction the exchange provided made it more than bearable. It was even enjoyable? He wasn’t even high.

Mariah laughed unrestrained for a moment. Perhaps eased on its way by the whiskey, the laughter didn’t seem to pay any attention to where she was or who was around. Mike grinned, happy he’d been able to return the favor she’d done him and distract her from her problems for even a moment.

Just as she was calming down, Mariah was rudely surprised by a pig-snort in her own laughter. The righteous girl smacked a palm over her mouth and glanced towards Mike, but seemed to realize it was too late. The damage had been done. Mike was no gentleman. He laughed at the embarrassment just as she had laughed at his. Instead of being offended, that only inspired Mariah's partially-controlled giggles to come back even worse.

"Jeez, you steal a man's liquor, big-lip his cigarette, and then go and suggest he ain't got a large enough package. What kind of girl are you?" Mike asked, parroting her words from earlier in the best deadpan he could manage through the last bits of laughter.

"A really good one." Mariah responded in the same attempted deadpan.

[Fralinia]

Warning- contains a vague description of an unsettling ritual.

Bitter, merciless alpine wind whipped the snow into a dense cloud of white. The rugged rocks and pebbles of the mountains were just even enough along a narrow path to pass for a trail, and the way here was travelled by few.
A young hunter, hardly of age and certainly not as weathered and wisened as his forebears, slowly led his small mare through the blizzard. His horse, more a stout little pony than anything, was frosted white by a dusting of snow clinging to her coat, and on her back was a heavy bundle, tied up with a rough hemp cords and also coated in snow. His own thin, high-set face, with just the beginnings of a beard starting to poke out, was crusted with ice, despite the thick woolen scarf he had wrapped around him.
It was the dark of the night, high up on the pass near the village where the hunter was headed. His uncle, an old and revered man, was the elder here, and the hunter was needed for a ceremony. The tiny hamlet he lived in was too small to even have an elder- indeed, only a couple of families still clung to existence there, the rest having died out or left for somewhere better.
The hunter wanted so desperately to rest, to take the bundle off his horse and establish his camp, eating the rough bread he had brought before sleeping- but his little horse would not be fit to ride the next morning if he did. From the tilt of the road, which seemed to lean down more than up at this point, it would seem he was over the crest of the mountain and headed down into the valley below. He would soon see, and if not, he would keep walking until he was.

It was tempting to think that the village would be perfect compared to the mountain, what with warm fires, fresh soup and tea, hot meals and soft beds awaiting him, but he knew better. He was not here for luxury but business, of a sanguine and sorrowful sort. He had already seen such things happen in the village, but now it was his turn to answer the calling of his forebears. In his mind, he felt ready and fresh, prepared for the ritual, but in his heart, there was conflict.

A few hours later, so late the sun was beginning to turn the purple of the night into a pale yellow dawn, the hunter and his little horse stumbled into the village. The first few farmers had already begun moving about, and so he was seen and nodded indifferently at by several people as he walked by. He then made it to the village’s large pasture where he turned his little horse out to get some rest and grass before heaving his bundle onto his own back and making for his uncle’s house.
Inside, the house was painted brightly and with rich colors, but sparsely furnished, with only a low table and a few hides to sit on near the fire. Over the fire hung a small kettle, and in that kettle, the uncle was brewing some tea. He looked up from his steaming kettle to see the frozen and bundled hunter in the doorway.
With a start, the old uncle quickly helped the frozen hunter to the fire, helped him out of his furs, gave him a bowl of hot soup and a flagon of warm mead, and began questioning him as to how his hamlet had been, how the mountains were, what the game was like, and whether he was alright after the brutal storms up on the mountain. The uncle followed this with a salvo of offers of food, drink, and other items.
The hunter chuckled under his breath, slowly warming up by the small fire, and listened to his uncle ramble about the various amenities that he either had on hand or could procure if needed. Despite his uncle’s esteemed and respected position as elder, the spiritual leader of the village and first advisor to the village’s chief, he was still a talkative, kindly old man when he wasn’t deep in a trance. Sitting down on the furs and warming his hands by the fire, he politely declined his uncle’s every offer, save for the tea, and began thinking about the ceremony tonight. His mind flashed back to the last time he had seen the ritual, and he shuddered at what he would have to do.

The field in which they had done it was grassy and bright, the sun had been shining, for that was the ceremony performed at an equinox, at noon. The setting had been quite unsuited to what it would host in just a few moments, the hunter mused. It was as innocuous as ever, an empty pasture on a sunny day, and yet so very brutal and sanguine was the ritual to come that it was almost a macabre peace. In the pasture had stood his grandfather and his uncle, and the hunter himself had been just a small boy when the event took place. Into the pasture they had brought the two subjects into the proper arrangement. The first was a small baby, the hunter’s half-brother, now dead from the fever, and the second, a young, white-coated foal, hardly weaned from its mother’s teat. Both were put in the circle drawn on the ground in ashes, and then his grandfather had-

He stopped his musings and shuddered again at what he must do. This time, he thought, I must wield the knife.

All day he worried between naps and conversations with his grandfather. The ritual was very important, the most sacred of rites a child must pass through to become respected above the unchosen and carry on the traditions of the people. The hunter had gone through it as well- he still bore the scar, as his uncle did and his grandfather before him- but of course, as a baby, no one recalled the experience as done to themselves. The baby they were performing it on tonight was the hunter’s cousin, and he would become the village chief once the current one died. The hunter was to be the next elder, once the uncle passed. It was a long and storied tradition of who was to become what and when, but that much was certain, barring any signs from above.

After an afternoon of tense nervousness and small talk with his uncle later, the hunter finally was uncomfortably forced into readiness. As the sun went down, he joined his uncle in sacred prayers, served by a few hand-picked villagers who provided various articles to them for use in the worship. After hours of songs with drums, smouldering herbs, and ritual, the pair came out of the house and into the pasture where the ceremony was to be performed. It was nearly midnight, and the time was nigh for the cleansing.
Out of the barn was led the foal. This one was black, and older than the one from before, nearly a yearling. The time had not been right when this one was born, and so it had been allowed more life than the others. It was calmly led into the circle of ashes with a simple halter that was removed once inside. Quickly, the uncle and several villagers had grasped at it, pushing it to the ground and pinning it there, despite its efforts to remove them. No rope or harness was to be allowed in the circle any longer than necessary- the neck, after all, must be readily accessible.
As the horse struggled, the child was brought to the circle. He was naked, as children of his age are- he was only a few weeks old, and the ceremony would have had to have been put off to the solstice had he been born later. The baby was laid down next to the struggling foal, and the hunter was given the black stone knife that had been used for so many ceremonies like this one before. He approached the struggling foal, which made an effort to look at him with its wide, pleading eyes, as if it knew what he must do and was refusing to submit to fate without due resistance.

The hunter once again mulled over what he had to do, and why. All the horses of the region were dun, or roan. All of the lighter colors were common, but the black and white had long been bred out into obscurity, mostly for practical purposes (How can black been seen against the granite of the mountain? How can white be discerned from the driven snow?) but also because of the herdsmen’s catering to the ancient traditions. The black and white foals, said the legend, which all came from the same few bloodlines, not quite removed of all their ancestors’ contrasts, were gifts from heaven to use in purifying the priests for the worship. Their lives were merely a vessel for the gods, and as a consequence, they were sent back to heaven during the sacrifice, or so the stories said.

With trembling hands, the hunter knelt down to the foal and stroked its mane, wishing it were not so, that the knife had not come to him. It was a fine horse, indeed, had it been roan, it would have gone straight to the chief, and lived a happy life doing nothing but growing fat in a pasture and occasionally accompanying the chief on a hunt or a ceremony. Fate had deigned to prevent such things, instead blessing this foal with the curse that would kill it. The hunter gazed once more into the soft brown eyes, desperately searching for a way to avoid his duty.

But the longer he waited the harder it would be.

With a sickening slice, the knife performed its duty, and the foal slumped onto its own frail body, not to stir again. Sacred blood spilled onto the ground. Slowly, he turned to the side and handed the knife to his uncle, who then deftly cut a tiny slice into the arm of the infant, which awoke from an otherwise peaceful nap and began crying. The bloodied knife was wiped off onto the cut arm, and the infant was slowly painted with the scarlet ichor, a streak across the forehead and a slash on either cheek.

The hunter, now fully a priest and ready to assume the role once his uncle passed, went to bed with heavy heart and bloodied hands. That foal had been young, born to some mare all those months ago and kept in the care of his uncle for the rituals until it was deemed necessary that it should die. It was as if he was killing a child, some innocent creature that the world hardly knew or cared about, but then, he wasn’t.

After an uncomfortable night, the hunter began his long voyage home in the morning. He wrapped up his bundle and then bundled up himself before braving the brisk valley air and seeking once more the solitude of the mountain. His uncle happily waved him off, insisting that he must stay longer next time, as he would eventually have to live there anyway. The road up the pass was long- he would not be home for a few days, but he was experienced in the ways of the wild, he would make it with ease unless nature rallied herself against him with all her fury.

A few days later, in the tiny hamlet that clung to the side of the cliff, a riderless horse stumbled into town. She was frosted with white from the vicious wind, and her pack was missing, with only a small note strapped to the bridle, presumably explaining what happened.

None of the villagers ever brought themselves to read it.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Do very thinly-veiled mentions of suicide go against the rules? If they do, I'm afraid my entire story will get me a warning...

Suicide is fine as long as there is not excessive gory detail.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Only a couple days left to enter.

[Vancon]

Only a couple days left to enter.

Then it's show time.

[New Kvenland]

So, after the beginning of a story, procrastination, scrapping, another beginning, more procrastination, another scrapping, more procrastination, and a few days of frantic writing, I have come up with this:

The Soldier

Boots in the tundra.

That was the only sound for miles; Mikhail stumbling through the dry Chukotkan dirt. He was glad for the lonesomeness; there was no one around to yell at him, to criticise him, to spit on him. He had often wished that his superiors would put themselves in his shoes. His tired, dejected, suicidal shoes.

He shuddered at the word 'suicidal.' He had lost his will to live, but he knew that their were people counting on him, back at home; his wife, his children, his parents, his sisters. They had no one but him and the untrustworthy Russian welfare system. He had only joined the military to help them; he had not prepared for a war like this.

He had looked around dozens of times already; he knew everything about his surroundings. Nevertheless, he did again. Despite the death he knew was behind him, the landscape was beautiful; rolling hills as far as the eye could see, covered in barren, parched soil, with the occasional patch of dirty grass. To the north, he saw a spine of snow-capped peaks; beyond that, he knew there was nothing but the Arctic.

Despite his mental protests, he looked back to the east, where his countrymen were being slaughtered. He pitied them dearly; they didn't deserve to die there. It wasn't their fault that the Americans were warmongers hunting for more territory, or that their government had no foresight or care for its soldiers.

A VTOL exploded midair. He flinched on reflex, as many of his fellow cadets undoubtedly did. The mechs, whose operators were undoubtedly used to this kind of sudden death, marched on monotonously.

He cursed. He cursed the Americans, for their unexpected aggression on his hated motherland. He cursed the Soviet government, for not attempting to solve this issue diplomatically, as they should have; instead, they responded in kind, throwing hundreds of thousands of soldiers into a battle they would likely never return from. He cursed the engineers from both nations, for designing the VTOLs, the mechs, the drones; all of which killed thousands a day. He cursed the economy, for forcing him to leave his family and his hometown of Magas to join the military and earn what little money he could; and he cursed himself, for running from his honour and responsibility to his nation to hide in the wilderness.

He fell to the ground, crying out in anguish. “Why do you do this to me, God?” he yelled at the sky. “I am an evil man; I have murdered, stolen, and grifted. Yet I live, and my pure, sinless friends die?” Tears pouring out of his eyes, he decided to end the injustice. He prayed that his father may be able to provide for his family in some way.

As he slowly and shakily put the gun into his mouth, he heard a humming coming from the direction of the battle. The humming slowly got louder, until he decided to look back, and see what the sound was. It was a VTOL, one of its engines gone, pieces of it flying in all directions, attempting to find a flat piece of ground to land on. Ducking as a piece of metal shot over his head, he watched it crash-land onto the peak of another hill.

The soldiers who stumbled out weren't Russian. They were Americans, who had been damaged in battle. Seeing Mikhail in the distance, they rushed over to him, hoping he was a comrade from the states.

They recoiled in fear when they saw the hammer and sickle on his vest, but stopped as they saw the tears rolling down his cheek and the gun poised to put a bullet through his cranium. They walked towards him, and Mikhail hoped they were coming to help.

“Hello, friends,” he called out to them, in what little English he knew, his voice cracking.

“Hey there, buddy,” one of them responded; based on the symbols on his sleeve, he was their leader. “What brings ya out here to wallow, instead o' fightin' like a man?” his American friend laughed bitterly, obviously emotionally affected by the battle. They ignored Mikhail's dejected expression.

“You have no idea what I'm going through,” he responded bitterly to their sniggering.

“You're probably right,” the one who had first called out to him responded. “I apologise. My name's James, from New Orleans.” He stuck his hand out, offering Mikhail to shake it.

Mikhail sized up the American in front of him. The man was of African descent and well-built; he was probably on his school's (American) football team. His face showed no contempt for Mikhail, which was surprising, given the Americans' universal hatred of anything Russian. He was stained with blood, probably from the crash, but he looked to have no injuries; comrades from the VTOL probably weren't as lucky as him.

Mikhail shook James's hand firmly. “Thank you for your apology. My name is Mikhail, and I am from Magas, in Ingushetia.” he mentally smiled at the Americans' obvious unknowing of his hometown.

Shaking his head slightly, James replied, “Good to meet you, Mik- Mikhail. You want to live, right?” Mikhail's glare surprised the balding man.

“Well, that answers that, I guess. You want yer family to live, right?” he asked instead, taking the hardness of Mikhail's face melting slightly as a yes.

“Well, I've got a deal for ya. You look like you don't want to fight with the commies- sorry, Russians. How about you come with us to Nome and tell us some stuff about your old leaders, and we'll set up a nice little home for your family in the States?”

Mikhail considered, then chuckled grimly. “I have no will to fight for a country that will throw its soldiers' lives away.” As James appeared to get excited, he followed his statement up with, “But I also have no will to fight for a country that is led by land-hunting warmongers. So the answer is no. I wish you good luck in your attempt to get back to America.” With that, he began to walk west again, hoping to find a place where he was really alone, and attempt to take his life again.

“Well, sir, I'm sorry, but I can't let you continue,” James responded. As Mikhail heard the cocking of a rifle, James continued, “Here's my next proposition, and this time, you shouldn't say no. I'm going to take you back to the base, and you'll tell us all you know about your military. Then, maybe we'll let you off with 20 years for war crimes. If you say no...” he motioned at the rifle, pointed at Mikhail's head.

Mikhail looked into James's eyes. The Louisianian wasn't kidding. Thus, Mikhail acted appropriately. He shot James in the knee with his handgun. Seeing the soldier accompanying James scramble for his own rifle, Mikhail double-tapped him in the forehead.

Looking down at the bodies, he wasn't elated at his survival, as he felt he should have been; rather, he was crushed, as he added 2 more victims to his list of people he had murdered.

He fell to his knees yet again, feeling the tears begin to well up. As he put the gun in his mouth for the second time, he heard a grunting. He saw it was James, who he had only shot in the knee once.

Walking over to the American, he started sobbing. “I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry.” he continued apologizing, as he tried to clean the man's wound.

Mikhail heard James straining. Thinking the man was trying to get up, Mikhail looked down at his face. Instead of seeing someone slowly die, however, Mikhail saw the barrel of a rifle aimed at him.

Mikhail stared despondently at the shooter.

Mikhail heard him shoot one last time, and then saw the American collapse again. blood flooding the ground around him, James strained out one last breath, and stopped moving.

Mikhail looked down at his chest, and saw a single wound- in the middle of his chest. He felt the pain rise gradually in his chest. Well, I didn't kill myself, at least, he thought grimly. He laid down, preparing for death. His last thought was of his family. The Chukotkan tundra slowly receded, being replaced with nothingness.

I apologise for the cliche title.

[Nazi Flower Power]

So, after the beginning of a story, procrastination, scrapping, another beginning, more procrastination, another scrapping, more procrastination, and a few days of frantic writing, I have come up with this:

I know that feeling. I don't feel like I had my shit together this time around.

I apologise for the cliche title.

At least you have a title!

[Respubliko de Libereco]

There's about a 60% chance of me getting my story done by the deadline.

[Nerotysia]

There's about a 60% chance of me getting my story done by the deadline.

Rounding up or down?

[New Kvenland]

So, after the beginning of a story, procrastination, scrapping, another beginning, more procrastination, another scrapping, more procrastination, and a few days of frantic writing, I have come up with this:

I know that feeling. I don't feel like I had my shit together this time around.

This is one of the first times I've had my shit together enough to finish the story

I apologise for the cliche title.

At least you have a title!

True, I guess.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I know that feeling. I don't feel like I had my shit together this time around.

This is one of the first times I've had my shit together enough to finish the story

I'm pretty good about finishing SOMETHING if I want to enter one of these, but this time around I wrote 7000 words of one story, realized it was too long and I couldn't cut enough to get it under 6000, wrote another story, wasn't satisfied with it and thought I was going to write a 3rd, started the 3rd story, then realized I needed to rework it a bunch, and Schiltzberg talked me into sticking with my 2nd story and saving the 3rd for next time.

[Ever-Wandering Souls]

I''d like to submit a piece I threw together in one night a few months ago, and given a quick revision last week for submission to something else It's under a thousand words, and I'll be giving you this link rather than raw text due to the use of formatting for effect. Enjoy, I hope!

There was another one I considered as well, but it's on paper and needs a lot more revision I don't have time for so.... It'll be typed up some other time Wish I'd seen this earlier...

[Schiltzberg]

Wow, quite a few last minute entries! Two more days? The suspense is killing me!

[Old Tyrannia]

My submission. We have fewer entries than in autumn by the looks of it, so maybe I'll actually be in with a chance of winning this time!

Haha-ue

Osaka, Japan
January, 1936

Midnight was approaching, and Osaka was awash with the cold, pale light of the moon. I walked down the silent streets in solitude, hugging my coat close. The air was cool and crisp, the sky clear. The stars were distant diamonds. I could see my breath, briefly materialised as a white wisp of vapour, and the tips of my fingers were numb, but I had never minded the cold and walking through the abandoned streets of Osaka at night gave me a feeling of liberation. Like a ghost, I glided through the city unseen, the moon casting a long shadow behind me as I walked, and there was a spring in my step. Daisuke would be waiting for me when I got to the shrine. Wherever we agreed to meet, he would always be there before me; I often wondered if he deliberately set out an hour before the allotted time, just so he could be there when I arrived even if I was myself a quarter of an hour early, a scowl on his face as he demanded to know what had kept me. I glanced at my watch; it was almost twelve. I picked up the pace, breaking into a jog.

It was another three minutes before the gate to the old shrine came into view, overgrown with vegetation, its paintwork peeling away. The garden that it stood vigil over was a jungle cast in shadow, the roof of the shrine just visible over the top of the trees as a silhouette against the silver moon. Outside the gate, Daisuke was waiting for me, scowling as always, his hands on his hips.

“Johan-san,” he said, “you’re late, as you always are.” He was a foot shorter than I was, with a dark complexion and mussed dark hair. His brown eyes had a twinkle of mischief in them. He was a year older than me, but we’d been friends for so long neither of us could remember when we’d first met. He was leaning nonchalantly against the sacred gate.

“I’m not late, Daisuke-san,” I responded indignantly; “I’m right on time. You’re just early, again.”

“Ai, you’re making excuses,” he replied. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and turned his nose up haughtily. I scrunched up my face.

“A German is never late. He always arrives just when he is required to. Im Gegensatz zu den Japanischen, wer sind immer zu spat.” Although my German was poor, Daisuke couldn’t understand it, and was under the impression I was quite fluent; this infuriated him, because Daisuke hated not being able to do anything than anyone else could. My barb got the desired reaction- although Daisuke couldn’t understand my words, it was clear that he grasped the meaning from my tone.

“Germans are too proud. At least we Japanese are humble.”

“Some Japanese, maybe. Aber sie nicht, Daisuke-san.”

He scowled again, and then his face morphed into a smile. His grin was infectious; I was soon grinning along with him, and our laughter rang clear through the night air. Daisuke gestured to the gate.
“We should hurry,” he said. “It’s almost midnight.”

I didn’t know what the shrine had been called. It was just the “old shrine”. According to local folklore, no one had entered the shrine for almost sixty years. The legends were rife; it was said that an evil spirit had taken up residence there, and the Shinto priests had abandoned it, leaving the sacred ground untended. The gardens had overgrown the old buildings, although even after six decades they still stood, a focus for local folklore. Some said that the spirit of a priest who had been murdered by Imperial soldiers during the Boshin War while performing a ceremony haunted the hall of worship, having been accused of sheltering samurai loyal to the Tokugawa shogun. Another legend said that an evil demon had invaded the shrine after the holy ground was desecrated by a murder. Sometimes, both stories were combined; the murder of the priest had allowed the demon to take up residence. For years it had been a favourite game of the local children to dare each other to enter the grounds of the shrine, but no one had ever entered the hall of worship; not since the shrine’s closure.

Daisuke, of course, intended not only to do just that, but to do it at midnight. He insisted there was nothing to fear; “just some old folk stories about ghosts and demons, nothing a rational person need worry about.” I had agreed. After all, I was a Christian, raised by my father in the Lutheran faith of my ancestral homeland. What fear need I have of Japanese ghouls? It was just superstition. And yet I felt uneasy now, looking up at the gate to the shrine. It looked very dark on the other side. As Daisuke nonchalantly strode across the threshold, I found myself stopping; as if some invisible force tugged me back just as I raised my foot. Daisuke turned to see what was keeping me, cocked his head to one side and gave me a look.

“Don’t tell me the Prussian’s son is afraid?”

“Father told me that German men fear nothing,” I snapped back, but I made no movement to follow him. I thought about what the Japanese said of their sacred shrines, that the holy gate- the torii- was the threshold between the mundane world and the sacred world of the spirits, the kami. It was easy enough to believe, stood there peering into the eerie blackness. I felt as if should I cross the barrier, my soul would never leave. What would my father have said to me if he’d seen me? Besides, of course, that it was past my bedtime, and that I shouldn’t be out. Father spent too much of his time drinking, and he rarely paid me much attention. But when he did notice something awry, his concern or anger- whichever was more appropriate to the situation- was tangible. He was an angry man, always ranting, about Japan, about our maid and how late she always was, about the war, and above all about that Austrian. That Austrian, my father was convinced, would be the ruin of Germany.

“One war was enough,” my father would say, “but that Austrian, he’d start another. Yes, yes, it’s all very good rebuilding the military, I’ve said it for years, they ought to bring the Kaiser back too- but that Austrian, there’s something about him. I know it, he’ll never be satisfied, not until he’s had the war he thinks he should have got last time around.”

My father was Adalbert Richter, a former marine in the III. Seebataillon. Posted to Tsingtao during the Great War, when Japan had entered the war on the side of their allies, Great Britain, he had fought to defend the German-ruled port from the Imperial Japanese Navy. The port fell; he was captured, and would spend the next four years of the war in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. Father never came to terms with his failure at Tsingtao or the fact that he’d lived a relatively comfortable life in Japan while his countrymen died in the trenches of Europe to defend their fatherland. Too ashamed, he later said, to return to Germany after the war, he remained in Japan and married my mother. I was born in 1921. Mother passed away three years later, and my father turned to drinking to escape his grief, leaving me to be practically brought up by my kindly but strict Japanese grandparents.

I could barely remember my mother’s real face. I only remembered the face I had thought up for her when I was a little older, a beautiful, kind face with lips red as roses and sparkling eyes. I remembered her voice, though. When I was a child, she would often sing me to sleep, chanting old lullabies in a chiming, comforting voice, as light as air and sweet as a strawberry. Many a time after she passed away, I awoke suddenly in the night, thinking I heard her voice singing softly to me. Even as a young man, when I was afraid or alone, the song would come to my mind unbidden, as if she stood behind me, singing into my ear; “Nennen korori yo, okorori yo…”

I heard the music now, comforting me, giving me strength. I took a hesitant step forward. Nothing happened; there was no sound but the whistle of the wind. Daisuke had his hands on his hips and his head cocked to one side. His arrogance suddenly enraged me, and I strode across the threshold with my head thrown upwards like a preening rooster. When I saw him grinning at me in amusement, my confidence deflated and I bowed my head sulkily, speeding up to follow him as he turned, laughing, and made his way down the path. I followed. It had rained earlier in the day, and before long we came upon a large puddle blocking our path. The gnarled, overgrown trees loomed over us threateningly, but Daisuke seemed oblivious to the eerie atmosphere. He attempted to jump over the puddle, but succeeded only in landing in the middle of it, creating a great splash and flicking mud on my face. He turned around to look me in the eyes, and seeing my unamused expression, rewarded me with a taunting grin.

“You’re lagging behind, Prussian boy,” he teased. I sighed and looked down. The full moon sailed across the black night’s sky high above. Pale light flooded the sacred garden. As stillness and tranquillity returned to the temporarily disturbed waters of puddle, I saw the silhouettes of the trees forming a dark halo around my head. My European heritage was not immediately clear from my features. I had a plain face, framed by dark hair, and with two dark eyes in the middle. My nose was aquiline, my cheekbones high. My skin was lighter than Daisuke’s. Unlike him, I wore my hair slicked back. Flecks of mud dotted my face. I was tall, slim, and lanky; the coat I wore was a grey trench coat that my father had once worn while in the German marines, and it constituted my most prized possession, old and tattered as it had become.

“Keep it down, Daisuke-san,” I responded. “You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood.” I walked around the puddle, trying not to mind the branches of the trees tugging at me as I brushed past them. I felt the gaze of unseen eyes as I hastened to catch my friend up. We passed the kagura-den, where the sacred dances had once been performed long ago, and the entrance to the hall of worship came into view. As I looked up at the shrine, doubt and fear began to gain ground at the back of my mind. The old ghost stories that I had dismissed in the light of day as superstitious nonsense seemed far less humorous a matter here, surrounded by a malevolent army of trees, in the dead of night. The distinctive Japanese architecture of the shrine gave it a sharp, jagged appearance as a silhouette. The moon’s reassuring light was cut out by a vast cloud passing over the shrine, and Daisuke and I were cast into darkness. He turned to me.

“Well, then, here we are. Let’s do what we came here to do, Johan-san.”

I paused.

“Daisuke-san,” I said, “do we need to actually go inside? The shrine is made of wood, and it looks unsafe. Remember, no one has entered it in sixty years- none of the other kids would know we were lying if we told them that we had been inside. They might not believe us even if we do go inside.”

“You’re not scared, are you, Johan-san? What would your brave German ancestors think?”

It was my own fault, I decided. I had spent too much time listening to my father’s reminisces about the fatherland I had never seen, about my brave German ancestors and their exploits. As a child, filled with the arrogance of a boy who thought his father was the greatest hero in the world and never wrong about anything, I had repeated his boasts often, never failing to remind my classmates of my proud heritage. Years later, I was constantly reminded of it myself in a mocking, though never outright cruel, way.

“They would tell me to use my head and not get goaded into doing something stupid,” I growled in response, but even so as Daisuke turned and pushed on the door of the shrine I walked towards him, shaking my head. I would follow him anywhere.

Johan-san, I thought the wind whispered. Ill at ease, I turned around, but saw only the trees swaying in the wind. I heard my mother singing in my head still; “Bōya no omori wa, doko e itta?”

The door creaked open, revealing a room cloaked in shadows. The wooden floor creaked as Daisuke placed one foot over the threshold. He turned to me with a quizzical look, and I reddened as I realised I had been quietly singing the lullaby to myself.

“Really, Johan-san? You have to sing a lullaby to yourself to chase away your fears?”

“I just have the song stuck in my head, Daisuke-san. That is all.”

Johan-san, the wind whispered again, this time more urgently. I approached the doorway, and looked up at the lintel above; it looked strong enough. Daisuke was in the middle of the hall by now, and had struck a match.

Johan-san, wailed the wind. I stopped in my tracks, horror crawling up my back, and felt cold breath on the back of my neck. Turn around, I thought I heard the wind say; I was about ready to do so. My body tensed as I prepared myself mentally to turn and run as fast as my legs to carry me to the gate.

“Daisuke-san,” I called to my friend, “you’ve been inside. Let’s get out of here, quickly. I’m getting cold.”

“Cold, he calls it,” Daisuke told the roof. “Craven is what I call it!”

“Daisuke!” I called again, trying to sound angry rather than afraid; Johan-san, the wind urged, turn around. Go.

“Oh, alright, Prussian,” Daisuke responded. “I’m coming.”

Suddenly, I felt something tug on the back of my coat, causing my eyes to bulge with fear and a pathetic cry, more whimper than scream, to escape my throat. I grasped desperately at thin air, but as I fell backwards out of the doorway the beam above the door came down with a tremendous crash. I fell, gasping, and looked up in horror. If I hadn’t fallen, I would have been crushed by the beam.

“Daisuke!” I cried. “Daisuke! Speak to me! Are you alright?” Tears blinded my eyes. My chest felt tight, my head light and yet too heavy to lift, and my heart beat so fast I thought it might burst forth from my chest. The roof had fallen in. Daisuke was inside. Daisuke, who was always early. Daisuke, who was never afraid; Daisuke, who ended every argument between us by breaking out into laughter; Daisuke, who had been my friend since as long as I could remember.

Daisuke, my brother in all but name.

Silence followed silence. I panted, then sobbed, clambering to my feet. It felt like an eternity. But then…

“Johan-san!” a familiar voice called out. “I’m stuck under a beam of wood. Quick, come and help me.”

Suddenly empowered, I clambered over the fallen beams blocking the entrance, and crawled on hands and knees through the debris from the collapsed section of the roof. I found Daisuke with his leg twisted in a painful looking way, his calf trapped beneath the beam. His face was flushed red and twisted into a pained expression.

“Johan-san,” he gasped, “I’ll never call you a craven again, if you get me out of here.”

“You should listen to me when I’m being serious,” I told him. I slipped my hands beneath the beam and tried to lift it, groaning at the weight. I managed to lift it slightly, but not enough for Daisuke to free his leg.

“It’s no use, too heavy,” he said. “Quick, go get help. It’ll take at least two people to lift that thing-“

I tried to lift it again anyway; it was no use, as Daisuke said. Then, suddenly, it seemed to become less taxing holding the beam up, as if someone else had grabbed the other end and was lifting with me. I- or we- lifted up the beam and Daisuke wriggled free, then the beam dropped with a thud.

“Germans really are supermen,” he murmured. He protested and tried to shove me away as I pulled him to his feet and tried to support him, but as he tried to stand on his own he let out a cry between gritted teeth and fell back down to the floor. I helped him back up again.

“Come on,” I said, and he just nodded weakly. Carefully, I escorted him to the entrance, praying the floor wouldn’t collapse. Some god- mine or that of the shrine, I didn’t know which- must have heard my prayer, because we made it to the doorway without further incident. I pulled Daisuke up of his feet (he was lighter than the beam that had trapped him) and ignored his protests as I pushed him through the space I had crawled through to get into the building. He cursed me in annoyance as he banged his head on the beam. I followed him, climbing through the same gap I had pushed him through, and wordlessly wrapped one arm around his torso while grabbing his hand with my other one, pulling him back to his feet. He winced as he tried once again to stand on his own, and as he fell I caught him awkwardly. He threw his arms around my neck and I had to stifle a laugh as I held him like the male heroes held swooning women in the American movies.

“Not… A… Word…” he growled. “Just help me get out of here.”

“Anything for you, sweet lady,” I retorted with a grin, my sense of humour returning. If looks could kill, the one Daisuke gave me could have won the battle of Tsingtao in one fell blow. Together we hobbled down the path we had walked up to get to the hall, beneath the grasping branches of the trees. With the moon clouded over, it was even darker beneath the canopy, and once or twice I tripped and just managed to catch myself and Daisuke before the two of us fell face first in the mud. Finally the gate came into view, and waiting there was an old man, a wisp of a grey beard hanging from his chin, and a slightly younger companion with a gaunt face and short-cropped hair. The older man’s eyes widened as he saw us limping towards the exit, and he rushed forward to take Daisuke from me, tutting.

“Foolish boys,” he ranted, “I should have known when I heard the crash, that it would be some kids misbehaving. Always you must go where you are told not to. What are your names?”

“My name is Miura Daisuke, sir.”

“And I’m Rihitā Johan, sir.”

The younger man looked towards me.

“Rihitā? The old German’s son?”

I was surprised. “Excuse me, but do you know my father?”

“I knew your mother well. She and I attended the same school. She was always getting herself into a trouble, too. An explorer, my grandfather used to call her. I was at her wedding, when she married your father. She looked so happy, then.” There was a hint of melancholy in his voice. As we passed under the old gate, I felt I was passing back into the world of the living, the world of the rational and the mundane. Although it was still night, it seemed to me the world was brighter out here. The younger man advanced towards us, telling Daisuke to sit down so that he could have a look at his leg. He told us his name was Osaragi Masahiko, and he was a former army medic. The older man was his grandfather, Kaemon. They lived nearby, and had heard the sound of the shrine’s roof falling in.

“Were you alone?” asked the old man. “Is there anyone else still in there?”

“No,” Daisuke replied. “There was only the two of us. We were alone.”

Alone, I thought to myself. I heard music, and a woman’s voice signing a half-forgotten lullaby.

“Ano yama koete, Sato e itta…”

Closing out the sound of Daisuke complaining and Osaragi telling him to stay still and stop squirming, I turned and looked towards the darkness in the trees. I caught sight of something moving between the trunks; a haunting figure dressed all in white. It was a woman, with long, dark hair, and for a moment our eyes met. Her eyes were kind, sparkling with warmth, and just for a second I thought her rose-red lips curled into a smile before she disappeared, vanished as if never there.

She looked so happy, then.

She’s happy now, too.

[Fralinia]

This is one of the first times I've had my shit together enough to finish the story

I'm pretty good about finishing SOMETHING if I want to enter one of these, but this time around I wrote 7000 words of one story, realized it was too long and I couldn't cut enough to get it under 6000, wrote another story, wasn't satisfied with it and thought I was going to write a 3rd, started the 3rd story, then realized I needed to rework it a bunch, and Schiltzberg talked me into sticking with my 2nd story and saving the 3rd for next time.

Good grief, I sat down, wrote mine over the course of an afternoon, had a friend look at it, revised large chunks and then submitted.

You were on 3? I don't know that I could force my brain to come up with three original ideas in the timespan, let alone actually write that much.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Wow, quite a few last minute entries! Two more days? The suspense is killing me!

This is normal. There is usually a flurry of activity around the deadline.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I'm pretty good about finishing SOMETHING if I want to enter one of these, but this time around I wrote 7000 words of one story, realized it was too long and I couldn't cut enough to get it under 6000, wrote another story, wasn't satisfied with it and thought I was going to write a 3rd, started the 3rd story, then realized I needed to rework it a bunch, and Schiltzberg talked me into sticking with my 2nd story and saving the 3rd for next time.

Good grief, I sat down, wrote mine over the course of an afternoon, had a friend look at it, revised large chunks and then submitted.

You were on 3? I don't know that I could force my brain to come up with three original ideas in the timespan, let alone actually write that much.

The 1st and 3rd were based on ideas that had been rattling around my head for a while. The 2nd I thought up and threw together in a couple of days.

[ImperialistSalvia]

Sorry it’s so late; I've been involved with school

It was just a normal day at my high school. It was lunchtime and I was just sitting in the common area listening to my friends drone on and on about something trivial. That's really all these past few years seemed to be; trivialities atop trivialities. Well, at least I thought it was trivial; I've never really been “in the loop” so to speak. I was zoned out when she caught my eye. I came crashing out of my day dream; it was as if Hellen of Troy had just walked by. I’m not sure how long I spent gawking, but I guess it was a while. I’m assuming my mouth was agape too, because next thing I knew I had a ball of paper in it. My friends were all laughing or yelling "Score!" when I spat it out of my mouth. We horsed around for the next fifteen or so minutes until the bell rang. We all went our separate ways to class.

"So what mistress has swooped down and stowen my wittwe Geowgie Powgie's heawt?" Brian's a jackass, but I love him.

“That obvious, huh?” I looked down at the floor.

“Well, you’ve never been the most complicated guy; everything’s practically written on your face. I saw you drooling over the” he chuckled a bit, “the new girl, Grace”

I thought aloud “Grace, huh?” I felt my face getting hot

“Y’know what? You should totally ask her out!”

I didn't like the look on his face. It looked like he was up to something. He gave me a little pep-talk, and my worries about his little scheme melted away. He talked up a storm all the way into and through English class. By the end of it, he had talked me onto a cloud of self-esteem all day. Looking back on it, I shouldn't have let myself get so caught up in the flattery. I guess it was because it was the first time anyone had really given me the whole, “You should go for it” spiel. I floated through the rest of my classes and right onto my bus. I was so immersed in my own little world, I hadn't noticed my best friend Alex take the seat next to me.

“Yo, Earth to George” he snapped me out of my thoughts, literally.

“Oh, hey” I must've had some dumb look on my face, because he suddenly became confused.
“What’s gotten into you?”

I sighed involuntarily, “I've been thinking about asking out that new girl, Grace”

Disgust flashed across his face, “And whose idea was this?” Damn, he knew me well.

“Brian kinda egged me on” I felt my face getting hot.

I suppose Brian's right; I am one of those people who wears their thoughts on their sleeves. Alex shifted back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. He turned his head and his crystal eyes locked onto mine. His look sent a shiver down my spine.

“Listen” he said softly, “Only do what you’re comfortable with doing. Don’t cave into pressure.”

I kind of shrugged him off, and we made small talk the rest of the ride home. Alex was three stops before of me. Before he got off, he made sure to remind me what he'd said earlier. I waved him off brazenly thinking he only said that because he wanted me all to himself. My evening went by without event, and I spent half the night playing and replaying scenarios in my head. In some, I'd sweep her off her feet and we'd go riding into the sunset. But in others, she'd jeer at my feeble attempt to ask her out, and cast me into an abyss. I finally worked myself into a slumber around two in the morning.

When I awoke, the Sun's golden rays were pouring into my room. I threw my covers off and got ready in record time. I couldn't wait for this day to begin. Unfortunately, my anticipation had the reverse effect and seemed to slow my day down. I spent my entire morning watching the clock tick-tock away, feeling the slow molasses-like movement of time threw me into a pit of frustration. The bell finally rang, telling me it was my lunchtime. As I made my way through the halls, I felt someone grab my shoulder. I turned around to see Robby Goldstein. Robby’s on the football team with Brian, so I've been unfortunate enough to have made his acquaintance. If we were steer, he would've been sent off to the slaughterhouse sophomore year. Robby looked down at me with his head slightly tilted upwards, giving me a good look at his hook-nose.

“Atkins” I hate the way he addressed me. Like we were old pals of some sort. He crossed his arms, “Rumor has it you want to ask the new girl out.”

“And?” I don’t know why, but in situations like these my conscience quiets down and I say the first thing that pops into my dumb head.

His eyes narrowed, “Don’t. I want her” I couldn't help but chuckle at his phrasing. “Something funny, Atkins?”

“What? You can't smell my thoughts?” That earned me a swift punch in the gut. People pretended they hadn't seen anything. I don’t blame them, if I were in their position I’d have the same thing.

“Fuck off, Atkins” he continued his walk to the gym.

If I wasn't confident before, I sure as hell was now. I’m not about to let Robby the Jew scare me off from someone as gorgeous as Grace. I was determined; a man with a mission. I ran right up to our usual table and slammed my hand down.

“Where’s the new girl at?”

Everyone looked amused, and Brian was practically giddy.

“She’s in the library, man! Go! Go! Go!” I hadn't expected an actual answer.

At that moment, I wasn't about to question anything. It felt as if I had lost control of my legs. Before I knew it, I flew through the library doors and kept walking. There she was, at a back table reading diligently. As I approached, my breathing became shallow, and the words "Holy shit" kept ringing through my mind. Before I knew it, I was standing next to her table. She put the book down and looked me dead in the eyes! I felt a wave of nervousness crash over me, but I started talking anyway,

“S-so, uhm… Grace, I, uh, I know you’re new to this school and all, but” I paused for a second; my tongue felt alien, and my mouth like the Sahara. I took a deep breath and continued my inquiry, “But I was just wondering if…" I took in a sharp breath, "If youwouldbemyValentine”.

There, I said it. Like ripping off a band-aid. I put my hands in my pockets as she began to speak. Her response made my eyes widen, and flooded me with conflicting emotions. I let out a nervous laugh. I was speechless, all I did was utter out a “Cool”.

“Brian is so fucking dead” flashed through my mind.

I shot out of that place faster than I had gone in. While I was walking down the hallway, I saw Robby coming opposite of me.
He shot me a look and said, “You’d better not have asked out Grace, Atkins”
I passed right by him. I chuckled to myself when I realized he’s just as clueless as I was. I shouted back, “He’s all yours, pal”

[Nazi Flower Power]

Sorry it’s so late; I've been involved with school

It was just a normal day at my high school. It was lunchtime and I was just sitting in the common area listening to my friends drone on and on about something trivial. That's really all these past few years seemed to be; trivialities atop trivialities. Well, at least I thought it was trivial; I've never really been “in the loop” so to speak. I was zoned out when she caught my eye. I came crashing out of my day dream; it was as if Hellen of Troy had just walked by. I’m not sure how long I spent gawking, but I guess it was a while. I’m assuming my mouth was agape too, because next thing I knew I had a ball of paper in it. My friends were all laughing or yelling "Score!" when I spat it out of my mouth. We horsed around for the next fifteen or so minutes until the bell rang. We all went our separate ways to class.

"So what mistress has swooped down and stowen my wittwe Geowgie Powgie's heawt?" Brian's a jackass, but I love him.

“That obvious, huh?” I looked down at the floor.

“Well, you’ve never been the most complicated guy; everything’s practically written on your face. I saw you drooling over the” he chuckled a bit, “the new girl, Grace”

I thought aloud “Grace, huh?” I felt my face getting hot

“Y’know what? You should totally ask her out!”

I didn't like the look on his face. It looked like he was up to something. He gave me a little pep-talk, and my worries about his little scheme melted away. He talked up a storm all the way into and through English class. By the end of it, he had talked me onto a cloud of self-esteem all day. Looking back on it, I shouldn't have let myself get so caught up in the flattery. I guess it was because it was the first time anyone had really given me the whole, “You should go for it” spiel. I floated through the rest of my classes and right onto my bus. I was so immersed in my own little world, I hadn't noticed my best friend Alex take the seat next to me.

“Yo, Earth to George” he snapped me out of my thoughts, literally.

“Oh, hey” I must've had some dumb look on my face, because he suddenly became confused.
“What’s gotten into you?”

I sighed involuntarily, “I've been thinking about asking out that new girl, Grace”

Disgust flashed across his face, “And whose idea was this?” Damn, he knew me well.

“Brian kinda egged me on” I felt my face getting hot.

I suppose Brian's right; I am one of those people who wears their thoughts on their sleeves. Alex shifted back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. He turned his head and his crystal eyes locked onto mine. His look sent a shiver down my spine.

“Listen” he said softly, “Only do what you’re comfortable with doing. Don’t cave into pressure.”

I kind of shrugged him off, and we made small talk the rest of the ride home. Alex was three stops before of me. Before he got off, he made sure to remind me what he'd said earlier. I waved him off brazenly thinking he only said that because he wanted me all to himself. My evening went by without event, and I spent half the night playing and replaying scenarios in my head. In some, I'd sweep her off her feet and we'd go riding into the sunset. But in others, she'd jeer at my feeble attempt to ask her out, and cast me into an abyss. I finally worked myself into a slumber around two in the morning.

When I awoke, the Sun's golden rays were pouring into my room. I threw my covers off and got ready in record time. I couldn't wait for this day to begin. Unfortunately, my anticipation had the reverse effect and seemed to slow my day down. I spent my entire morning watching the clock tick-tock away, feeling the slow molasses-like movement of time through me into a pit of frustration. The bell finally rang, telling me it was my lunchtime. As I made my way through the halls, I felt someone grab my shoulder. I turned around to see Robby Goldstein. Robby’s on the football team with Brian, so I've been unfortunate enough to have made his acquaintance. If we were steer, he would've been sent off to the slaughterhouse sophomore year. Robby looked down at me with his head slightly tilted upwards, giving me a good look at his hook-nose.

“Atkins” I hate the way he addressed me. Like we were old pals of some sort. He crossed his arms, “Rumor has it you want to ask the new girl out.”

“And?” I don’t know why, but in situations like these my conscience quiets down and I say the first thing that pops into my dumb head.

His eyes narrowed, “Don’t. I want her” I couldn't help but chuckle at his phrasing. “Something funny, Atkins?”

“What? You can't smell my thoughts?” That earned me a swift punch in the gut. People pretended they hadn't seen anything. I don’t blame them, if I were in their position I’d have the same thing.

“Fuck off, Atkins” he continued his walk to the gym.

If I wasn't confident before, I sure as hell was now. I’m not about to let Robby the Jew scare me off from someone as gorgeous as Grace. I was determined; a man with a mission. I ran right up to our usual table and slammed my hand down.

“Where’s the new girl at?”

Everyone looked amused, and Brian was practically giddy.

“She’s in the library, man! Go! Go! Go!” I hadn't expected an actual answer.

At that moment, I wasn't about to question anything. It felt as if I had lost control of my legs. Before I knew it, I flew through the library doors and kept walking. There she was, at a back table reading diligently. As I approached, my breathing became shallow, and the words "Holy shit" kept ringing through my mind. Before I knew it, I was standing next to her table. She put the book down and looked me dead in the eyes! I felt a wave of nervousness crash over me, but I started talking anyway,

“S-so, uhm… Grace, I, uh, I know you’re new to this school and all, but” I paused for a second; my tongue felt alien, and my mouth like the Sahara. I took a deep breath and continued my inquiry, “But I was just wondering if…" I took in a sharp breath, "If youwouldbemyValentine”.

There, I said it. Like ripping off a band-aid. I put my hands in my pockets as she began to speak. Her response made my eyes widen, and flooded me with conflicting emotions. I let out a nervous laugh. I was speechless, all I did was utter out a “Cool”.

“Brian is so fucking dead” flashed through my mind.

I shot out of that place faster than I had gone in. While I was walking down the hallway, I saw Robby coming opposite of me.
He shot me a look and said, “You’d better not have asked out Grace, Atkins”
I passed right by him. I chuckled to myself when I realized he’s just as clueless as I was. I shouted back, “He’s all yours, pal”

You still made the deadline.

Last day to enter if anyone else has been meaning to. Post now or forever hold your peace.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Sorry it’s so late; I've been involved with school

It was just a normal day at my high school. It was lunchtime and I was just sitting in the common area listening to my friends drone on and on about something trivial. That's really all these past few years seemed to be; trivialities atop trivialities. Well, at least I thought it was trivial; I've never really been “in the loop” so to speak. I was zoned out when she caught my eye. I came crashing out of my day dream; it was as if Hellen of Troy had just walked by. I’m not sure how long I spent gawking, but I guess it was a while. I’m assuming my mouth was agape too, because next thing I knew I had a ball of paper in it. My friends were all laughing or yelling "Score!" when I spat it out of my mouth. We horsed around for the next fifteen or so minutes until the bell rang. We all went our separate ways to class.

"So what mistress has swooped down and stowen my wittwe Geowgie Powgie's heawt?" Brian's a jackass, but I love him.

“That obvious, huh?” I looked down at the floor.

“Well, you’ve never been the most complicated guy; everything’s practically written on your face. I saw you drooling over the” he chuckled a bit, “the new girl, Grace”

I thought aloud “Grace, huh?” I felt my face getting hot

“Y’know what? You should totally ask her out!”

I didn't like the look on his face. It looked like he was up to something. He gave me a little pep-talk, and my worries about his little scheme melted away. He talked up a storm all the way into and through English class. By the end of it, he had talked me onto a cloud of self-esteem all day. Looking back on it, I shouldn't have let myself get so caught up in the flattery. I guess it was because it was the first time anyone had really given me the whole, “You should go for it” spiel. I floated through the rest of my classes and right onto my bus. I was so immersed in my own little world, I hadn't noticed my best friend Alex take the seat next to me.

“Yo, Earth to George” he snapped me out of my thoughts, literally.

“Oh, hey” I must've had some dumb look on my face, because he suddenly became confused.
“What’s gotten into you?”

I sighed involuntarily, “I've been thinking about asking out that new girl, Grace”

Disgust flashed across his face, “And whose idea was this?” Damn, he knew me well.

“Brian kinda egged me on” I felt my face getting hot.

I suppose Brian's right; I am one of those people who wears their thoughts on their sleeves. Alex shifted back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. He turned his head and his crystal eyes locked onto mine. His look sent a shiver down my spine.

“Listen” he said softly, “Only do what you’re comfortable with doing. Don’t cave into pressure.”

I kind of shrugged him off, and we made small talk the rest of the ride home. Alex was three stops before of me. Before he got off, he made sure to remind me what he'd said earlier. I waved him off brazenly thinking he only said that because he wanted me all to himself. My evening went by without event, and I spent half the night playing and replaying scenarios in my head. In some, I'd sweep her off her feet and we'd go riding into the sunset. But in others, she'd jeer at my feeble attempt to ask her out, and cast me into an abyss. I finally worked myself into a slumber around two in the morning.

When I awoke, the Sun's golden rays were pouring into my room. I threw my covers off and got ready in record time. I couldn't wait for this day to begin. Unfortunately, my anticipation had the reverse effect and seemed to slow my day down. I spent my entire morning watching the clock tick-tock away, feeling the slow molasses-like movement of time through me into a pit of frustration. The bell finally rang, telling me it was my lunchtime. As I made my way through the halls, I felt someone grab my shoulder. I turned around to see Robby Goldstein. Robby’s on the football team with Brian, so I've been unfortunate enough to have made his acquaintance. If we were steer, he would've been sent off to the slaughterhouse sophomore year. Robby looked down at me with his head slightly tilted upwards, giving me a good look at his hook-nose.

“Atkins” I hate the way he addressed me. Like we were old pals of some sort. He crossed his arms, “Rumor has it you want to ask the new girl out.”

“And?” I don’t know why, but in situations like these my conscience quiets down and I say the first thing that pops into my dumb head.

His eyes narrowed, “Don’t. I want her” I couldn't help but chuckle at his phrasing. “Something funny, Atkins?”

“What? You can't smell my thoughts?” That earned me a swift punch in the gut. People pretended they hadn't seen anything. I don’t blame them, if I were in their position I’d have the same thing.

“Fuck off, Atkins” he continued his walk to the gym.

If I wasn't confident before, I sure as hell was now. I’m not about to let Robby the Jew scare me off from someone as gorgeous as Grace. I was determined; a man with a mission. I ran right up to our usual table and slammed my hand down.

“Where’s the new girl at?”

Everyone looked amused, and Brian was practically giddy.

“She’s in the library, man! Go! Go! Go!” I hadn't expected an actual answer.

At that moment, I wasn't about to question anything. It felt as if I had lost control of my legs. Before I knew it, I flew through the library doors and kept walking. There she was, at a back table reading diligently. As I approached, my breathing became shallow, and the words "Holy shit" kept ringing through my mind. Before I knew it, I was standing next to her table. She put the book down and looked me dead in the eyes! I felt a wave of nervousness crash over me, but I started talking anyway,

“S-so, uhm… Grace, I, uh, I know you’re new to this school and all, but” I paused for a second; my tongue felt alien, and my mouth like the Sahara. I took a deep breath and continued my inquiry, “But I was just wondering if…" I took in a sharp breath, "If youwouldbemyValentine”.

There, I said it. Like ripping off a band-aid. I put my hands in my pockets as she began to speak. Her response made my eyes widen, and flooded me with conflicting emotions. I let out a nervous laugh. I was speechless, all I did was utter out a “Cool”.

“Brian is so fucking dead” flashed through my mind.

I shot out of that place faster than I had gone in. While I was walking down the hallway, I saw Robby coming opposite of me.
He shot me a look and said, “You’d better not have asked out Grace, Atkins”
I passed right by him. I chuckled to myself when I realized he’s just as clueless as I was. I shouted back, “He’s all yours, pal”

You still made the deadline.

Last day to enter if anyone else has been meaning to. Post now or forever hold your peace.

I thought the deadline was the 28th? Or is it already the 28th where you are?

[Vancon]

You still made the deadline.

Last day to enter if anyone else has been meaning to. Post now or forever hold your peace.

I thought the deadline was the 28th? Or is it already the 28th where you are?

The end of the 28th. So at 23:59 February 28.