Summer 2015 Short Story Contest

[Forsher]

I'm actually wondering if being stickied had the perverse outcome of making this less noticeable, the "Just another sticky" phenomenon.

I've been wondering about that too. There's no obvious equivalent to bumping a non-sticky thread.

Adding "DEADLINE APPROACHING" or "X DAYS LEFT" to the title might catch people's attention. More generally, any noticeable change in the title would probably have some effect.

I was thinking about this. On one hand people like us who would normally keep thread activity up to ensure page 1 status know we have that so we don't post as much which means surrounding conversation like what we saw in the last thread isn't there. Yet, story entry 7 in the last thread (where we are now) was on page 6. This thread's on page 5 (assuming this post doesn't go to page 6). That's not too different. And in terms of time, we hit page 5 faster this time around (15 to 9 vs 12 to 9). These potentially suggest that, perhaps, other factors are more important.

In some ways it's unfortunate that this slump in activity occurs when we introduce a new rubric. More entries allow a more complete view, I feel, of how the new rubric works.

Still, it'll pick up in a later contest, I'm sure. Maybe we could try and cultivate some awareness of the thread in RP sections of the forum. Surely there's overlap?

[Bezombia]

This thread's on page 5 (assuming this post doesn't go to page 6).

kek

[Forsher]

This thread's on page 5 (assuming this post doesn't go to page 6).

kek

To be honest, I had a feeling that might happen. I knew it was on 124 posts before I posted anything, was pretty confident of no further posts and wasn't sure if it 125 was the last post of pg5 or the first of pg6.

But to add some content, I second the motion to add a "Deadline Approaching" to the title to try and attract anyone who has a finished story lying around and hasn't noticed/writes quickly and hadn't notice.

[Olivaero]

Well here it is this is the first time I've written a short story since perhaps year 10 so apologies if it's not great. Thanks in advance for the feedback. Fair warning the punctuation might be hit and miss.

CLICK There are few sounds louder or more intrusive than the sound of a Colt .45 pistol being cocked in the dead of night when you were certain you were home alone. This was a fact discovered in startling clarity by James as he was awoken by said sound occurring right next to his head "Get up" Growled a sullen voice that James recognized immediately, but all he managed in response in his recently awakened fug was "errrweeeerrr?".

"I said get up you sorry excuse for a brother! Stand up and face me before I put a bullet in that traitorous wife stealing head of yours!" This was accompanied by the colts muzzle being jammed into the side of James's head an action which brought instant awareness to him and the position he was in. "O-Okay! okay! Greg, I'm standing up! but, b-but, but listen brother, don't do this!" He pleaded as attempted the contradictory actions of moving quickly to his feet on his beige carpet from laying in his soft blue linen bedclothes whilst trying to remain as un-threatening and keeping his movements as articulated and steady as possible so as to not threaten his assailant.

"Don't do what you bastard?! Kill you?! Give me one good reason not to! you took my everything from me!" The hovering barrel of the colt shook slightly in front of him, it was just about the only thing visible to James of his brother's presence in the post midnight gloom that was his bedroom.
"Now, come on you don't want to do this! We gotta talk before it at least! C'mon, I'm your brother don't I deserve at least that?!"

"You don't deserve shit! Yer a wife stealing bastard an' no brother of mine!" Greg's voice was rising to a irrational crescendo as the barrel of the colt shook some more "Well if you ever want to see Mol again your going to have to talk to me! an' you can't do that if I'm dead! so lets sit down and talk for gods sake!"

Silence James quickly learned was as defining as that click as seconds stretched out into minutes in front of the barrel of his brothers Colt. Whilst he heard his brothers mutterings and teeth grindings of deliberation other sensations began to appearing his consciousness such as the smell of liquor emanating from behind the barrel that filled his vision and the cool whir of his air con which was doing very little to keep the sweat of his brow. All this against the backdrop of his tiny apartment unseen in the gloom of the moonless night.

"alright ye bastard say yer piece and tell me where Mol is! I know she said she were staying with you! the sound of him slumping down onto a chair brought James some relief, he had something to work with here. "Alright brother I will I will jus' let me put the light on okay? that way we can both see each other"

"God dammit, fine!"

With a carefully placed flick of his hand James bathed the room in the yellow glow of his bedside lamp as he sat down on the edge of his bed and looked over at his brother, before him sat a unshaven man in his fourties thick curly red hair grown out longer than he usually had he was almost a mirror to James if James had spent a week on a bender drinking. Sitting down spoke little of his 6 foot and 5 inches of height another thing James shared with his twin, along with broad shoulders and deep blue eyes. what he did not share with him was the tightly packed muscles all across his body, yes it was clear why Mol had chosen him in the first place James thought. He also didn't share the bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his left hand nor the colt which was still leveled at James's chest in his right.

James took a deep breath and tried to hold his tone as level as possible "Now Mol's not with me Greg you can see that surely my flat ain't big enough to hold a woman where ye couldn't see her now is it? she's just gone to a motel for a couple of days-"

"So ye saying she ain't gonna be stayin' with you when she's not at a motel?!" Gregs eyes gleamed with righteous anger. "No! Nah! I ain't saying that yeah she will be coming by in a few days she's just taking some time-"

"Yeah some time, with you! So tell me how this is meant to look to a man brother, his wife leaves him with a note saying she wants out of our ten year marriage and is gonna be staying with his twin brother huh?! how does that look to you?! I should put a bullet in your traitorous mouth right now before you can say any more traitorous words out of it!"

"Gawd dammit there ain't nothing between Mol and me Greg! Nothing!"

"Then why ain't she with me eh James? WHY?!" with this he stood up from the chair and once again the barrel of the Colt loomed in James's vision his brothers angry yells echoing this time beyond it as it shook about, the bottle of Jack falling to the floor and shattering as his other hand came up to grip the gun and keep it steady through his rage, "WHY?!" the word once again echoed around the room, filling the space between the bullet surely locked into the chamber of the gun and James's glistening forehead.

James kept incredibly still using all his muster to prevent himself from shaking "You know why brother" He uttered, his knees on the verge of giving way, "You told her".

Greg's faced blanched and he swayed backwards and forwards and for a second James believed this really was the end killed by his own brother in his night clothes, mom and pop in tears on the nightly news, both their boys stolen away from them no matter what happened after. Then with no warning Greg fell back onto the chair and burst into tears "now why'd she have t' go an tell you about tha'!"

James felt relief flood his body but his brother hadn't dropped the gun yet... It was still there cradled in his lap whilst his brother looked on through his squinting tear filled eyes "You'd been gone for two days Greg... Ain't no one had seen you I didn't know what'd happened I was pressing her for an answer as hard as I could I was worried sick about you, still am" a tear for leaked out of James's eye, betraying his true composure under his calm exterior.

"But... she didn' have to tell you tha'..."

"She knew I just wanted to make sense of it all Greg and she knew I'd understand, and I do."

"Ye do?" Greg paused a minute looking at his brother in complete disbelief "How could ye? I'm a fucking cock sucker James!"

All of a sudden his gun hand was active once again this time he was pressing the colt up against his own head and staring at James eyes filled with sadness

"Ye took my wife from me an' now ye know how ye did it... I can't take it any more!"

"No! Don't go doing something like that! I don't care who you love! and neither does anyone else!"

"I care! I love my wife an' now shes with you cos I'm a faggot! An' you an her get to have jokes over my faggot corpse"

"I'm not with Mol! Ahe just didn't think you'd want her around any more what with you liking men an all! She needed some one to turn to when she thought you didn't want her no more is that not how it is?!" James looked at his brother's pained expression and realization zapped through his body just as sure as relief had moments before it starting to dawn on him an understanding he had lacked throughout this entire exchange.

"O' course I want her!" Greg bellowed and hurled his gun at the floor and miraculously it did not go off "Shes the love of my life!" he howled.

James carefully got up and slowly approached his distraught brother and placed a hand on his shoulder whilst he wept. "Then we'll go and see her you and me, we'll go and see Mol and explain things."
"Really?" Greg's unbelieving red rimmed eyes stared up at him from behind his thick curly locks which had fallen over his face. "Yes really we'll get you cleaned up and we'll head over right now"
"I'm.... I'm sorry brother... fer all the pain I've been causin' I'm sorry fer it all your a better brother than I deserve I wouldn't even blame her for not having me back I love you brother"
"I would take any pain for you Greg you're my family and I'll always be here for you come what may I love you to brother" And with that he pulled him into a hug the two siblings locked there in an embrace that spoke more than any words had all night

And as the two brothers left that apartment in the warm moonless night all that was left of that conversation was the Jack Daniels soaking into the carpet and the Colt .45 lying on the floor.

[Nazi Flower Power]

kek

To be honest, I had a feeling that might happen. I knew it was on 124 posts before I posted anything, was pretty confident of no further posts and wasn't sure if it 125 was the last post of pg5 or the first of pg6.

But to add some content, I second the motion to add a "Deadline Approaching" to the title to try and attract anyone who has a finished story lying around and hasn't noticed/writes quickly and hadn't notice.

We usually get a few last-minute entries anyway, and I'm not sure it's a good thing to have a huge crop of entries because then judging is more of a hassle. But I did edit the title to see if that attracts any attention. If anyone wants to do additional publicity like putting a link in their sig or telling their friends, you can, but it's a bit late for this time around. Maybe do it when the next contest starts.

[Forsher]

To be honest, I had a feeling that might happen. I knew it was on 124 posts before I posted anything, was pretty confident of no further posts and wasn't sure if it 125 was the last post of pg5 or the first of pg6.

But to add some content, I second the motion to add a "Deadline Approaching" to the title to try and attract anyone who has a finished story lying around and hasn't noticed/writes quickly and hadn't notice.

We usually get a few last-minute entries anyway, and I'm not sure it's a good thing to have a huge crop of entries because then judging is more of a hassle. But I did edit the title to see if that attracts any attention. If anyone wants to do additional publicity like putting a link in their sig or telling their friends, you can, but it's a bit late for this time around. Maybe do it when the next contest starts.

True. I mean, look, we've already had one. And, correct me if I am wrong, but aren't you yourself still intending on entering?

[USS Monitor]

We usually get a few last-minute entries anyway, and I'm not sure it's a good thing to have a huge crop of entries because then judging is more of a hassle. But I did edit the title to see if that attracts any attention. If anyone wants to do additional publicity like putting a link in their sig or telling their friends, you can, but it's a bit late for this time around. Maybe do it when the next contest starts.

True. I mean, look, we've already had one. And, correct me if I am wrong, but aren't you yourself still intending on entering?

Yes, I am planning to enter. I just need to do some editing, but I kept procrastinating because I was tired from work, and then I went to Maine and didn't bring my computer.

(I am the same poster as Nazi Flower Power. I decided it was time to finally leave the Nazi Party and make a nation based on something I sincerely approve of.)

[The Tricolour]

This is probably the shortest story.

The Snowy Day

The man's boots crunched on the thick snow. Snowflakes floated down from the heavens around his head. He was the only one outside. Warmth flickered from the windows, and snow covered the roofs of the houses. Suddenly, the wind began to pick up. The snow began to fall violently.A blizzard was upon the city.
The man was knocked to the snow. His already-cold body began to freeze. With all the strength he could muster, the man got up again, and continued on. Inside, the man began to despair. He would never make it home alive. A tear rolled down his cheek, but it froze.
He sank to his knees, making a deep mark in the snow. He was going to die here. But then, a young girl rushed up to him, carrying a lantern. "You can do it, sir," the young girl said. "Get up. You have to try. You'll die here," she continued. "I'll die no matter what, whether it be here or a couple yards away, or on the steps of my house," the man replied to the young girl. "Nonsense," she said. "You can do it. Do you want me to help you?" The young girl filled the man with confidence.
The pair trudged through the streets of the city. The young girl, helping the man. Finally, they reached his house. The man was alive.
They man entered the door of his house. His wife rushed to the door, embracing him. "This girl. She helped me. She saved my life. The blizzard came... and... I had lost all hope..." A tear rolled down his cheek again, this time out of joy. "How much do you want? We'll pay you anything," the man's wife said to the girl. "No need," the girl replied. "I have already been paid, in the joy that I have recieved helping this man," she continued. The wife smiled. "You gave my husband a miracle," the wife said. "At least come in." "No," the girl replied. "There might be others that need my help." "Alright," said the wife. The wind blew the door shut. The man and his wife rushed to the windows.
The girl looked around, seeing if anyone else needed help. Nobody did. Nobody else was out in the city. And then, this little girl sprouted white, feathery wings, from her shoulders. She began to fly upwards, towards the skies, towards the clouds. She raced against the blizzard, her lantern held high. Finally, she was but a speck in the sky to the man and his wife. That girl was an angel.

[Nazi Flower Power]

This is probably the shortest story.

The Snowy Day

The man's boots crunched on the thick snow. Snowflakes floated down from the heavens around his head. He was the only one outside. Warmth flickered from the windows, and snow covered the roofs of the houses. Suddenly, the wind began to pick up. The snow began to fall violently.A blizzard was upon the city.
The man was knocked to the snow. His already-cold body began to freeze. With all the strength he could muster, the man got up again, and continued on. Inside, the man began to despair. He would never make it home alive. A tear rolled down his cheek, but it froze.
He sank to his knees, making a deep mark in the snow. He was going to die here. But then, a young girl rushed up to him, carrying a lantern. "You can do it, sir," the young girl said. "Get up. You have to try. You'll die here," she continued. "I'll die no matter what, whether it be here or a couple yards away, or on the steps of my house," the man replied to the young girl. "Nonsense," she said. "You can do it. Do you want me to help you?" The young girl filled the man with confidence.
The pair trudged through the streets of the city. The young girl, helping the man. Finally, they reached his house. The man was alive.
They man entered the door of his house. His wife rushed to the door, embracing him. "This girl. She helped me. She saved my life. The blizzard came... and... I had lost all hope..." A tear rolled down his cheek again, this time out of joy. "How much do you want? We'll pay you anything," the man's wife said to the girl. "No need," the girl replied. "I have already been paid, in the joy that I have recieved helping this man," she continued. The wife smiled. "You gave my husband a miracle," the wife said. "At least come in." "No," the girl replied. "There might be others that need my help." "Alright," said the wife. The wind blew the door shut. The man and his wife rushed to the windows.
The girl looked around, seeing if anyone else needed help. Nobody did. Nobody else was out in the city. And then, this little girl sprouted white, feathery wings, from her shoulders. She began to fly upwards, towards the skies, towards the clouds. She raced against the blizzard, her lantern held high. Finally, she was but a speck in the sky to the man and his wife. That girl was an angel.

Not the shortest entry we've ever had, but it might end up being the shortest this round.

[Liberty and Linguistics]

A light snow left a small blanket of white coating the northern New Hampshire mountains. The frigid and foggy November morning caused the town of Whitestone to appear almost deserted. A fog hovered over the town chapel, middle aged men and fathers could be seen shoveling their driveways of snow and dead autumn leaves, and as the town market opened, townsfolk formed a line to purchase the last of the fresh produce grown in the town.

Matt was not one of these people. A small, weathered, and beaten home lied near the top of a forested mountain. The house was clearly hidden, concealed by moss, trees, and years of weathering, but the existence of it was known. A dirt road connected the home to the main town, as the home was about a mile away. In this house resided Matt.

The inside of the small home was what one might expect if they gazed at the outside. A dinky, unsanitary kitchen was crammed in the very corner of a large room, a small door led to a patio that hadn't been used in years, and various tables, picture frames, and pieces of furniture were in the house. An aged wood flooring, which was clearly moldy and weathered, acted as the floor of the home. A rather pricey and highly valuable grand piano lay in the right corner of a large living room. On the piano, papers were strung across the keys.

A groggy and hungover Matt laid with his head pressed up against a small table. Bottles of bourbon and cheap whiskey were scattered across the table, and a shotgun was easily visible on the adjacent table. Matt stared at the shotgun, his mildly drunken eyes fixated on it's barrel.

"I could do it today," he thought.
"I could blow my fucking brains out, end this, and nobody would know, let alone give a shit," he continued thinking to himself.

It was a daily, recurring thought, one that was increasing in intensity as winter edged near. He flipped the dusty typewriter off his table, and stumbled towards the grand piano. As he sat next to the piano, his scab ridden fingers stroked the keys. From there, Matt sighed, and began playing "Liebesträume No.3." Despite Matt's crippling depression and lack of sobriety, it sounded elegant, and echoed for hundreds of yards.

A boy named Sebastien walked up the steep dirt road, throwing out wet and ice coated newspapers onto the cobblestone driveways of houses that were nestled upon the small pathway. Sebastien was quite cold, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and looked a bit hefty in his winter outfit. Despite this, he was ebullient as usual, trekking up the dirt road until he reached the very end of the dirt road. Behind a thick layer of pine trees and snow coated, thick moss, he gazed upon what seemed to be a deserted home. Sebastien nearly walked right past the home until he heard a soft, solemn piano tune.

Sebastien turned around rather slowly, walking down a snow coated cobblestone path that led to the entrance of the home. Through a small window, Matt saw the boy. He looked about 13, with a strawberry blonde comb-over, heavy winter gear, and a bit of a baby face. Matt prayed that he wouldn't knock on the door, and continued to play the final verses of "Liebesträume Number 3." Sebastien initially placed the newspaper near the front door but stood still.

Matt recognized this and was rather confused. A newspaper boy was simply standing by the door, either looking or listening for something. Sebastien proceeded to knock on the door, and Matt ignored this.

Another loud knock.

The solemn piano tune ended and Matt grumpily mumbled to himself. He glanced at the newspaper boy. He was smiling, but seemed fairly nervous and confused. His dirty blonde hair stood up at the back, and he was tapping his feet.

Matt stood up, stumbled towards the door, and tried to maintain a facade of sobriety as he answered the door.

Matt slowly opened the door, attempting to clear the groggy and blatantly melancholic expression from his eyes.

Sebastien expected the man answering the door to be elegant, after all, he had performed a classic and magnificent concerto on his aging grand piano. Sebastian was taken aback upon hearing Matt say,

"What the fuck do you want?"

Sebastien slowly inched back, tapping his feet, and biting his nails.

"Err, I hate to interrupt, but I heard a classical piano tune coming from the house. I was just a bit curious, I suppose. I don't mean to intrude," said Sebastien timidly, sweat dripping from his tangly and already greasy comb over.

Matt grunted. He understood that the boy meant well. Matt, despite being a hermit, considered himself to be highly accurate in his initial judgements of a person's demeanor and personality. He knew that Sebastien was likely a rather curious and bright fellow. Regardless, the boy hadn't answered Matt's question.

"You may hate to intrude, whereas I hate to be rude. Now, you failed to tell me what the fuck you wanted. You danced around my question," said Matt without winking.

Sebastien was again a bit shocked. How could a man playing such a tune in a New Hampshire town be an utter asshole? Sebastien, too, was highly accurate in his initial judgements of people, and he knew that this curious man was likely a rather sad and talented fellow.

Despite this, Sebastien stood motionless, as if he had been possessed by dozens of ghosts.

Matt sighed and muttered,

"Come on in."

Sebastien hesitantly stepped over a rotting end of floorboard to enter the home. Sebastien's keen eye took in the surroundings. The kitchen hadn't been properly cleaned in decades, the floorboards reeked of negligence and weathering, while the grand piano stood out as the one clean and polished piece of furniture in the house. Sebastien, however, was fixated on one particular item. Sitting on a neglected wooden table were three bottles of aged, cheap whiskey, along with a shotgun.

"Okay, what's your name, boy," inquired Matt.

"Sebastien, Sebastien LaPierre," Sebastien said nervously.

"Hello Sebastien. The name is Matt, and I'm sorry for being an asshole earlier. Feel free to take a seat," Matt said apologetically. "However, my question still stands, what the hell do you want?"

Sebastien bit his nails and tapped his feet. He looked at Matt. Matt was rather tall, skinny, with grey hair and the beginning of a beard. He looked about 70, but he was clearly only 60.

"I was just curious sir. On seldom occasions do I hear an old man living in the mountains playing a nice piano piece. But, this house, it just seemed...abandoned," Sebastien said.

As Sebastien finished, Matt began pouring himself a small glass of whiskey.

"You want some?"

Sebastien was startled and said, "Sir, I'm 14, I couldn't drink liquor."

Matt sighed and nodded in agreement.

"Out of curiosity sir, are you sober at the moment," Sebastien said quietly.

"I am to sobriety as snow is to heat waves."

If any moment broke the ice, it was that moment, as Matt had just admitted to a stranger that he was a drunk. This was true, at least, in Sebastien's naive mind.

Sebastien, while friendly, was known to speak bluntly without realizing the consequences. As such he quipped,

"Well, then why don't you put the drink away?"

Matt chuckled and proceeded to slam the whiskey down, before throwing the glass behind his back, shattering the glass and echoing an obnoxious noise.

"It's been put away," Matt said grinning.

Matt continued chuckling, but gave off an expressionless glare, one that gave off vibes of depression.

"Something is wrong, isn't it," Sebastien said sympathetically.
Matt grunted and then grinned.

"Son, something's been 'wrong' my entire life," said Matt.

There was a real sense of genuine care emanating from Sebastien's youthful eyes. Matt recognized his genuine concern. Matt again sighed and began. Speaking softly he said;

"My wife passed away 10 years ago from cancer. I've always been a manic depressive, a drunk, and a lazy motherfucker. But, do you know something? She was the one who held me together through all that. Without her, I would've been nothing. Ironically, that's exactly where I am now. Nowhere. I'm nothing. Hell, the census office doesn't even know I fucking exist," Matt said chuckling rudely.

Sebastien was dumbfounded. It was as if a knife had found its way into his heart. How could he respond to this? In Sebastien's mind, the worst he had been through was a brief sledding accident, whereas a strange man was telling him about his widow and alcohol.

"Sir, I had no idea..."

Matt gave off a sort of condescending and mean smile. He turned his head to Sebastien and leaned in saying;

"Kid, you mean well. But, you really have no business being here. I'm a hermit, always will be, I sit here and drink and angrily play classical music."

Sebastien looked defeated initially, but then defiant. Sebastien knew he was about to break the folksy rules of his parents, which told him to never, ever, go against the wishes of those older than him.

"Sir, I heard a beautiful classical tune as I walked in here. If you don't want me here, then you shouldn't have offered me booze and a story. Something is wrong, and I'm not going to stand by and let you rot in misery," Sebastien said triumphantly, with only a hint of fear in his voice.

Matt broke down and sobbed as Sebastien's heart again shattered. It wasn't a river of tears, but a sad, soft sobbing. Just as Sebastien was about to apologize, he noticed a wrinkled up paper containing a French poem.

Matt looked up and apologized. He didn't address what had happened, he just said "remember to call me Matt."

Sebastien gave him a pat on the back and brought up the poem sheet.

"Sir...errr..Matt, is this a french poem?"

Matt wiped a lone tear on his face and nodded.

"Yes, Sebastien, that's a French poem. My personal favorite actually. My wife would read it to me on the miserable days."

Sebastien smiled a bit saying;

"Could you read it to me?"

Matt wiped the last tear off his face saying,

"Few kids express any interest in poetry. I'd be happy too, Sebastien."

Sebastien put his hand on his cheek and began listening intently.

"Automne malade et adoré.
Tu mourras quand l'ouragan soufflera dans les roseraies.
Quand il aura neigé.
Dans les vergers.

Pauvre automne.
Meurs en blancheur et en richesse.
De neige et de fruits mûrs.
Au fond du ciel.
Des éperviers planent.
Sur les nixes nicettes aux cheveux verts et naines.
Qui n'ont jamais aimé.

Aux lisières lointaines.
Les cerfs ont bramé.

Et que j'aime ô saison que j'aime tes rumeurs.
Les fruits tombant sans qu'on les cueille.
Le vent et la forêt qui pleurent.
Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuille.
Les feuilles.
Qu'on foule.
Un train.
Qui roule.
La vie.
S'écoule."

"What does it mean, sir," Sebastien inquired?

Matt sighed and took another swig of whiskey.

"The poem is called automne malade. It's an old french poem, older than than this town, older than this aged whiskey. For many, it's a poem about the depression autumn brings. It's about the falling of the leaves, the clouds, the new snow. Really, it's about exactly what we're experiencing right now."

Matt cleared his throat.

"To me, it means something entirely different. I live in a cold, dark New Hampshire town, full of seemingly folksy people. But, this poem is one of simplicity, something not fake. It's genuine and real, like the changing of the seasons, like sadness. But, we all seem to forget this here. This town is an antonym of the poem. For some reason, such a futile thing cheers me up."

Matt expected Sebastien to express complete and utter confusion at his analysis. After all, Matt thought he was special in his love for vague and interpretative poetry.

Sebastien smiled a bit, and seemingly gave Matt his approval.

"That's beautiful," he said.

For about a minute, there was silence. Simple, retrospective, and serene silence. Matt again cleared his throat.

"Sebastien, i thoroughly enjoyed your company. It's been a nice half hour. But, as the french say, au revoir, garçon."

Sebastien shook Matt's hand, but Matt went in for a bear hug instead.

"You're a good kid. We need more like you. We need more curious, innocent, and adventurous people in this world. You're unique. Maybe I'll see you again."

Sebastien smiled a small smile and almost shed a tear. As he began to walk out the door, he asked a question.

"Matt, why do you have a shotgun?"

"Hunting," Matt said bluntly.

Sebastien was skeptical, but waved goodbye anyways, and proceeded to walk back into town. The sun had fully risen and the clouds had cleared as Sebastien walked slowly back. He had left his newspapers by the front door, but didn't bother to pick them up. In his mind, he had more important things to think about.

A empty bottle of whiskey could be heard hitting a wall that night. As the whiskey hit the wall, Matt slowly realized what he had done and slowly breathed in. As he walked over to his grand piano, his eyes caught a glimpse of his shotgun. Matt again took a deep breath and quietly said;

"Not tonight, Not tonight Matt."

Matt managed to muster up a small, tearful smile as he walked over to his grand piano. As his fingers gently touched the keys, he began playing Liebesträume No. 3.

I do enjoy writing, but I don't do it as often as I should. So, hopefully the story is enjoyable. If you cannot tell by the spoiler title, the name of this story is simply Matt.

[Nazi Flower Power]

A light snow left a small blanket of white coating the northern New Hampshire mountains. The frigid and foggy November morning caused the town of Whitestone to appear almost deserted. A fog hovered over the town chapel, middle aged men and fathers could be seen shoveling their driveways of snow and dead autumn leaves, and as the town market opened, townsfolk formed a line to purchase the last of the fresh produce grown in the town.

Matt was not one of these people. A small, weathered, and beaten home lied near the top of a forested mountain. The house was clearly hidden, concealed by moss, trees, and years of weathering, but the existence of it was known. A dirt road connected the home to the main town, as the home was about a mile away. In this house resided Matt.

The inside of the small home was what one might expect if they gazed at the outside. A dinky, unsanitary kitchen was crammed in the very corner of a large room, a small door led to a patio that hadn't been used in years, and various tables, picture frames, and pieces of furniture were in the house. An aged wood flooring, which was clearly moldy and weathered, acted as the floor of the home. A rather pricey and highly valuable grand piano lay in the right corner of a large living room. On the piano, papers were strung across the keys.

A groggy and hungover Matt laid with his head pressed up against a small table. Bottles of bourbon and cheap whiskey were scattered across the table, and a shotgun was easily visible on the adjacent table. Matt stared at the shotgun, his mildly drunken eyes fixated on it's barrel.

"I could do it today," he thought.
"I could blow my fucking brains out, end this, and nobody would know, let alone give a shit," he continued thinking to himself.

It was a daily, recurring thought, one that was increasing in intensity as winter edged near. He flipped the dusty typewriter off his table, and stumbled towards the grand piano. As he sat next to the piano, his scab ridden fingers stroked the keys. From there, Matt sighed, and began playing "Liebesträume No.3." Despite Matt's crippling depression and lack of sobriety, it sounded elegant, and echoed for hundreds of yards.

A boy named Sebastien walked up the steep dirt road, throwing out wet and ice coated newspapers onto the cobblestone driveways of houses that were nestled upon the small pathway. Sebastien was quite cold, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and looked a bit hefty in his winter outfit. Despite this, he was ebullient as usual, trekking up the dirt road until he reached the very end of the dirt road. Behind a thick layer of pine trees and snow coated, thick moss, he gazed upon what seemed to be a deserted home. Sebastien nearly walked right past the home until he heard a soft, solemn piano tune.

Sebastien turned around rather slowly, walking down a snow coated cobblestone path that led to the entrance of the home. Through a small window, Matt saw the boy. He looked about 13, with a strawberry blonde comb-over, heavy winter gear, and a bit of a baby face. Matt prayed that he wouldn't knock on the door, and continued to play the final verses of "Liebesträume Number 3." Sebastien initially placed the newspaper near the front door but stood still.

Matt recognized this and was rather confused. A newspaper boy was simply standing by the door, either looking or listening for something. Sebastien proceeded to knock on the door, and Matt ignored this.

Another loud knock.

The solemn piano tune ended and Matt grumpily mumbled to himself. He glanced at the newspaper boy. He was smiling, but seemed fairly nervous and confused. His dirty blonde hair stood up at the back, and he was tapping his feet.

Matt stood up, stumbled towards the door, and tried to maintain a facade of sobriety as he answered the door.

Matt slowly opened the door, attempting to clear the groggy and blatantly melancholic expression from his eyes.

Sebastien expected the man answering the door to be elegant, after all, he had performed a classic and magnificent concerto on his aging grand piano. Sebastian was taken aback upon hearing Matt say,

"What the fuck do you want?"

Sebastien slowly inched back, tapping his feet, and biting his nails.

"Err, I hate to interrupt, but I heard a classical piano tune coming from the house. I was just a bit curious, I suppose. I don't mean to intrude," said Sebastien timidly, sweat dripping from his tangly and already greasy comb over.

Matt grunted. He understood that the boy meant well. Matt, despite being a hermit, considered himself to be highly accurate in his initial judgements of a person's demeanor and personality. He knew that Sebastien was likely a rather curious and bright fellow. Regardless, the boy hadn't answered Matt's question.

"You may hate to intrude, whereas I hate to be rude. Now, you failed to tell me what the fuck you wanted. You danced around my question," said Matt without winking.

Sebastien was again a bit shocked. How could a man playing such a tune in a New Hampshire town be an utter asshole? Sebastien, too, was highly accurate in his initial judgements of people, and he knew that this curious man was likely a rather sad and talented fellow.

Despite this, Sebastien stood motionless, as if he had been possessed by dozens of ghosts.

Matt sighed and muttered,

"Come on in."

Sebastien hesitantly stepped over a rotting end of floorboard to enter the home. Sebastien's keen eye took in the surroundings. The kitchen hadn't been properly cleaned in decades, the floorboards reeked of negligence and weathering, while the grand piano stood out as the one clean and polished piece of furniture in the house. Sebastien, however, was fixated on one particular item. Sitting on a neglected wooden table were three bottles of aged, cheap whiskey, along with a shotgun.

"Okay, what's your name, boy," inquired Matt.

"Sebastien, Sebastien LaPierre," Sebastien said nervously.

"Hello Sebastien. The name is Matt, and I'm sorry for being an asshole earlier. Feel free to take a seat," Matt said apologetically. "However, my question still stands, what the hell do you want?"

Sebastien bit his nails and tapped his feet. He looked at Matt. Matt was rather tall, skinny, with grey hair and the beginning of a beard. He looked about 70, but he was clearly only 60.

"I was just curious sir. On seldom occasions do I hear an old man living in the mountains playing a nice piano piece. But, this house, it just seemed...abandoned," Sebastien said.

As Sebastien finished, Matt began pouring himself a small glass of whiskey.

"You want some?"

Sebastien was startled and said, "Sir, I'm 14, I couldn't drink liquor."

Matt sighed and nodded in agreement.

"Out of curiosity sir, are you sober at the moment," Sebastien said quietly.

"I am to sobriety as snow is to heat waves."

If any moment broke the ice, it was that moment, as Matt had just admitted to a stranger that he was a drunk. This was true, at least, in Sebastien's naive mind.

Sebastien, while friendly, was known to speak bluntly without realizing the consequences. As such he quipped,

"Well, then why don't you put the drink away?"

Matt chuckled and proceeded to slam the whiskey down, before throwing the glass behind his back, shattering the glass and echoing an obnoxious noise.

"It's been put away," Matt said grinning.

Matt continued chuckling, but gave off an expressionless glare, one that gave off vibes of depression.

"Something is wrong, isn't it," Sebastien said sympathetically.
Matt grunted and then grinned.

"Son, something's been 'wrong' my entire life," said Matt.

There was a real sense of genuine care emanating from Sebastien's youthful eyes. Matt recognized his genuine concern. Matt again sighed and began. Speaking softly he said;

"My wife passed away 10 years ago from cancer. I've always been a manic depressive, a drunk, and a lazy motherfucker. But, do you know something? She was the one who held me together through all that. Without her, I would've been nothing. Ironically, that's exactly where I am now. Nowhere. I'm nothing. Hell, the census office doesn't even know I fucking exist," Matt said chuckling rudely.

Sebastien was dumbfounded. It was as if a knife had found its way into his heart. How could he respond to this? In Sebastien's mind, the worst he had been through was a brief sledding accident, whereas a strange man was telling him about his widow and alcohol.

"Sir, I had no idea..."

Matt gave off a sort of condescending and mean smile. He turned his head to Sebastien and leaned in saying;

"Kid, you mean well. But, you really have no business being here. I'm a hermit, always will be, I sit here and drink and angrily play classical music."

Sebastien looked defeated initially, but then defiant. Sebastien knew he was about to break the folksy rules of his parents, which told him to never, ever, go against the wishes of those older than him.

"Sir, I heard a beautiful classical tune as I walked in here. If you don't want me here, then you shouldn't have offered me booze and a story. Something is wrong, and I'm not going to stand by and let you rot in misery," Sebastien said triumphantly, with only a hint of fear in his voice.

Matt broke down and sobbed as Sebastien's heart again shattered. It wasn't a river of tears, but a sad, soft sobbing. Just as Sebastien was about to apologize, he noticed a wrinkled up paper containing a French poem.

Matt looked up and apologized. He didn't address what had happened, he just said "remember to call me Matt."

Sebastien gave him a pat on the back and brought up the poem sheet.

"Sir...errr..Matt, is this a french poem?"

Matt wiped a lone tear on his face and nodded.

"Yes, Sebastien, that's a French poem. My personal favorite actually. My wife would read it to me on the miserable days."

Sebastien smiled a bit saying;

"Could you read it to me?"

Matt wiped the last tear off his face saying,

"Few kids express any interest in poetry. I'd be happy too, Sebastien."

Sebastien put his hand on his cheek and began listening intently.

"Automne malade et adoré.
Tu mourras quand l'ouragan soufflera dans les roseraies.
Quand il aura neigé.
Dans les vergers.

Pauvre automne.
Meurs en blancheur et en richesse.
De neige et de fruits mûrs.
Au fond du ciel.
Des éperviers planent.
Sur les nixes nicettes aux cheveux verts et naines.
Qui n'ont jamais aimé.

Aux lisières lointaines.
Les cerfs ont bramé.

Et que j'aime ô saison que j'aime tes rumeurs.
Les fruits tombant sans qu'on les cueille.
Le vent et la forêt qui pleurent.
Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuille.
Les feuilles.
Qu'on foule.
Un train.
Qui roule.
La vie.
S'écoule."

"What does it mean, sir," Sebastien inquired?

Matt sighed and took another swig of whiskey.

"The poem is called automne malade. It's an old french poem, older than than this town, older than this aged whiskey. For many, it's a poem about the depression autumn brings. It's about the falling of the leaves, the clouds, the new snow. Really, it's about exactly what we're experiencing right now."

Matt cleared his throat.

"To me, it means something entirely different. I live in a cold, dark New Hampshire town, full of seemingly folksy people. But, this poem is one of simplicity, something not fake. It's genuine and real, like the changing of the seasons, like sadness. But, we all seem to forget this here. This town is an antonym of the poem. For some reason, such a futile thing cheers me up."

Matt expected Sebastien to express complete and utter confusion at his analysis. After all, Matt thought he was special in his love for vague and interpretative poetry.

Sebastien smiled a bit, and seemingly gave Matt his approval.

"That's beautiful," he said.

For about a minute, there was silence. Simple, retrospective, and serene silence. Matt again cleared his throat.

"Sebastien, i thoroughly enjoyed your company. It's been a nice half hour. But, as the french say, au revoir, garçon."

Sebastien shook Matt's hand, but Matt went in for a bear hug instead.

"You're a good kid. We need more like you. We need more curious, innocent, and adventurous people in this world. You're unique. Maybe I'll see you again."

Sebastien smiled a small smile and almost shed a tear. As he began to walk out the door, he asked a question.

"Matt, why do you have a shotgun?"

"Hunting," Matt said bluntly.

Sebastien was skeptical, but waved goodbye anyways, and proceeded to walk back into town. The sun had fully risen and the clouds had cleared as Sebastien walked slowly back. He had left his newspapers by the front door, but didn't bother to pick them up. In his mind, he had more important things to think about.

A empty bottle of whiskey could be heard hitting a wall that night. As the whiskey hit the wall, Matt slowly realized what he had done and slowly breathed in. As he walked over to his grand piano, his eyes caught a glimpse of his shotgun. Matt again took a deep breath and quietly said;

"Not tonight, Not tonight Matt."

Matt managed to muster up a small, tearful smile as he walked over to his grand piano. As his fingers gently touched the keys, he began playing Liebesträume No. 3.

I do enjoy writing, but I don't do it as often as I should. So, hopefully the story is enjoyable. If you cannot tell by the spoiler title, the name of this story is simply Matt.

I don't do it as much as I should either. It is satisfying when I finish something, but it is hard to get started.

[The High Lords]

Tick, tock - time to get entries in!

[Infected Mushroom]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

[Olivaero]

A light snow left a small blanket of white coating the northern New Hampshire mountains. The frigid and foggy November morning caused the town of Whitestone to appear almost deserted. A fog hovered over the town chapel, middle aged men and fathers could be seen shoveling their driveways of snow and dead autumn leaves, and as the town market opened, townsfolk formed a line to purchase the last of the fresh produce grown in the town.

Matt was not one of these people. A small, weathered, and beaten home lied near the top of a forested mountain. The house was clearly hidden, concealed by moss, trees, and years of weathering, but the existence of it was known. A dirt road connected the home to the main town, as the home was about a mile away. In this house resided Matt.

The inside of the small home was what one might expect if they gazed at the outside. A dinky, unsanitary kitchen was crammed in the very corner of a large room, a small door led to a patio that hadn't been used in years, and various tables, picture frames, and pieces of furniture were in the house. An aged wood flooring, which was clearly moldy and weathered, acted as the floor of the home. A rather pricey and highly valuable grand piano lay in the right corner of a large living room. On the piano, papers were strung across the keys.

A groggy and hungover Matt laid with his head pressed up against a small table. Bottles of bourbon and cheap whiskey were scattered across the table, and a shotgun was easily visible on the adjacent table. Matt stared at the shotgun, his mildly drunken eyes fixated on it's barrel.

"I could do it today," he thought.
"I could blow my fucking brains out, end this, and nobody would know, let alone give a shit," he continued thinking to himself.

It was a daily, recurring thought, one that was increasing in intensity as winter edged near. He flipped the dusty typewriter off his table, and stumbled towards the grand piano. As he sat next to the piano, his scab ridden fingers stroked the keys. From there, Matt sighed, and began playing "Liebesträume No.3." Despite Matt's crippling depression and lack of sobriety, it sounded elegant, and echoed for hundreds of yards.

A boy named Sebastien walked up the steep dirt road, throwing out wet and ice coated newspapers onto the cobblestone driveways of houses that were nestled upon the small pathway. Sebastien was quite cold, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and looked a bit hefty in his winter outfit. Despite this, he was ebullient as usual, trekking up the dirt road until he reached the very end of the dirt road. Behind a thick layer of pine trees and snow coated, thick moss, he gazed upon what seemed to be a deserted home. Sebastien nearly walked right past the home until he heard a soft, solemn piano tune.

Sebastien turned around rather slowly, walking down a snow coated cobblestone path that led to the entrance of the home. Through a small window, Matt saw the boy. He looked about 13, with a strawberry blonde comb-over, heavy winter gear, and a bit of a baby face. Matt prayed that he wouldn't knock on the door, and continued to play the final verses of "Liebesträume Number 3." Sebastien initially placed the newspaper near the front door but stood still.

Matt recognized this and was rather confused. A newspaper boy was simply standing by the door, either looking or listening for something. Sebastien proceeded to knock on the door, and Matt ignored this.

Another loud knock.

The solemn piano tune ended and Matt grumpily mumbled to himself. He glanced at the newspaper boy. He was smiling, but seemed fairly nervous and confused. His dirty blonde hair stood up at the back, and he was tapping his feet.

Matt stood up, stumbled towards the door, and tried to maintain a facade of sobriety as he answered the door.

Matt slowly opened the door, attempting to clear the groggy and blatantly melancholic expression from his eyes.

Sebastien expected the man answering the door to be elegant, after all, he had performed a classic and magnificent concerto on his aging grand piano. Sebastian was taken aback upon hearing Matt say,

"What the fuck do you want?"

Sebastien slowly inched back, tapping his feet, and biting his nails.

"Err, I hate to interrupt, but I heard a classical piano tune coming from the house. I was just a bit curious, I suppose. I don't mean to intrude," said Sebastien timidly, sweat dripping from his tangly and already greasy comb over.

Matt grunted. He understood that the boy meant well. Matt, despite being a hermit, considered himself to be highly accurate in his initial judgements of a person's demeanor and personality. He knew that Sebastien was likely a rather curious and bright fellow. Regardless, the boy hadn't answered Matt's question.

"You may hate to intrude, whereas I hate to be rude. Now, you failed to tell me what the fuck you wanted. You danced around my question," said Matt without winking.

Sebastien was again a bit shocked. How could a man playing such a tune in a New Hampshire town be an utter asshole? Sebastien, too, was highly accurate in his initial judgements of people, and he knew that this curious man was likely a rather sad and talented fellow.

Despite this, Sebastien stood motionless, as if he had been possessed by dozens of ghosts.

Matt sighed and muttered,

"Come on in."

Sebastien hesitantly stepped over a rotting end of floorboard to enter the home. Sebastien's keen eye took in the surroundings. The kitchen hadn't been properly cleaned in decades, the floorboards reeked of negligence and weathering, while the grand piano stood out as the one clean and polished piece of furniture in the house. Sebastien, however, was fixated on one particular item. Sitting on a neglected wooden table were three bottles of aged, cheap whiskey, along with a shotgun.

"Okay, what's your name, boy," inquired Matt.

"Sebastien, Sebastien LaPierre," Sebastien said nervously.

"Hello Sebastien. The name is Matt, and I'm sorry for being an asshole earlier. Feel free to take a seat," Matt said apologetically. "However, my question still stands, what the hell do you want?"

Sebastien bit his nails and tapped his feet. He looked at Matt. Matt was rather tall, skinny, with grey hair and the beginning of a beard. He looked about 70, but he was clearly only 60.

"I was just curious sir. On seldom occasions do I hear an old man living in the mountains playing a nice piano piece. But, this house, it just seemed...abandoned," Sebastien said.

As Sebastien finished, Matt began pouring himself a small glass of whiskey.

"You want some?"

Sebastien was startled and said, "Sir, I'm 14, I couldn't drink liquor."

Matt sighed and nodded in agreement.

"Out of curiosity sir, are you sober at the moment," Sebastien said quietly.

"I am to sobriety as snow is to heat waves."

If any moment broke the ice, it was that moment, as Matt had just admitted to a stranger that he was a drunk. This was true, at least, in Sebastien's naive mind.

Sebastien, while friendly, was known to speak bluntly without realizing the consequences. As such he quipped,

"Well, then why don't you put the drink away?"

Matt chuckled and proceeded to slam the whiskey down, before throwing the glass behind his back, shattering the glass and echoing an obnoxious noise.

"It's been put away," Matt said grinning.

Matt continued chuckling, but gave off an expressionless glare, one that gave off vibes of depression.

"Something is wrong, isn't it," Sebastien said sympathetically.
Matt grunted and then grinned.

"Son, something's been 'wrong' my entire life," said Matt.

There was a real sense of genuine care emanating from Sebastien's youthful eyes. Matt recognized his genuine concern. Matt again sighed and began. Speaking softly he said;

"My wife passed away 10 years ago from cancer. I've always been a manic depressive, a drunk, and a lazy motherfucker. But, do you know something? She was the one who held me together through all that. Without her, I would've been nothing. Ironically, that's exactly where I am now. Nowhere. I'm nothing. Hell, the census office doesn't even know I fucking exist," Matt said chuckling rudely.

Sebastien was dumbfounded. It was as if a knife had found its way into his heart. How could he respond to this? In Sebastien's mind, the worst he had been through was a brief sledding accident, whereas a strange man was telling him about his widow and alcohol.

"Sir, I had no idea..."

Matt gave off a sort of condescending and mean smile. He turned his head to Sebastien and leaned in saying;

"Kid, you mean well. But, you really have no business being here. I'm a hermit, always will be, I sit here and drink and angrily play classical music."

Sebastien looked defeated initially, but then defiant. Sebastien knew he was about to break the folksy rules of his parents, which told him to never, ever, go against the wishes of those older than him.

"Sir, I heard a beautiful classical tune as I walked in here. If you don't want me here, then you shouldn't have offered me booze and a story. Something is wrong, and I'm not going to stand by and let you rot in misery," Sebastien said triumphantly, with only a hint of fear in his voice.

Matt broke down and sobbed as Sebastien's heart again shattered. It wasn't a river of tears, but a sad, soft sobbing. Just as Sebastien was about to apologize, he noticed a wrinkled up paper containing a French poem.

Matt looked up and apologized. He didn't address what had happened, he just said "remember to call me Matt."

Sebastien gave him a pat on the back and brought up the poem sheet.

"Sir...errr..Matt, is this a french poem?"

Matt wiped a lone tear on his face and nodded.

"Yes, Sebastien, that's a French poem. My personal favorite actually. My wife would read it to me on the miserable days."

Sebastien smiled a bit saying;

"Could you read it to me?"

Matt wiped the last tear off his face saying,

"Few kids express any interest in poetry. I'd be happy too, Sebastien."

Sebastien put his hand on his cheek and began listening intently.

"Automne malade et adoré.
Tu mourras quand l'ouragan soufflera dans les roseraies.
Quand il aura neigé.
Dans les vergers.

Pauvre automne.
Meurs en blancheur et en richesse.
De neige et de fruits mûrs.
Au fond du ciel.
Des éperviers planent.
Sur les nixes nicettes aux cheveux verts et naines.
Qui n'ont jamais aimé.

Aux lisières lointaines.
Les cerfs ont bramé.

Et que j'aime ô saison que j'aime tes rumeurs.
Les fruits tombant sans qu'on les cueille.
Le vent et la forêt qui pleurent.
Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuille.
Les feuilles.
Qu'on foule.
Un train.
Qui roule.
La vie.
S'écoule."

"What does it mean, sir," Sebastien inquired?

Matt sighed and took another swig of whiskey.

"The poem is called automne malade. It's an old french poem, older than than this town, older than this aged whiskey. For many, it's a poem about the depression autumn brings. It's about the falling of the leaves, the clouds, the new snow. Really, it's about exactly what we're experiencing right now."

Matt cleared his throat.

"To me, it means something entirely different. I live in a cold, dark New Hampshire town, full of seemingly folksy people. But, this poem is one of simplicity, something not fake. It's genuine and real, like the changing of the seasons, like sadness. But, we all seem to forget this here. This town is an antonym of the poem. For some reason, such a futile thing cheers me up."

Matt expected Sebastien to express complete and utter confusion at his analysis. After all, Matt thought he was special in his love for vague and interpretative poetry.

Sebastien smiled a bit, and seemingly gave Matt his approval.

"That's beautiful," he said.

For about a minute, there was silence. Simple, retrospective, and serene silence. Matt again cleared his throat.

"Sebastien, i thoroughly enjoyed your company. It's been a nice half hour. But, as the french say, au revoir, garçon."

Sebastien shook Matt's hand, but Matt went in for a bear hug instead.

"You're a good kid. We need more like you. We need more curious, innocent, and adventurous people in this world. You're unique. Maybe I'll see you again."

Sebastien smiled a small smile and almost shed a tear. As he began to walk out the door, he asked a question.

"Matt, why do you have a shotgun?"

"Hunting," Matt said bluntly.

Sebastien was skeptical, but waved goodbye anyways, and proceeded to walk back into town. The sun had fully risen and the clouds had cleared as Sebastien walked slowly back. He had left his newspapers by the front door, but didn't bother to pick them up. In his mind, he had more important things to think about.

A empty bottle of whiskey could be heard hitting a wall that night. As the whiskey hit the wall, Matt slowly realized what he had done and slowly breathed in. As he walked over to his grand piano, his eyes caught a glimpse of his shotgun. Matt again took a deep breath and quietly said;

"Not tonight, Not tonight Matt."

Matt managed to muster up a small, tearful smile as he walked over to his grand piano. As his fingers gently touched the keys, he began playing Liebesträume No. 3.

I do enjoy writing, but I don't do it as often as I should. So, hopefully the story is enjoyable. If you cannot tell by the spoiler title, the name of this story is simply Matt.

Poetry always tempts me but I find it hard to put the sustained effort required to build up what I'd consider a "good" story. I can spend a day or so building a world then another day putting together a skeleton plot and characters but the next day is me thinking "This is shit" Whereas I can finish a poem in one session and post it on the internet which makes it safe from being deleted by me some what.

[The High Lords]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

[Kannap]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day :P

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

I'm intending on spending no more than 13 days. That's my window before I start getting super busy again.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

I'll be trying to get them done reasonably quickly as well.

[The New World Oceania]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

Judging always takes at least several eternities.

[Forsher]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

Relevant.

Judgement Day? If God does it properly, then it should take a day

Seriously though, last time, judging entries took an eternity, for some reason I still can't comprehend.
I hope to get through these quickly and efficiently (in comparison), but I can't speak for my fellow judges.

Judging always takes at least several eternities.

Last time was an interesting study. Usually results are delayed by a judge dropping out (hence why we have had alternatives prepared in the last few) whereas last time around we had the same lot of judges (of which I was, to your eternal regret, one of the slow two) the whole way through but managed to be slower than when we've had changes.

[Laerod]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Weeks to months.

[Infected Mushroom]

How long does Judgement Day usually take?

Weeks to months.

wow...

even the CRA is faster...

[Nazi Flower Power]

Last day to enter, everybody. If you've got any last-minute entries, you need to post them by midnight Pacific Time.

I have an entry, but due to procrastination and one thing and another, it's not exactly what I thought I was going to be entering.

Melissa stared up into the leaves of the sycamore tree in front of her house. There were a few other people around. Melissa's father was mowing the lawn in the side yard, the woman who lived across the street was trimming her bushes, and a couple of children were playing in a sprinkler a little way up the street. None of them were paying any attention to Melissa or had any idea what she was staring at. There in the branches above her head, pixies with glowing pink and blue wings fluttered to and fro, chattering in their strange language. It wasn't the first time Melissa had seen pixies. They weren't as common as sparrows or squirrels, but they were still familiar. She knew from the books her parents read to her at bedtime, and from talking to her father, that grown-ups couldn't see pixies. So she didn't bother to point them out to anyone. She still liked them, though.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" said a voice behind her.

She spun around to see who had spoken and found herself looking up at a man with a ratty wool jacket and a big bushy beard. "You scared me!" she said.

"I'm sorry," said the man. "I didn't mean to scare you. What's your name?"

"Melissa."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Henry." He reached down to shake hands. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a while and we can watch the pixies together?" He didn't seem threatening, but he was odd. His jacket was too heavy for the summer weather, Melissa had never seen anyone except Santa Claus with so much facial hair, and she'd never met another grown-up who could see pixies. She remembered that her mother had warned her not to talk to strangers, but she was bored and she didn't think Henry was dangerous.

"Okay," she said. She sat down on the grass by the edge of the sidewalk, and Henry sat down beside her.

"I thought grown-ups couldn't see pixies," she said.

"They can't," said Henry. "They can't see ghosts either, but we can see each other."

"So how come you can see them?" Melissa asked without thinking through what Henry had said about ghosts.

"I'm a ghost," said Henry. "Couldn't you tell by the uniform?" He pulled at the rough wool of his jacket. Melissa had no idea what he was talking about. Henry guessed as much by the confused expression on her face. He reminded himself that he was talking to a child and he couldn't expect her to know everything that adults knew. "Well, maybe you're too young to know about the war," he said. "I can tell you about it if you want, but you might think it's boring. It's grown-up stuff, you know? And it's not very nice."

"Are you talking about the war in Iraq?"

Henry chuckled. "No, not the war in Iraq," he said. "I don't even know where Iraq is."

"I don't know where it is either," Melissa confessed. "But I heard my dad talk about it. My dad knows about lots of wars and things."

"I bet he does," said Henry. "You'll learn about that stuff too when you get older."

"Did you fight in a war?"

"Aye, that's what I was trying to tell you."

"What war was it?"

"Well, people call it the War Between the States," said Henry, "but to me it's just the war. It's the only one I ever had to worry about." He went on to describe something that could have more accurately been called the War of Northern Aggression. It bore a vague resemblance to the American Civil War, except that the way Henry explained it was completely inaccurate. Melissa was too young to know any better, so she just sat there believing every word.

After a while, her father finished mowing the lawn. Melissa and Henry were still talking about the war when he came over to them, sweaty and covered with grass clippings. He smiled at Melissa. "Are you playing with one of your imaginary friends?"

"Henry's not imaginary!" Melissa said indignantly.

Her father looked up and down the sidewalk and playfully poked his head around the trunk of the sycamore tree as if he thought her friend might be hiding behind it -- acting all the while as if Henry did not exist.

"Dad, he's right there!" Melissa pointed at Henry, but her father reacted as if she was pointing at empty air.

"He can't see me," Henry explained. "I told you, I'm a ghost."

"But I can see you!" Melissa protested.

"I don't see anyone," said her father. "Your friend must be invisible."

"He's not invisible!" Melissa insisted. "He's sitting right there!"

Her father shrugged. "Come on, let's go inside. It's almost dinner time."

"Listen to your dad," said Henry. "I'll come back tomorrow if you want to talk some more."

Melissa stood up to leave. "It was nice talking to you," she said.

"Likewise," said Henry. "I hope I'll see you again tomorrow, but don't talk to me any more right now. Your dad will think something's wrong with you. You can't talk to ghosts when there are other people around." Melissa started to answer him, but he gestured for her to be quiet and shooed her away with a wave of his hand. She walked up toward the house without saying anything else to Henry, but she worried that she was being rude to him. Her parents always told her to say "bye" to people whenever she was ended a conversation. After being told so many times, it felt wrong not to say it.

Melissa followed her father into the front hall, where they took off their shoes. "So who's Henry?" her father asked.

"He's a soldier," said Melissa.

"That's cool," said her father. "What were you guys talking about?"

"He was telling me about the War Between the States," said Melissa.

"Oh, really?" Her father sounded surprised. "Did he fight in the War Between the States?"

"Yeah."

"Which side?"

"The Confederacy."

Her father frowned. "You know the Confederates were the bad guys, right?"

"Nuh-uh!"

"They wanted to keep black people as slaves."

"But they had to secede because Lincoln wanted to take their money and give it to the North," said Melissa. "It's not fair."

Her father's frown deepened. "Who told you that?" he asked.

"Henry."

"Henry, the invisible Confederate soldier?"

"He's not invisible!"

"You can't believe everything your imaginary friends tell you," Melissa's father said. "Especially when your imaginary friend is a Confederate soldier. Lincoln wasn't trying to steal anyone's money."

*******


Melissa wolfed down her lunch in a rush because she could see that Henry was waiting for her under the sycamore tree. She planned to ask him about what her father had said about the Civil War, but mostly she wanted to talk to him about ghosts and pixies. Why couldn't grown-ups see them? Why did so many people not believe in them? Were any of them dangerous? There were so many things she wanted to ask.

As soon as she had finished eating and cleared her plate from the table, she bolted out the door and hurried across the yard. "Hi!" she called out to Henry from halfway across the yard.

"Hi," he said. "You shouldn't yell like that. People will wonder who you're talking to."

Melissa's shoulders slumped and her enthusiasm vanished. "Okay," she said sullenly. "I was just saying hi."

"I know," said Henry. "But you really have to be careful. People will think you're schizophrenic."

Melissa settled on the grass and thought about what Henry had said. "How come other people can't see you?" she asked.

"That's just how it is," said Henry. "I don't know why. You're not the only one who can see spirits, but you still have to be careful. A lot of people can't see us, and I don't want you to get sent to an insane asylum. It happened to a girl I used to talk to back in the 1950s."

He began explaining the ins and outs of the spirit world. Grown-ups and people who didn't believe in spirits couldn't see them. If you told a spirit you didn't want to see it again, you wouldn't. You had to be careful, though, because once you told a spirit that you didn't want to see it again, there was no way to take it back. "So you should only say that to spirits that you really don't want to see," Henry explained.

"It doesn't work like that in the movies," Melissa said.

"Well, some movies aren't very accurate," said Henry.

For the next couple of months, Melissa and Henry talked almost every afternoon. He taught her all sorts of things about spirits, animals, plants, and his distorted view of history. He showed her how his gun worked, though it was hard to find anything to use for target practice where the ectoplasmic bullets would leave a mark. He taught her a few words of the pixies' language, but he warned her not to get too friendly with them. They were mischievous. In particular, Henry warned her not to eat anything the pixies offered her. "If you eat their food, you become part of their world, and you can never go back to live among ordinary people," he explained. "Same thing with ghosts. Even if I had any food in my haversack, I couldn't share it with you."

In the fall, Melissa had to start school and they couldn't see each other as often, but Henry still came around from time to time to see how she was doing.

*******


Melissa and her parents were walking along the bank of the river, enjoying the cool spring weather. Purple pixie lights flickered overhead, and sunlight sparkled on the surface of the river. They passed a ship that Melissa thought was a barge of some kind, but she wasn't entirely sure. It was low and flat like a barge, but it didn't look exactly like the other barges she had seen, and it wasn't carrying any cargo. A couple of sailors were lounging on the deck, smoking and talking. They looked old-fashioned. Maybe it was something about their clothes or the fact they were smoking pipes and cigars rather than cigarettes. One of the sailors smiled and waved when he realized she was looking at them. Melissa stopped and waved back.

"Who are you waving at?" her mother asked.

Melissa pointed and said, "The man on the ship."

"What ship?"

Melissa pointed again. "The ship right there!"

"Oh, is he one of your imaginary friends?" her mother asked.

"No!" said Melissa. She looked back at the ship to make sure she hadn't imagined it, and then back at her mother to see if her mother was serious. "You can't see it?"

Her mother laughed. "No, sweetie," she said. "There's no ship there. The man on the ship must be one of your imaginary friends."

"But it's right there!" Melissa protested. She had heard of ghost ships, but those were supposed to be old sailing ships that roamed the high seas, not clunky metal things that wallowed in the river like a hippopotamus.

"Your parents can't see us," the man on the ship told her. "Don't you recognize our ship?"

Melissa didn't recognize the ship, and the man guessed as much by the look on her face. "This is the Monitor!" The name didn't mean anything to Melissa. She just stood there looking confused. She wanted to ask the crew of the Monitor all sorts of questions, but her parents wanted to keep walking, and they were calling for her to come along.

"Ask your dad to tell you the story of the Monitor and the Merrimack," said the sailor. "He'll know what you mean."

Melissa ran to catch up with her parents. "Dad, can you tell me about the Monitor and the Merrimack?" she asked.

"Sure," said her father. He told her how, during the Civil War, the Confederates had tried to break the Union blockade by rebuilding the Merrimack into an armored monstrosity called the C.S.S. Virginia. The Union had built the Monitor to stop the Virginia, and they had fought to a draw at the battle of Hampton Roads. "It was right near here, just a little way down the river over there," Melissa's father told her. "We can go down there sometime and you can see where it happened. There's a museum too. They've got a bunch of stuff that they salvaged from the Monitor after it sank."

"That sounds interesting," Melissa said. She walked close beside him and grabbed his arm as if she needed him to protect her from the Monitor. She glanced over her shoulder at it. It made her nervous now that she knew it was a Union ship, but it didn't look like it was ready to attack. Its turret was pointed off in some random direction and the crew was still just sitting around.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," her father said. He started talking about the designs of the ships, and it was obvious he thought the Monitor was a much better ship, even though the battle was a draw. Melissa didn't know enough about engineering or naval warfare to understand why he thought so, but she still liked to listen to him talk.

*******


It was the time of year when Halloween decorations began to appear in shop windows and costume shops popped up all over town. Melissa had known Henry for a couple of years, and she had mostly learned to keep their conversations secret. People said she was getting too old to talk to imaginary friends.

Melissa and her mother walked past a display of pumpkins near the entrance of the Safeway. "Have you thought about what you want to be for Halloween this year?" Melissa's mother asked.

"No," said Melissa. They got a shopping cart and Melissa followed her mother into the produce department. Once she thought about it, it didn't take very long to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween. "I want to be a Confederate soldier," she said.

Her mother frowned. "Girls can't be Confederate soldiers."

"Why not?"

"The Confederacy didn't let girls join the army."

"But I want to be a Confederate soldier!"

Melissa's mother looked annoyed, but didn't answer right away. She picked out a bag of onions, set them in the cart, and checked them off the shopping list. "Why do you want to be a Confederate soldier?" she asked. "Why don't you pick something else? Like a princess or..." One look at Melissa's face and she knew she had to think of something less stereotypically girly. Melissa was wrinkling her nose like she did when Aunt Rose tried to feed her asparagus. "Or a doctor," her mother said, "or a mad scientist."

"I want to be a Confederate soldier," Melissa insisted.

Her mother sighed. "Well, let's see what your father thinks about it," she said.

That evening when Melissa's father came home from work, she asked him if she could be a Confederate soldier for Halloween. She knew he wouldn't like the idea, but she hoped he would agree to it anyway. Sometimes he would let her do things he didn't really approve of just to make her happy. He thought about it for a moment, then said, "I'll tell you what. You can be a Confederate soldier, but I'm going to dress up as a Union soldier and take you prisoner."

"Nuh-uh!" said Melissa. She grinned and jabbed a finger at him. "I'm going to take you prisoner!"

Her father laughed and ruffled her hair affectionately. "We'll see," he said.

Melissa's mother scowled at them. "You shouldn't let her dress up as a Confederate soldier," she said.

Her father shrugged. "It's just a Halloween costume," he said.

The more Melissa thought about it, the more she was sure that she wanted to be a Confederate soldier -- not just for Halloween, but for real. Of course, her idea of what it meant to be a Confederate soldier was horribly romanticized. She wanted to be brave and elegant like Robert E. Lee or Stonewall Jackson, not to be hungry all the time and die of dysentery or get blown away by Yankee gunfire.

*******


Melissa's mother frowned at her when she walked into the kitchen. Melissa ignored it, hoping it had nothing to do with her. Maybe her mother just had something on her mind, like bills that needed to be paid or Aunt Rose and Uncle Jeffrey's dysfunctional marriage that was in the process of falling apart.

No such luck. "Where'd you get that shirt?" her mother asked, as if it was some sort of accusation.

"I bought it the other day when I went to the mall with dad," Melissa answered.

"Is that a boy's shirt?"

"Yeah, but I like how it looks," said Melissa. The shirt in question was a simple striped polo. She liked the colors of the stripes and the texture of the fabric, and she didn't think it was important if it was a boy's shirt.

"You're not a boy," her mother said. "I don't want you going out in public in boys' clothes."

"It's just a shirt," her father interjected.

"Did you know it was a boys' shirt?"

Melissa's father shrugged. "You know how it is with kids these days," he said. "They always want to be different."

"You don't think it's weird that our daughter is buying boys' clothes?"

"Yeah, I think it's weird, but it's not like she's going to get thrown out of school for violating the dress code. It's just a shirt."

"Do you still have the receipt? You have to take it back to the store and return it."

"But I like it!" Melissa protested.

"I don't want you going to school wearing boy's clothes," her mother insisted. "People are going to think you're weird."

"People already think I'm weird!" Melissa complained. She felt hot tears welling up in her eyes, and she turned and fled to her room before they came pouring out. She slammed the door behind her and sank down on the thick blue carpet. It was the same shade of sky blue as the overcoats that federal troops had worn in the Civil War. That wasn't what she'd had in mind when she picked the color as a little girl, but she had made the association at some point, and now it bothered her every time she thought about it. She didn't like the wallpaper, either. It had frogs and lily pads on it, which had seemed cool when she was four because she heard the story of the Frog Prince a couple of days before she picked the wallpaper.

She could hear her parents arguing in whispers. From the snatches she could make out, it sounded like her mother was still upset about the shirt, but her father was more concerned about Melissa's feelings. She tried to regain some self-control so she could go back to the kitchen and stand up for herself, but once she started crying it was hard to stop. Her parents didn't understand her at all.

*******


Melissa and Henry sat under the big sycamore where they had first met. Henry was sharing some berries with a little purple-haired pixie whose wings sparkled like pink topaz. The pixie asked Melissa if she wanted any, but Melissa remembered what Henry had told her about pixie food and politely declined the offer. The pixie looked disappointed, but didn't press the issue.

Melissa and Henry had known each other for several years now, and they had become very close. When Melissa wanted to talk about something without telling her parents or starting gossip at school, Henry was her confidant.

"Sometimes I wish I could be a man," she said.

"Why?" said Henry. "Men are ugly and crass."

"But they're strong and they get to do all the cool stuff like fighting wars and being firefighters," Melissa said. "I know they let women join the military, but I want to be a man. I don't just want someone to let me into the military or the fire department because it's politically correct. I want to be good at it. When I was little, I used to play soccer, and I was better at it than a lot of the boys, but now they're better than me and there's nothing I can do about it."

"There's more to life than being good at soccer," said Henry. "You need to stop listening to all those Yankee liberals. They fill people's heads with all these weird ideas. You're beautiful just the way you are, and you're going to be a beautiful woman."

"But it's not me," said Melissa. "I don't want to just stand around looking pretty. I want to go out and do something. I'd rather be out there charging up Little Round Top or storming the beaches on D-Day."

"You want to get bayoneted by some stubborn idiot from Maine or shot by a damn Nazi?"

"No," said Melissa. "I just hate seeing everything men can do, and I can't do it. I look in the mirror, and I look so delicate and weak, and I hate it. And now my mom's saying I need to start wearing bras, and it just feels so awkward. I don't want boobs!"

Henry laughed and Melissa scowled at him. "Just wait a couple of years," he said. "You'll be complaining that they're not big enough. And if you want to be bayoneted by some idiot from Maine, you'll be doing it in the bedroom."

"I'd rather get shot by a damn Nazi," Melissa said. The idea of having sex with a Yankee man was about the most disgusting thing she could imagine, and she didn't appreciate Henry conjuring up the image.

"I think you'd be better off not doing either one," said Henry. "I'm sure you can find yourself a nice Southern boy when you're ready for all that."

Melissa let out an exasperated sigh. Henry didn't understand her either. He liked her well enough, but he didn't understand. The purple-haired pixie looked up at her with sympathetic eyes, but didn't say anything.

*******


It was a couple of minutes before the start of class, and the teacher was not there yet. Behind Melissa, a couple of girls were talking excitedly about what they were going to wear to the Homecoming dance. Melissa had never seen a formal dress that didn't make her cringe when she imagined what she would look like in it. After a little while, the girls behind her moved on to the topic of which boys they'd like to dance with. Melissa had never seen a boy she wanted to dance with. These things seemed to come naturally to all the other girls, but she just didn't get it.

She didn't want to talk to her parents about it. Her mother would get upset, and her father would do his best to ignore the problem. She didn't think talking to Henry would help either. He hadn't been very helpful last time she talked to him about this sort of problem. Then she thought about what he had said when they talked about it before: "stop listening to all those Yankee liberals." She wondered if Yankees really did see things differently from the way her mother and Henry and her classmates did. She had never been anywhere north of Washington, D.C., and she had no idea how different the North really was.

After school she went down to the river to see if she could find the Monitor. It wasn't there, so she just walked along the waterfront for a while to clear her head and then went home. She tried again the next day, and again a couple of days after that, but there was no sign of the Monitor. After a while, she gave up and stopped going. It occurred to her that 19th century Yankee sailors probably weren't the best people to talk to about sensitive emotional issues anyway.

*******


It was spring, and Melissa's father had decided he wanted to go to Washington, D.C., to see the cherry blossoms. Henry and a couple of pixies who lived in the sycamore in the front yard decided to come along. They had never seen Washington before. Henry had purposely avoided it for a long time, including the other times when Melissa went there with her family, but this time he said he wanted to come. "You're almost grown up and we don't have that much longer that we'll be able to see each other," he told her. "I want to spend time with you while I still can."

Melissa's eyes widened in horror. "What do you mean?" she said, but she remembered what he had told her when they first met, that grown-ups couldn't see spirits. Did that mean she wouldn't be able to see him anymore? She didn't know how she would live without his company if that happened.

"Grown-ups can't see ghosts," Henry said sadly. "I wish there was something I could do about it, but there isn't."

Melissa didn't want to believe it. "No...," she said. "You can't leave!"

"I don't want to leave," Henry said, "but even if I stay, you won't be able to see me. There's nothing I can do about it. We still have another year or so together, but after that you'll have to go on and live your own life."

Melissa felt like she'd been punched in the gut. How could turning 18 make it impossible for her to see her best friend? It was just an arbitrary milestone. "That doesn't make any sense," she said.

"I know," said Henry. "It's just the way things are. There are some things you can't change, no matter how much you might want to."

Melissa went through the rest of the day in a daze. She went through the motions of having dinner and doing her homework, but she felt detached from it, as if it was not her own life, but a part of somebody else's life that she just happened to be watching from behind their eyes. She felt dead inside.

She tried to enjoy the trip to D.C. and not to worry about the future, but it was hard. The numb feeling like she was a guest in someone else's body didn't go away. Visiting the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was visiting enemy territory. Looking up at the big statue of Lincoln, all she could think of was that it would still be there after Henry was gone. It wasn't fair. The cherry trees were in full bloom, bursting with color and scenting the air. They were pretty, but not as pretty as the pixies that nested in the trees in Newport News.

*******


Melissa and Henry sat side by side on a bench by the waterfront. It was a cool and cloudy day in late autumn. Pixies with silvery-blue wings frolicked on the pavement near their feet, dancing with the fallen leaves. "Give me your haversack," Melissa said.

"Why?" Henry asked, but he gave it to her without waiting for an answer.

She opened the haversack and looked inside, but it was empty. "You don't have any food!" she said.

Henry gave her a wry smile. "Of course not," he said. "I fought for the Confederacy!"

She rummaged around in the haversack, looking for some crumb that she might have initially missed, but there was nothing. "But there's no food!" she said. "I was going to eat your rations so I could stay with you, but there's no food."

"I wouldn't have given you the haversack if I had food in it," said Henry. "You still have your whole life ahead of you. I'm not going to take that away."

"I don't want to live if I can't see you anymore," Melissa said. "My mom says she's going to throw me out of the house as soon as I turn 18 because she thinks I'm a lesbian, I don't know where I'm going to find a job, and everyone treats me like I'm some kind of freak. I don't want to be a grown-up. I'd rather stay here with you."

"I know it's hard, but you need to go on with your life," said Henry. "You said you wanted to go out and do things. Now it's time for you to go out and do it."

"But I don't know how!"

"You'll figure it out," Henry said. He put his arms around her. His embrace didn't so much as wrinkle her shirt, but it still felt warm and comforting. He stroked her hair affectionately. To anyone passing by, it would have looked as if it was only the wind ruffling her hair, but to her, his touch felt real. "You'll figure it out, I promise."


*******


A few tiny snowflakes danced on the cold wind and Melissa flipped up the collar of her coat to shield herself from the cold. She still hadn't found a job or made peace with her mother or figured out how she was ever going to live without Henry. She stalked along the sidewalk by the water's edge with her eyes fixed on the ground, trying to clear her head and make some kind of sense of it all. Her thoughts were interrupted by an ugly rumble, and she glanced over her shoulder to see what was making the noise. She found herself looking at the crude metal wall of the Monitor's turret. "Now I find the stupid thing!" she thought to herself. She scowled at the ship, trying to decide if she still wanted to talk to the Yankees.

The captain waved to her, but she didn't respond immediately. His name was John Worden, and Melissa thought he looked like a villain from one of the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"No, not really," Melissa answered.

"Would you like to come aboard and talk about it?" he asked. "I've been stuck on this ship with the same people for more than a hundred years. I assure you, we're all sufficiently bored of each other that your company will be a welcome change of pace."

"Okay," said Melissa. "I don't think there's any way you can make things worse."

"I'm sure I could make it worse if I tried," Worden said. "But come sail with us for a while and tell us about your troubles. We've got all the time in the world."

The Monitor's men helped Melissa down onto the ship. The deck was wet from the water that slopped over the sides, and it didn't feel very steady. Melissa wondered why anyone had ever thought it was a good idea to sail such a clumsy vessel into combat. Then again people had done a lot of things in the Civil War that didn't seem like good ideas by modern standards. Someone took the ladder down and the Monitor lumbered out into the open water with all the grace of a crocodile that had swallowed a refrigerator.

Melissa steadied herself against the side of the pilothouse. "You've been stuck on this thing for a hundred years?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why'd you bother coming back as a ghost at all?"

"It's better than lying in the ground and being eaten by worms," Worden said.

"I guess," said Melissa. She wasn't entirely convinced. She started telling Worden about her problems, starting with the less personal things like being in need of a job. He let her talk, and before long Melissa found herself telling him how much she admired men, not in the sense of wanting to sleep with them, but in the sense of wanting to be like them. She told Worden he and his ship both looked ridiculous by modern standards, but she'd still rather be him than wear make-up and dresses and act like the popular girls at her school.

"You've never seen a battle or taken this thing to sea," said Worden. "Spend a week on this ship before you say you want to be in my shoes."

"I can't stay; I didn't bring any food," Melissa said.

"We can feed you," said Worden.

Melissa was so used to Henry warning her not to eat the food of the dead, it came as a shock to hear a ghost offer her food. And he had offered it to her without warning her about the consequences. Did he assume she already knew or was he trying to lure her into an eternity trapped aboard the Monitor?

"But if I eat your food...," Melissa said.

"Yes, if you eat our food, you have to stay forever," said Worden. "Henry warned you about that, didn't he? Listen: I've been stuck on this ship for a long time. I'm bored enough to feed you and take you away from your friends and family just so I'll have someone new to talk to. You've got your whole life ahead of you, and it would be selfish to take that from you -- but I'll take you if you're dumb enough to come." He offered her a tin of something that looked like the Civil War version of spam. "So what'll it be?"

Melissa took the can and thought about what she was being offered. It would make things simpler if she ate the spam. She wouldn't have to face her mom ever again, or worry about what would happen to her if she got thrown out of the house when she turned 18. If she went with the Monitor, she and Henry could still see each other, at least once in a while. But it still felt wrong. She didn't want to spend the rest of eternity on the Monitor. It was an awfully small ship, not to mention ugly and full of undead Yankees. As difficult as her life was, it was still a life. An eternity aboard the Monitor wasn't a life; it was hell. She handed the tin of spam back to Worden. "I can't," she said.

"All right," he said. "I'll take you back to shore."

The ship made a turn that sent water slopping all over the inward side of the deck, and Melissa was very glad she wasn't going to be staying on it forever. When the ship righted itself, the water came sliding across the deck in a great silvery sheet. Melissa's feet got soaked in the process, and she was even more glad she wasn't going to be staying.

By the time they got back to shore, she could hardly believe she'd even considered eating the spam Worden offered her. She felt a rush of relief when she put her feet back on dry land. She remembered how Henry had told her years before that if you didn't want to see a spirit, you could send it away. "I never want to see you again," she said. "Any of you, or your ship."

She looked back to see Worden's reaction, but the Monitor was already gone and there was no sign that it had ever been there. After it was gone, it occurred to Melissa that Worden had not said it was weird or wrong that she wanted to be a man. And she had still sent him away. Henry definitely thought it was wrong. When she thought about that, the idea of being separated from him didn't seem so terrible. It would be different living without him, but she could do it.

When she finally got home, her soggy feet were so cold they felt like they were going to fall off -- but that was all right. She was home.

[The High Lords]

Time's a tickin'.

[Nazi Flower Power]

And entries are closed.

[The High Lords]

The New Greek Republic - Jericho

Characters: 13/20

The characters were consistent, and there was a progression of despair with Jericho as the different levels of Hell took their toll on him. The final scene let us into his mind a bit, which I think we could have seen a bit more of.

Plot: 22/30

I liked the plot, how it went from one section to the other, the different “types” of Hell and how the interaction with the Devil went. The dialogue was very captivating, and it flowed well.

Setting: 18/20

I could vividly imagine everything that was going on, with all the scenery and characters and action going on. Your descriptions were very helpful in my mental construction of the environment and what was happening. Very good job here.

Initially, I was thinking that adding more details about “Jericho” the person would make it better, but as I reflect on it, the lack of details of his appearance actually made it easier to focus on the environment around him, and his own journey through it. Intentional? You tell me.

Creativity: 10/20

Quite nice, something that reminded me of Dante’s Inferno. Not too remarkable here - although I would enjoy a follow-up story, something like a sequel? What does he do in this limbo? Is there a way out? Think on it for the next contest.

Style and Mechanics: 5/10

I came across several errors and such, and the formatting wasn’t exactly what I’m used to. I prefer either indentations for paragraphs or line breaks between them. It makes it all look better, to me.

Bonus: 4/5

In the last paragraph, I enjoyed the wrap-up and the repetition and parallelism at the end, which earned you a point. Additionally, the whole story flowed very well, and I was able to make it to the end quite easily, all the while having a vivid picture of it all, which earned you several points.

Score: 72/100