Short Story Contest (Spring 2012) Winners Announced!

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Holy fuck, you guys already put a thread up. I had no idea.

Fuck, I need to bullshit something again.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Holy fuck, you guys already put a thread up. I had no idea.

Fuck, I need to bullshit something again.

And that's why we love you.

Well, fear you.

And CM, change the OP. They've only got 2 days.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Holy fuck, you guys already put a thread up. I had no idea.

Fuck, I need to bullshit something again.

And that's why we love you.

Well, fear you.

And CM, change the OP. They've only got 2 days.

...Fuck.

[Forsher]

Holy fuck, you guys already put a thread up. I had no idea.

Fuck, I need to bullshit something again.

And that's why we love you.

Well, fear you.

And CM, change the OP. They've only got 2 days.

They're closely related emotions.

[Luna Amore]

May 15th, but what timezone?

[North Wiedna]

>tfw you schedule a short story contest around exam season

[Amland]

Sort of

There lay the little girl, nicely tucked into her bed. Little Emily was a measly inch away from her mother, Caroline.
“Will you read me a bedtime story?” Emily said in her sweet little voice.
“Of course I will, sweetie pie! Here’s one that your grandmother used to read to me, back in the days.”
Emily was definitely excited to hear this story. She got comfy and waited for the words to come to her ears.
“Once upon a time, there was a little unicorn named Sparkles. She used to go around, helping people. One day, on a beautiful day,-“
“Wait,” interrupted Emily, “there’s something wrong about this story.”
“What seems to be the problem, my beauty?”
“Well,” she began, "beautiful days aren't real.”

[Nationstatelandsville]

May 15th, but what timezone?

Traditionally EST, but I have no problem with entries that are a day late.

[Conserative Morality]

One more day!

[Conserative Morality]

Last day for submissions!

[Conserative Morality]

Alright, time for the judges to start!

At least there's not much to do this time.

[Conserative Morality]

Judgement for Occupied Deutschland's story.

Characters - 15/25

I found Anna to be unlikable, but that's not always the mark of bad writing. I found her aggressive and easily pricked nature to move the conversation along nicely, but at the same time, felt that the 'hard exterior, soft interior' is far too often used, at least effectively, but short stories are crippled both by length itself and by the story arcs that such short lengths impose on a writer.

Jon, on the other hand, felt significantly more... Flat, as a character. Not flat, perhaps, generic might be more appropriate, but again, there isn't much room to develop a character in a short story. He seemed always so passive and reactive, and while I get that the intention is to put him as the calm one of the two, he also didn't come off as having a lot of depth.

Plot - 18/25

An interesting idea. A girl who wants to join up in the service has her history of drug abuse come out, gets kicked out of boot camp, and is bitter and angry about it. I'm a little confused about the end, but I think that might be me be thick at the moment. Did he get her dismissed, interpreting "He’d worked out every detail of her dismissal, ensured the proper authorities asked the proper questions and got the proper paperwork. Checked every stage of the investigation as it went through. Hell, he’d even convinced her recruiter to testify about her “forged” criminal record." as he had worked out her dismissal personally in an effort to keep her safe, or as he had worked to fight it and have it reversed personally?

Setting - 10/15

New York New York, what a wonderful town!
The Bronx is up and the battery's down!

I knew where it took place (New York, first a coffee shop, then an alleyway), and it was adequately described for the most part.

Creativity - 10/15

As I said, it's an interesting idea.

Style - 8/15

Now, here I found some problems. You seem to overly concerned with details, and I don't mean simply with details, I mean with excessive detail.

"Anna blew some air up from her lower lip, sending a stray lock of coal-black hair swinging out of the way of her eye to a new position on her cheekbone."

" She started to turn to the left to go to her table but stopped just as she began the motion. (And insert what she did here, ', stepping coldly to the side etc etc')"

In those sentences, for example, you could easily cut out the bolded and have essentially the same imagery with less distraction from unnecessary details.

"The fat bastard had brought his hands to the height of his shoulders, palm-out, somehow trying to look dangerous over the reality of his uselessness."

Here, 'reality of his uselessness' seems to clash with him trying to appear dangerous, insofar as uselessness is not normally considered the opposite of dangerousness. Don't get me wrong, I know what you were trying to get across, as would almost any reader, but since he's trying to make himself look dangerous, it should be despite something that connotates harmlessness or a lack of menacing quality. Feebleness, harmlessness, powerlessness, if you want to keep the sentence structure the same.

"The first thing to register was the myriad sounds coming from just outside the coffee shop. The staggered footfalls of an army of pedestrians on the sidewalk created a cacophonous symphony that was just loud enough to drown out the specifics of the conversations they were having and leave only the mutter of their collective voices behind. The muttering voices were just loud enough to drown out most of the car-horns that blared their metallic tones, warning the careless to get out of the way or face a collision. The muted conversations of the pedestrians only seemed to emphasize the fake-warmth behind their originators. They act considerate…caring…civilized…"

This, on the other hand, is quite excellent. It evokes the sound we all (Or most of us) know so well, the chatter of a crowd in motion, of traffic in a city, of the general cacophony that our mind filters as little more than white noise while also giving more insight to the main character. It evokes a vivid image effectively without being out of place or superfluous.

Some of the dialog feels a little stilted as well. Little things, I think, make it seem much more robotic than it should; underuse of commas and other grammar symbols (“It warms me up, alright.” would have benefited from a question mark, as it came off as a rhetorical question), 'man' instead of 'guy', constant use of names in an informal setting, like I said, little things. The characters also seem to slip into slang-esque speech without warning ("Yeah yeah. You do what ya’ gotta do man." contrasts strongly with the speech patterns associated with Anna for the rest of the story)

Grammar/spelling - 3/5

I'm not sure if "Jonathon" is a mistake or not, but commas could use a little more love, it's "pizzazz", not "Pizzas", and I'm a little confused about your use of ellipses, sometimes spaced after the last word, uncapitalized words afterwords where it's not an omitted portion of text, but that might be a regional thing or I might be wrong there. Grammar was never my strong point.

Overall - 64/100

[Nationstatelandsville]

Alright, time for the judges to start!

At least there's not much to do this time.

I'll try and judge over the weekend.

[Astrolinium]

Would you accept a very slightly late short comic play?

[Conserative Morality]

Would you accept a very slightly late short comic play?

I'm fine with it, yeah.

[Astrolinium]

https://www.box.com/s/81c12171fa12eb7a6b89

Euge!

Important Note:
It's pronounced "Peh-daw-full-ease" for our purposes.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Entry list needs to be updated, praetor.

[Conserative Morality]

Entry list needs to be updated, praetor.

Sick as a dog, give me a bit.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Eh, I suppose it doesn't matter.

Now done both

Corporal Mance Davids sat on the wooden bench in his dugout. The dugout was small, claustrophobic. Joining him were the five men he was in charge of, all young barely adults, the youngest was Private Phelps, barely seventeen, a red haired boy who wasn’t even able to shave. The oldest except for himself, Private Daniels, was twenty, and sported facial hair that was the envy of the rest of the dugout, wearing a luxurious handlebar moustache.

Mance by comparison was the ancient age of twenty six, a veteran, one of the few who remembered the start of the war, although he was only four at the outset. He was tall, taller than most of the men here, reaching six foot two. It was a common joke that he would always be the first to know about rain, such as it was on this planet.

Mance was raven haired, with perma stubble due to the lack of razors supplied to the troops, seeing as there were no plugs to charge them, that they were sent disposable razors was no, as of itself an issue, just that the deliveries were months apart. As supplies had recently been delivered it was one of the few times that he could shave.

He took hold of a mirror, wooden backed and cracked in several places, studying the face reflected back at him, Mance saw a man old beyond his years, with hollow cheeks and dark bags under his eyes. He applied shaving cream to his face and slowly started to remove it with the razor, taking his facial hair with it. Above him, the lighting strips flickered, making it hard to see in the gloom. Finishing his ablutions, Mance ran his hands through his hair and then placed his helmet back onto his head. It was the standard pattern coal-scuttle shaped helmet, with the pattern of varying browns and blacks that all troops sent to the contested zones wear. His uniform was in the same pattern as the helmet, and functional rather than tailored.

After taking a drink of water from his blackened canteen, he moved over to the cooker that his men had installed. Far away, above ground he could hear the distant thud of artillery, both the Alliance’s and that of the Secessionists. After any period in the defences and dugouts that covered the planet, you learned to block the noise out. Mance put his canteen back into the webbing that he wore loose over his uniform, complete with the leather gas mask that hung from the left shoulder strap.

Pulling out his chipped white bowl and spoon, he ran his hand over them in a buffing motion to remove the omnipresent dust, before ladling out a portion of the nondescript soup. After a mouthful he turned to Private Jenkins, the designated cook to ask what flavour it should be. The answer was beef and onion, the taste in Mance’s mouth was that of nondescript meat, like a solitary piece taken from an early morning kebab. He sighed then concentrated on not tasting the food.

Time passed, Mance remembered when he had first arrived on the planet, part of a daring orbital attack via drop pod guaranteed to break the stalemate and win the war in this sector once and for all. One of the few to survive the initial landing, he could not think of a single person he had trained and arrived with who was still alive. He tried not to think about it.

More time passed, he sent Jenkins and Phelps through the tunnels to get more water, as they were running short. After several hours they returned triumphant, with not only water but several rare foodstuffs, including Mance’s favourite, anchovies. He stored the small tin in one of the pouches attached to the straps of his webbing. He then filled his water bottle, and that of his men. Doing so, his eye caught sight of one of the posters in his dugout. It featured the Emperor of Man, who seemed to look right through you, the slogan being “I lost my only son to the secessionists, what is your excuse?”
Mance could understand why the poster might be useful for the civilian populace, but couldn’t grasp the reasoning behind the orders of the commissariat to have it hanging in every dugout in the line. They also had a personal wall, covered in photos of friends and family, their loved ones. There was one of Phelps standing with his pregnant wife, it was apparently taken shortly before he had left for the war. He had arrived about a week earlier, though it felt far longer. Mance couldn’t even remember the face of the man he had replaced.

Their video screen suddenly lit up, it was a thin glass screen, with a small built in camera and keyboard. Mance moved over and accepted the call, and a man that everyone knew appeared. He was only a captain, but he was legendary. Half his face was missing from an artillery strike, replaced with a metal mask that was painted in an approximation of his skin colour. Over that he was wearing his trademark round steel glasses.

“Dear all”, he began, “We will soon launch a glorious attack on are enemy, tomorrow at daylight we will strike, our artillery and orbital strikes leaving them defenceless. It should be a walkover. I look forward to meeting you all behind their walls.”

The message ended, and the screen went blank. Mance felt a moment of panic rise from his stomach to his neck. Unlike the others in his troop, he had seen an attack before and knew what entailed too well to be optimistic, or to take the message at face value. His right hand was shaking, he reached for his water bottle and attempted to stop the shaking by undoing the lid and taking a deep drink. The thudding of artillery intensified, and Mance sat down to write a letter, to be delivered to his mother in the event of his death.

After an hour or so, he reviewed his progress, “Dear mother”, that was all he had written. He was never able to describe the horrors, nor did he want to let her know the suffering that was present. It bothered him that he couldn’t talk to her any more, but he didn’t know what to do. Considering their early start, he got his men to turn in for the night, dimming the lighting strips to give a semblance of the darkness above. In the background before he drifted off he could hear someone sobbing into their pillow.

Mance felt his way in the darkness towards the noise, he moved his way in the dark, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the stove. Eventually he reached the man, to his surprise, it wasn’t Phelps who was sobbing, but Daniels. He spent the next hour trying to calm him down, and fell asleep by his side.
He woke with a start about an hour before dawn, and got his men up too, they stood groggily in front of him, in a line. They got their equipment on and Mance inspected them, checking all their packs. Once this was done, he prepared himself. He attached his scabbard that contained his bayonet to his left hip, on the brown leather belt that held up his trousers.

He picked up his rifle, it was an ugly, snub-nosed weapon, with an overly large forward section. The fuel cell slotted into the rifle behind the pistol grip, with a metal stock that fitted snugly into the shoulder. The forward grip was textured to a handhold, with a light blue bar across the right had side of the gun that showed how much charge was left. The weapon fired a high energy plasma, that was charged by the battery.

The actual plasma fired is invisible, so by necessity, the weapons also fire a harmless red laser, the purpose of which is solely to allow the soldier to see where he is shooting. This was not known to many of the troops, so the weapons were often referred to as las rifles, despite them not being so.
After loading his battery, Mance saw that his rifle was fully charged, allowing him about fifty shots before needing to reload. After swinging his rifle onto his back, with its strap around his right shoulder, he pulled his gas mask off its site on his webbing and pulled it over his head, before finally equipping his helmet. The screen in his gas mask was a tactical one, and highlighted the men in his dugout as friendlies, clear from the light blue sheen they were given. This was possible due to the microchips in their dogtags, which identified them as Alliance in any army scanners or screens.

Steeling himself, Mance led his men out of the dugout, taking the lift up the hundred feet to ground level. He stepped out into the trench, which was two men wide, with sides made of the same brown earth as the dugout. His men followed. Peering out in the pre-dawn gloom, he took his place next to one of myriad ladders that lead up into no man’s land. His men stood either side of him, suddenly the artillery ceased, leaving the warzone eerily quiet.

Mance licked his lips and waited. Through the comlink in his helmet, he, along with everyone else heard the whistle sound transmitted to every helmet in the area. He took a deep breath and climbed quickly up to the surface, he ran forward in a half wince, expecting to be killed, but he was not. He risked looking back, his men were all with him, he was part of an unbroken line of men that stretched as far as he could see. They were not being shot at.

Instead of running, they moved forward at a slow jog, not quite believing what was happening. After passing about eighty feet from their trench, flashes erupted from the trenches of the secessionists and men started to fall. Mance swore and started to run, he made it a little further then felt a burning sensation in his lower belly. He stumbled and fell to his knees. Another kick-like feeling hit him in his shoulder and he pitched backwards.
Looking up he saw Daniels and Phelps surge forward before disappearing in an explosion. The world dimmed then turned to black.






 
Private Ewan Toseland walked into the dugout that was to become his home. He looked around the dismal place, his youthful cheer dwindling with each passing moment, Aside the obligatory Emperor poster he saw a wall covered in photos and memorabilia. He picked the closest one off the wall, it showed a happy fire-haired young man, standing with a pregnant woman. On the back it said “For my dearest John, with all my love, I hope you return safe to me, all my love, Nancy. Xxx”

He studied it, wondering about what had happened to the previous occupants, before tossing the photo into the rubbish bag that he was carrying. He continued to clear the room ready for his new squadmates to live in. Above, the sound of artillery rumbled on.

Characters - 15/25 Mance was somewhat established. I get that it's difficult to do much in a very short story, but no one else even showed a gleam of personality, save perhaps Daniels.

Plot - 10/25 I barely detected one, but it was coherent at least.

Setting - 11/15 Sort of vague, but I knew where they were, and you gave more backstory than I would have expected.

Creativity - 3/15 Incredibly overdone. I detected about one original concept.

Style - 12/15 Felt stale and wordy, but has potential.

Grammar/spelling - 2/5 Perfect spelling, but the lack of commas and overuse of run-on sentences was extremely detrimental.

Overall - 53/100 I didn't like it, but you could go back and fix some things to make it better. Felt like part of a whole.

[Nationstatelandsville]

I'm sure the formatting on this is gonna be horrendous but...

Could this bastard take any longer to make up his mind, Jee-sus!

Anna shifted her weight again and tapped one foot against the linoleum floor of the coffee shop. Some kooky-ass Oriental music was lightly thrumming through a number of speakers spaced throughout the shop, but the supposedly calming nature of the music was anything but at the moment.

“What about a Frappe Whip, what’s that?”

For fuck’s sake man…

Anna blew some air up from her lower lip, sending a stray lock of coal-black hair swinging out of the way of her eye to a new position on her cheekbone.

“So how is that different from the Mocha Frappe Freeze?”

To hell with this…

Anna put her hand on the chubby man’s shoulder and gently but forcefully pushed him aside to the right of the line. He let out a brief gasp, surprised, but then seemed to recover and glanced at the other people in the line for support, which was not forthcoming. Assholes rarely got support.

“Large coffee. Black. No cream. No sugar.”

The man behind the counter nodded quickly and stabbed the buttons on his register, not even sparing a glance at the fat man who had been ordering.

He understands at least…

“Excuse me! I was ordering!”

The fat bastard had brought his hands to the height of his shoulders, palm-out, somehow trying to look dangerous over the reality of his uselessness.

“No, you were trying to figure out what everything on the menu was made of, and in the process delaying a lot of very thirsty people you fat bastard.” Anna didn’t even look at him, instead simply shifting steel-blue eyes to the readout on the register. She of course knew how much the coffee was, and she was digging in the pocket of her pants for the $1.12 she had counted out before she had gotten into line, but looking at the register let her avoid looking at the worthless fat-ass complaining at her side.

Apparently silenced for the moment, the fat-man didn’t say anything as Anna dropped the money on the counter and the fellow at the till handed her her coffee. She started to turn to the left to go to her table but stopped just as she began the motion. Stepping coldly to the side she forced the fat-man to back away further from the line as she dug in her pocket for a moment. The fat-man gasped in protest again but didn’t say anything else.
Finding what she was looking for Anna pulled the pair of quarters out and dropped them into the glass “Tips” jar and winked icily at the fellow who had brought her the coffee she now held in her hand. She paused just long enough for the next person in line to step forward and order, then pivoted completely around on her heel and walked away from the fat-man.

That’s for not knowing what the hell you’re doing asshole…

The line in the coffee shop hadn’t gotten any shorter while the fat-man had been ordering and it now stretched out onto the busy New York sidewalk outside. It parted quickly for her though as she made her way to the table she had left her coat at.
When she got to her table Anna set the coffee down then dropped herself into the chair, having to spin completely around as she fell in order to land comfortably on her butt. The line had already gotten shorter and it looked like the fat man had left.

Bout time too…

Anna shifted her weight slightly against the chair and then, in one smooth movement, snatched the coffee cup off the table with her right hand and raised her opposite leg off the floor and onto the table so that the crook of her knee was resting on the corner of the table. Her foot and the bottom portion of her calves were floating in the air just off the table, frozen against the backdrop of a line of people slowly making their orders.

The clerk gave her a sideways glance from his till, but quickly had to go back to taking orders and serving customers. Fuck him, he understands…but only because it’s his job to. Anna raised the coffee cup to her lips and took a detached sip, the coffee was scalding hot, but she forced it down anyhow. Metallic eyes staring into the cold blast from the A/C vent just above her table, she waited. Better show up soon.

The first thing to register was the myriad sounds coming from just outside the coffee shop. The staggered footfalls of an army of pedestrians on the sidewalk created a cacophonous symphony that was just loud enough to drown out the specifics of the conversations they were having and leave only the mutter of their collective voices behind. The muttering voices were just loud enough to drown out most of the car-horns that blared their metallic tones, warning the careless to get out of the way or face a collision. The muted conversations of the pedestrians only seemed to emphasize the fake-warmth behind their originators. They act considerate…caring…civilized…

They’re all lying…

Over the mutter of the pedestrians outside the coffee shop were the more distinct voices of those inside. People going about their daily business who just happened to stop in the shop for a brief break from the normal routine. Either that or the shop had become one of their routines.

Anna took another sip from her coffee, which was already beginning to cool in her hands. She could never get as much satisfaction from a luke-warm coffee as she could from one that was scorching hot, they always cooled off too quickly.

“Well you look relaxed Anna.”

Anna shifted her gaze off of the A/C vent and lowered her eyes to the man in front of her. Precisely the man she had been waiting for.

“I am. Disregarding a slight incident a few moments ago at least…” Anna trailed off.

“You mean the fat man?” he said.

Anna tilted her head until she could look straight into Jonathon’s eyes. “You saw that, huh?”

Jonathon was silent for the moment, instead pulling the other chair at the table back and slowly lowering himself into it. The chair whined in protest at the bulk of human tissue that rested on it now. When he had sat down he also put a small glass down, filled with ice and some soda pop or another. “I was standing in line behind you. You went right by me after you dropped those quarters into the tip jar, didn’t you even see me?”

Anna shrugged reflexively “Had a lot on my mind Jon.”

Jonathon snorted and raised his glass to his lips. When he swallowed the muscles on his neck bulged and threatened to burst the straining collar of his shirt. “What, your next fix of coffee? Or were you perhaps reveling in giving that poor fat-ass a stern dressing down?” For Fuck’s sake man…

Anna’s eyes unconsciously returned to the A/C duct, she had just started to open her mouth to answer when she was interrupted by a light chuckle from the other side of the table. “Don’t try to deny it Anna, I can see you did.” He snorted again “Hell, if you’d thrown in a few more cuss-words in between your syllables It almost would’ve been worthy of one of my Drill Sergeants at Parris Island.”

“Almost worthy? I’ll have to do better next time.” Anna reflexively began to move her coffee cup in a slow circular motion, trying to figure out a way to escape the small-talk bullshit Jonathon had trapped her in. If there were a purpose in the conversation she could at least work towards that, it gave her something to focus on doing. As it was though she was caught in pleasantries that had no importance to her, or Jon, he was just continuing them because it was the polite thing to do. She was likewise forced to listen because it was the polite thing to do. What benefits sophistication and polite society had!

“You will if you wanna be in the Marines that’s for sure.” Jon said offhandedly.

The air around the table seemed to cool with that statement, the A/C kicking into high gear to combat the humid heat that had leaked into the shop while the doors had been open. Anna once again targeted her eyes on Jonathon instead of the air duct above her, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold, instead deciding to focus on what she was drinking.

“How can you manage to drink a hot coffee in this weather?” he said, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

The attempt at small-talk did nothing to combat the chill Anna felt, only serving to aggravate her. She hated small talk. “It warms me up, alright.”

Jonathon was silent for a moment and took another slow sip from his glass. “Alright, alright. Anyhow, it’s good to see you again. It’s been what? A year now? What’s up with Anna these days?"

To hell with this…

“Your fucking Corps, that’s what’s up Jon. Up on some god-damned high-horse preaching about their god-damned ideals and how the god-damned sinners in this country are unable to meet them. Their heads are what’s up Jon. Up their worthless fat-asses so far they can’t breath, let alone see.” Anna took a deep breath, but continued on. “At the same time though-oh somehow at the same time- their heads are up in the sky so far they can see down on this world and all the people in it and can see the problems us mere mortals have, and can pronounce us the ones with the god-damned problems. God-Damnit.” Anna set the coffee cup down on the table to emphasize her point but otherwise remained frozen in the same position she had been in. Throughout the diatribe she kept the same conversational tone she had had earlier, her voice icing over anything she felt. Whatever she may have felt iced over as well. No one in the café but Jonathon overheard her.

It was Jonathon’s turn not to respond. He hesitantly pushed his glass forward with his index finger, only to pull it away and allow the glass to drop back to its original position. The ice shifted to clank against the glass, protesting its entrapment by uselessly throwing itself against the side. Unable to do anything about its situation but what gravity made it do.

“Your …record?”

“Your record? Your record?” Anna shot back, crossing her arms and leaning back slightly in her chair until the front-feet hovered above the floor “Why don’t you call it what it fucking is, my ‘prior drug usage’.”
The A/C chose that moment to click off and her last few words were just loud enough to be heard over the other noises in the coffee shop. The other conversation died almost immediately, leaving only the impersonal muttering of passers-by and the honking of horns.

“Jesus Anna, why don’t you fuckin’ tell the world?”

It was the wrong response.

Anna dropped her leg off the table and leaned forward, the chair legs making a thunder-like clap as they contacted the floor. Unsatisfied with just the sound of the chair for attention, she threw her arms out to her sides. She was either getting funny looks from the other patrons, or they were trying to avoid noticing her in any way.

Let’s see them avoid noticing this…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, for your information I snorted crystal meth.” Once again her voice remained level. She had gotten louder so everyone could hear her, but that same cool detachment was in her voice. “And I enjoyed it.” Her voice finally changed, no longer conversational it had simply hardened. There was no malice or challenge in the phrase, only the stone-cold revealing of a fact.

“Jesus Christ Anna, pick up your damned coffee, we’re leaving.” Jonathon stood, draining what was left of the soda in his glass and waving his other hand at the door.

Anna didn’t move except to slowly grin at Jonathon, her eyes frozen on his, challenging. “What’s the matter Jon? Ashamed? Worried people will know you hang around with some ex-speed freak and word’ll get up your precious chain of command?” With every word she shifted her arms slightly until her hands were upturned “What would the Head of the Joint Chiefs think?” she asked rhetorically, her head rising slightly and her voice taking on the reverent tone of a priest speaking about his god.

Jon pushed his chair in and leaned forward against it, returning Anna’s stare. For a moment, they stayed like that, neither one willing to give ground. Jon looked away first.

“Miss, I’m sorry to ask you this but you’ll have to leave.”

Anna continued staring at Jonathon for a moment longer, but slowly shifted her gaze to the cashier. At some point he had walked over to the side of the table and now stood, smiling naively, at the two patrons. Anna breathed deeply, and finally allowed her arms to slowly drop to her sides. At the same instant her head dropped as well, and for a moment she seemed to be shaking. She was shaking as if she were cold.
And just like that, the moment passed and she threw herself to her feet.

“Yeah yeah. You do what ya’ gotta do man.” She snatched her coffee cup up and walked off, a glacier retreating from the heat of the sun. Jonathon followed close behind her, offering an apologetic wave to the cashier and, by extension, the rest of the coffee shop.

Outside the coffee shop the noise was much greater than it had been inside. The shop, as poorly sound-proofed as it was, at least gave them the feeling of being apart from the noise. Now, they were adrift in a sea of bodies, following the crowd more than any specific plan or destination they held.

Anna was quiet as she walked, seemingly without aim. She stopped at one cross-walk just to ignore it and cross one that had opened up. The direction of the other people seemed to be directing her more than she was, and Jonathon followed along right behind her, waiting for her to speak.

Abruptly she shifted her direction mid-stride and went into an alleyway, in the process walking through a crowd of people that were going the opposite direction, which they were none too shameful about making vehemently known.
Anna and Jonathon ignored them. Anna instead responded by draining all that was left of her coffee in a series of swallows and flipping the cup into a nearby dumpster, which was overflowing with garbage already. Somehow the cup managed to land in a small recess between trash bags and didn’t come tumbling out. “Just like life.” Anna muttered to herself, crossing her arms once more. She began to lean back onto the building behind her but thought better of it, instead simply standing there as Jonathon rested his back on the building on his side of the alley.

“You have fun back there Anna?”

She didn’t respond, instead staring out towards the street and the people moving on the sidewalk. Staring past them all her eyes seemed focused on the sunlight hitting the pavement, then slowly tracked their way closer and closer to her feet until she was focused on the shadow of the building behind her. Shifting her weight, she tugged at her collar with the hand that was closest, and then went back to staring. “Jon…listen, I didn’t call you here just to bad-mouth you or your Corps…” The statement seemed to make her very uncomfortable.

“That an apology?”

Anna’s eyes snapped to Jon as if he had just insulted her. “I didn’t say I was sorry you leather-necked son of a bitch.” She laughed lightly and the ghost of a smirk even danced on her lips, “I said I didn’t just meet you to do it. If I apologized for saying what I did, it would suggest I didn’t mean it.” She finally smiled, a full-on no holds barred smile, it lost its pizzas as she continued though. “But, I know how anal-compulsive about your Corps you bastards are…” The smile flickered, and the brief flame it had displayed withered away and died, leaving only a cold shadow of itself behind.

Jonathon Winters resisted the urge to smile. Instead, he put a healthy dose of sympathy into his voice. “Anna, you didn’t want to join the Corps anyways.”

Anna stared at him. Then, with a speed that surprised even him she crossed the slight distance between them and slapped him. Not a playful slap, but no-holds barred SLAP that jerked his head to the side and left his cheek crying out in pain. “Why the hell would you think that?” the words were hardly understandable, spoken through clenched teeth as they were. But Jon got the message. “I spent the last two years pining after the recruiter trying to get the paperwork for early enlistment. That has been my life Jon. Then, after they accept me and I’m finally going through boot-camp…My drug use magically comes out of sealed goddamn files!” Jon shifted slightly, hearing the dark subtext of Anna’s words and the accusation they contained, but he stopped himself. She was just desperate right now; she wanted to blame someone else.

And rightly so. His conscience told him. Jon quashed it; after all, this was for her own good.

Anna continued, oblivious to Jon’s inner turmoil. “It was probably my father.” Once again her anger had dissipated and she had returned to being the innocent young girl Jon had always seen her as, and that young innocent girl needed some protection. After all, she had been through enough already. Jon carefully spoke again, “Anna, you didn’t need to do all that.”

Again, the comment did more harm than good. “What the hell was I supposed to do Jon? Run back to daddy and beg him to take me back and promise to be a good little girl? Would that have been better?” She paused and kicked a soda can someone had carelessly thrown into the alley, and her voice grew quiet again. “Or should I have given up and gone to flip burgers until I relapsed and went and bought-” She stopped, seeming to realize what she was about to say and unable to finish the words.

“Bye Jon, it was good seeing you again.” She said over her shoulder as she turned and started to walk out of the alley. The move was abrupt and caught Jon so off-guard it took him a moment to respond.

“Anna.”

She turned.

“Semper fi.” Jon offered his hand and an insincere smile. As angry or hurt as she might be, this was for the best. The best for her, for him, for her father, for the Corps, for everyone. This was for the best. Anna looked at his hand for a moment as if it were an outstretched snake. Then the same grin came over her face she had had moments before. Wide and warm, it was a smile that was on her face far too little.

“Do or die, right Jon?” She turned back around and walked out of the alley.

Jon didn’t know how to respond. He’d worked out every detail of her dismissal, ensured the proper authorities asked the proper questions and got the proper paperwork. Checked every stage of the investigation as it went through. Hell, he’d even convinced her recruiter to testify about her “forged” criminal record.

“Anna!” Jon called out, beginning to follow her. But he stopped after he had said it. She had already disappeared into the New York City crowds. The alleyway seemed like such a rotten place to be at that moment.

Damnit he had been looking out for her, he had been protecting her! He had been making sure she was safe!

He had been betraying her.

Characters - 23/25 Bravo, good sir. The only complaint I have is that their physical descriptions were not very extensive, or existent.

Plot - 23/25 Not particularly engrossing, but good for a light read.

Setting - 13/15 Once more, somewhat vague, but I knew where they were.

Creativity - 15/15 The only story like this that I've read before.

Style - 10/15 Repetitive, but functional.

Grammar/spelling - 5/5 I didn't notice anything.

Overall - 89/100

[Conserative Morality]

Eh, I suppose it doesn't matter.

Now done both

Corporal Mance Davids sat on the wooden bench in his dugout. The dugout was small, claustrophobic. Joining him were the five men he was in charge of, all young barely adults, the youngest was Private Phelps, barely seventeen, a red haired boy who wasn’t even able to shave. The oldest except for himself, Private Daniels, was twenty, and sported facial hair that was the envy of the rest of the dugout, wearing a luxurious handlebar moustache.

Mance by comparison was the ancient age of twenty six, a veteran, one of the few who remembered the start of the war, although he was only four at the outset. He was tall, taller than most of the men here, reaching six foot two. It was a common joke that he would always be the first to know about rain, such as it was on this planet.

Mance was raven haired, with perma stubble due to the lack of razors supplied to the troops, seeing as there were no plugs to charge them, that they were sent disposable razors was no, as of itself an issue, just that the deliveries were months apart. As supplies had recently been delivered it was one of the few times that he could shave.

He took hold of a mirror, wooden backed and cracked in several places, studying the face reflected back at him, Mance saw a man old beyond his years, with hollow cheeks and dark bags under his eyes. He applied shaving cream to his face and slowly started to remove it with the razor, taking his facial hair with it. Above him, the lighting strips flickered, making it hard to see in the gloom. Finishing his ablutions, Mance ran his hands through his hair and then placed his helmet back onto his head. It was the standard pattern coal-scuttle shaped helmet, with the pattern of varying browns and blacks that all troops sent to the contested zones wear. His uniform was in the same pattern as the helmet, and functional rather than tailored.

After taking a drink of water from his blackened canteen, he moved over to the cooker that his men had installed. Far away, above ground he could hear the distant thud of artillery, both the Alliance’s and that of the Secessionists. After any period in the defences and dugouts that covered the planet, you learned to block the noise out. Mance put his canteen back into the webbing that he wore loose over his uniform, complete with the leather gas mask that hung from the left shoulder strap.

Pulling out his chipped white bowl and spoon, he ran his hand over them in a buffing motion to remove the omnipresent dust, before ladling out a portion of the nondescript soup. After a mouthful he turned to Private Jenkins, the designated cook to ask what flavour it should be. The answer was beef and onion, the taste in Mance’s mouth was that of nondescript meat, like a solitary piece taken from an early morning kebab. He sighed then concentrated on not tasting the food.

Time passed, Mance remembered when he had first arrived on the planet, part of a daring orbital attack via drop pod guaranteed to break the stalemate and win the war in this sector once and for all. One of the few to survive the initial landing, he could not think of a single person he had trained and arrived with who was still alive. He tried not to think about it.

More time passed, he sent Jenkins and Phelps through the tunnels to get more water, as they were running short. After several hours they returned triumphant, with not only water but several rare foodstuffs, including Mance’s favourite, anchovies. He stored the small tin in one of the pouches attached to the straps of his webbing. He then filled his water bottle, and that of his men. Doing so, his eye caught sight of one of the posters in his dugout. It featured the Emperor of Man, who seemed to look right through you, the slogan being “I lost my only son to the secessionists, what is your excuse?”
Mance could understand why the poster might be useful for the civilian populace, but couldn’t grasp the reasoning behind the orders of the commissariat to have it hanging in every dugout in the line. They also had a personal wall, covered in photos of friends and family, their loved ones. There was one of Phelps standing with his pregnant wife, it was apparently taken shortly before he had left for the war. He had arrived about a week earlier, though it felt far longer. Mance couldn’t even remember the face of the man he had replaced.

Their video screen suddenly lit up, it was a thin glass screen, with a small built in camera and keyboard. Mance moved over and accepted the call, and a man that everyone knew appeared. He was only a captain, but he was legendary. Half his face was missing from an artillery strike, replaced with a metal mask that was painted in an approximation of his skin colour. Over that he was wearing his trademark round steel glasses.

“Dear all”, he began, “We will soon launch a glorious attack on are enemy, tomorrow at daylight we will strike, our artillery and orbital strikes leaving them defenceless. It should be a walkover. I look forward to meeting you all behind their walls.”

The message ended, and the screen went blank. Mance felt a moment of panic rise from his stomach to his neck. Unlike the others in his troop, he had seen an attack before and knew what entailed too well to be optimistic, or to take the message at face value. His right hand was shaking, he reached for his water bottle and attempted to stop the shaking by undoing the lid and taking a deep drink. The thudding of artillery intensified, and Mance sat down to write a letter, to be delivered to his mother in the event of his death.

After an hour or so, he reviewed his progress, “Dear mother”, that was all he had written. He was never able to describe the horrors, nor did he want to let her know the suffering that was present. It bothered him that he couldn’t talk to her any more, but he didn’t know what to do. Considering their early start, he got his men to turn in for the night, dimming the lighting strips to give a semblance of the darkness above. In the background before he drifted off he could hear someone sobbing into their pillow.

Mance felt his way in the darkness towards the noise, he moved his way in the dark, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the stove. Eventually he reached the man, to his surprise, it wasn’t Phelps who was sobbing, but Daniels. He spent the next hour trying to calm him down, and fell asleep by his side.
He woke with a start about an hour before dawn, and got his men up too, they stood groggily in front of him, in a line. They got their equipment on and Mance inspected them, checking all their packs. Once this was done, he prepared himself. He attached his scabbard that contained his bayonet to his left hip, on the brown leather belt that held up his trousers.

He picked up his rifle, it was an ugly, snub-nosed weapon, with an overly large forward section. The fuel cell slotted into the rifle behind the pistol grip, with a metal stock that fitted snugly into the shoulder. The forward grip was textured to a handhold, with a light blue bar across the right had side of the gun that showed how much charge was left. The weapon fired a high energy plasma, that was charged by the battery.

The actual plasma fired is invisible, so by necessity, the weapons also fire a harmless red laser, the purpose of which is solely to allow the soldier to see where he is shooting. This was not known to many of the troops, so the weapons were often referred to as las rifles, despite them not being so.
After loading his battery, Mance saw that his rifle was fully charged, allowing him about fifty shots before needing to reload. After swinging his rifle onto his back, with its strap around his right shoulder, he pulled his gas mask off its site on his webbing and pulled it over his head, before finally equipping his helmet. The screen in his gas mask was a tactical one, and highlighted the men in his dugout as friendlies, clear from the light blue sheen they were given. This was possible due to the microchips in their dogtags, which identified them as Alliance in any army scanners or screens.

Steeling himself, Mance led his men out of the dugout, taking the lift up the hundred feet to ground level. He stepped out into the trench, which was two men wide, with sides made of the same brown earth as the dugout. His men followed. Peering out in the pre-dawn gloom, he took his place next to one of myriad ladders that lead up into no man’s land. His men stood either side of him, suddenly the artillery ceased, leaving the warzone eerily quiet.

Mance licked his lips and waited. Through the comlink in his helmet, he, along with everyone else heard the whistle sound transmitted to every helmet in the area. He took a deep breath and climbed quickly up to the surface, he ran forward in a half wince, expecting to be killed, but he was not. He risked looking back, his men were all with him, he was part of an unbroken line of men that stretched as far as he could see. They were not being shot at.

Instead of running, they moved forward at a slow jog, not quite believing what was happening. After passing about eighty feet from their trench, flashes erupted from the trenches of the secessionists and men started to fall. Mance swore and started to run, he made it a little further then felt a burning sensation in his lower belly. He stumbled and fell to his knees. Another kick-like feeling hit him in his shoulder and he pitched backwards.
Looking up he saw Daniels and Phelps surge forward before disappearing in an explosion. The world dimmed then turned to black.






 
Private Ewan Toseland walked into the dugout that was to become his home. He looked around the dismal place, his youthful cheer dwindling with each passing moment, Aside the obligatory Emperor poster he saw a wall covered in photos and memorabilia. He picked the closest one off the wall, it showed a happy fire-haired young man, standing with a pregnant woman. On the back it said “For my dearest John, with all my love, I hope you return safe to me, all my love, Nancy. Xxx”

He studied it, wondering about what had happened to the previous occupants, before tossing the photo into the rubbish bag that he was carrying. He continued to clear the room ready for his new squadmates to live in. Above, the sound of artillery rumbled on.

Judgement for Safed's story.

Characters - 8/25

Other than the issue of there only being one seriously developed character, Mance, he himself wasn't particularly well characterized. He lacks a serious personality and comes off more as a viewpoint than a viewpoint character.

Plot - 12/25

Typical WW1 IN SPACE story. In fact, this might have done better as a proper WW1 story. As is, it comes off as rather odd in spots (See setting criticism)

Setting - 6/15

Neither the secessionists nor the alliance were particularly well fleshed-out, plasma is generally visible (Lasers, oddly enough, would have worked as inivisible), the "Emperor of Man" idea is overused, developments in artillery and in infantry weapons have made mass infantry assaults absolutely useless since WW2 (Arguably since WW1, but then there was at least a chance of victory if you were willing to take heavy casualties), straight razors would likely replace disposable razors in such a situation, etc etc.

Your attention to detail of life in the trenches has potential, though. It could have done with a little more in the way of style and imagery (See style criticism), but you have a certain eye for detail.

Creativity - 3/15

Again, it really reads like a WW1 story recycled in the far future. And I do mean recycled, I don't mean adapted.

Style - 6/15

The writing style is very... Stale. I'm not sure how else to describe it. It reads like one of those school textbooks with the very factual, tedious style used in lieu of a unique 'voice'. Dialogue is also underutilized and very awkward where it is used.

“Dear all”, he began, “We will soon launch a glorious attack on are enemy, tomorrow at daylight we will strike, our artillery and orbital strikes leaving them defenceless. It should be a walkover. I look forward to meeting you all behind their walls.”

This whole little speech, for example, is incredibly awkward. "Dear all" I'll let slide, since that might be a regional difference in address, but "We will soon launch a glorious attack on are our enemy, tomorrow at daylight we will strike, our artillery and orbital strikes leaving them defenceless." would be better written as "Soon, we will launch a glorious attack on our enemy. We will strike tomorrow at daylight, our artillery and orbital strikes leaving them defenceless.", although that doesn't fix all the problems with the sentence. Written as the former,"tomorrow at daylight we will strike" is very unusual word order (Although I don't think it's technically incorrect). At the least it's very stilted prose. The sentence as a whole would have worked much better split up, although it would still sound stunted and awkward, it would sound significantly less so as two sentences rather than one.

I'm not familiar with the phrase "It should be a walkover", and I'm not sure if it's a regional thing or a combination of "Cakewalk" and "Pushover", so I'll refrain from commenting on that. "I look forward to meeting you all behind their walls." again, sounds very stilted. I think your primary problem is that both your narrative and your dialogue lacks a significant voice, as I said before. Find a voice to write in, and I think at least some of these problems will be solved.

Grammar/spelling - 4/5

Severe underuse of commas. I didn't see anything misspelled, however. There was an are/our mistake though, as seen in the style rating.

Overall - 39/100

[Conserative Morality]

I wasn't going to enter this, but I changed my minds. Be warned I wrote this three years ago. I'll do some editng (of the spelling) but there's a reason why I chose this text. I've never put it online so I think it wil qualify as new...

Tall and skinny that was Tea Pyd, a girl no more than thirteen years old. She had rough looking skin, short tawny brown hair, green tinged hazel eyes and a bony jaw. She disguised the jaw with a thick woollen scarf of turquoise colouration, hid her hair under a bandanna and covered her eyes with reflective sun glasses. Tea went to Yew College a large school for secondary students designed like a fortified town. Every student wore mufti and today Tea was clad in yellow socks, brown trousers, black shoes, a white skivvy and a jumper that proclaimed 'Haraald II'. It was made of black wool and cotton with the words in red cotton.

Next to Tea sat Rollo Masdin a dreadful cheat. Almost all the work Tea completed he copied out word for word in similar handwriting. His heart was truly stone. Sometimes he would be cunning like a fox and finish the last few words or sentences by himself and claim that Tea had copied him. He would normally play the trick when Tea was stuck on a difficult question or suffering from writer's block making it look like she was stumped without 'his' answers. This annoyed Tea who couldn't always complain that it was he who was cheating.

One day, not long after Tea's grandfather Lucas Pyd had given her a chest of antique draws, Tea wore a jumper that exclaimed, 'I'm a cheater and you're on a heater'. It was made by Harson Clothes, a brand notable for their horrible rhymes but exceedingly popular nonetheless. The first period of the day was English the only class where Tea sat next to anyone anymore. Belle Droggard was rushed to hospital five minutes in after sitting on a heater.

It was not until Tea got home that she realised what her jumper said, however, she didn't link it to Belle in any way other than coincidence. The next day she wore another jumper except it said 'Go to be bed you're a pain in his head.' Terrence O'Dil fell asleep during class and Rollo Masdin exclaimed, "Sir, Terrence is annoying me." As with before, Tea passed it off as coincidence.

On Friday, Tea took a jumper saying 'I just flew in from Texas, boy are my arms tired'. Once at school Madeline asked Tea a question. "Can I borrow your jumper?"

"Sure," Tea replied.

Madeline wore the jumper and was soon very sore in the arms department and plagued by questions about Texas. Neither were explainable as Madeline had no recollection of having visited Texas.

Once Tea got home she looked at her jumper and clicked. Her jumpers made things happen to the people wearing them or the people near them. The thought aroused Tea's curiosity so much that she rushed to the draws and pulled the first one over her head. What she didn't do was read the words: 'Warning. Explosive Chemicals.'

Belle, Terrence, Madeline and Rollo carried the coffin and Mr Kao performed the service. A minute's silence was observed through the school.

Judgement for Forsher's story

Characters - 3/25

I could detect little to no characterization for the people in this story.

Plot - 3/25

A girl wears jumpers that cause whatever is written on them to happen. "Warning: Explosive Chemicals" doesn't rhyme, despite the company that makes them being explicitly said to make rhymes on the clothing. "I just flew in from Texas, boy are my arms tired'" doesn't rhyme either. A lack of consistency, reason for the story to exist, and overarching plot all hamper the writing. It's just an idea used to string together a couple of unrelated scenes in which very little of interest happens.

Setting - 3/15

Er? Some high school in the modern world?

Creativity - 3/15

The basic idea feels stale and cliched.

Style - 2/15

You spend a good sixth of the story just blandly describing the main character's clothing. I'm not even sure how to criticize the writing.

Grammar/spelling - 3/5

Severe underuse of commas and punctuation.

Overall - 18/100

[Conserative Morality]

Sort of

There lay the little girl, nicely tucked into her bed. Little Emily was a measly inch away from her mother, Caroline.
“Will you read me a bedtime story?” Emily said in her sweet little voice.
“Of course I will, sweetie pie! Here’s one that your grandmother used to read to me, back in the days.”
Emily was definitely excited to hear this story. She got comfy and waited for the words to come to her ears.
“Once upon a time, there was a little unicorn named Sparkles. She used to go around, helping people. One day, on a beautiful day,-“
“Wait,” interrupted Emily, “there’s something wrong about this story.”
“What seems to be the problem, my beauty?”
“Well,” she began, "beautiful days aren't real.”

Judgement for Amland's story.

Characters - 3/25

Not a lot of characterization.

Plot - 3/25

Some mother reading a bedtime story to a little girl.

Setting - 3/15

A little girl tucked into bed.

Creativity - 7/15

Heh. The whole thing was a set-up for a joke, but it was a good joke, so I'll give you a few points for that.

Style - 3/15

Suffers from talking head syndrome, but it's really just a setup for a joke.

Grammar/spelling - 5/5

Seems to be fine.

Overall - 21/100

[Conserative Morality]

https://www.box.com/s/81c12171fa12eb7a6b89

Euge!

Important Note:
It's pronounced "Peh-daw-full-ease" for our purposes.

*sigh*

You know I have a weakness for Rome.

Judgement for Astrolinium's Play

Characters - 16/25

Alright, Superbus is the quintessential, modern, mildly narcissistic smartass (IN ROME). He may not be the deepest or most original character ever, but I fell in love with him anyway. Junior is simply an adesolent in love. Everything else about him is simply a vehicle for the plot/comedy. Same with most of the other characters.

Plot - 22/25

I must confess, you did a good job of making a short comedic play. Revealing that Superbus taught the parrot to speak in order to get Furata her freedom at the end was an excellent end to the story.

Setting - 10/15

Rome, but there wasn't much room for description.

Creativity - 10/15

Let's face it, this was a retelling of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. A GOOD retelling, mind. But I'm still taking points off for that. The jokes were pretty original though, and appealed to the amateur historian in me.

Style - 12/15

Characters lack significant individual voice, but the jokes were good, and that's really what matters, isn't it? The dialogue flowed smoothly and set up the situations quite well.

Grammar/spelling - 5/5

I didn't see any mistakes. æ technically can be written simply as ae though.

Overall - 75/100

[Forsher]

I wasn't going to enter this, but I changed my minds. Be warned I wrote this three years ago. I'll do some editng (of the spelling) but there's a reason why I chose this text. I've never put it online so I think it wil qualify as new...

Tall and skinny that was Tea Pyd, a girl no more than thirteen years old. She had rough looking skin, short tawny brown hair, green tinged hazel eyes and a bony jaw. She disguised the jaw with a thick woollen scarf of turquoise colouration, hid her hair under a bandanna and covered her eyes with reflective sun glasses. Tea went to Yew College a large school for secondary students designed like a fortified town. Every student wore mufti and today Tea was clad in yellow socks, brown trousers, black shoes, a white skivvy and a jumper that proclaimed 'Haraald II'. It was made of black wool and cotton with the words in red cotton.

Next to Tea sat Rollo Masdin a dreadful cheat. Almost all the work Tea completed he copied out word for word in similar handwriting. His heart was truly stone. Sometimes he would be cunning like a fox and finish the last few words or sentences by himself and claim that Tea had copied him. He would normally play the trick when Tea was stuck on a difficult question or suffering from writer's block making it look like she was stumped without 'his' answers. This annoyed Tea who couldn't always complain that it was he who was cheating.

One day, not long after Tea's grandfather Lucas Pyd had given her a chest of antique draws, Tea wore a jumper that exclaimed, 'I'm a cheater and you're on a heater'. It was made by Harson Clothes, a brand notable for their horrible rhymes but exceedingly popular nonetheless. The first period of the day was English the only class where Tea sat next to anyone anymore. Belle Droggard was rushed to hospital five minutes in after sitting on a heater.

It was not until Tea got home that she realised what her jumper said, however, she didn't link it to Belle in any way other than coincidence. The next day she wore another jumper except it said 'Go to be bed you're a pain in his head.' Terrence O'Dil fell asleep during class and Rollo Masdin exclaimed, "Sir, Terrence is annoying me." As with before, Tea passed it off as coincidence.

On Friday, Tea took a jumper saying 'I just flew in from Texas, boy are my arms tired'. Once at school Madeline asked Tea a question. "Can I borrow your jumper?"

"Sure," Tea replied.

Madeline wore the jumper and was soon very sore in the arms department and plagued by questions about Texas. Neither were explainable as Madeline had no recollection of having visited Texas.

Once Tea got home she looked at her jumper and clicked. Her jumpers made things happen to the people wearing them or the people near them. The thought aroused Tea's curiosity so much that she rushed to the draws and pulled the first one over her head. What she didn't do was read the words: 'Warning. Explosive Chemicals.'

Belle, Terrence, Madeline and Rollo carried the coffin and Mr Kao performed the service. A minute's silence was observed through the school.

Judgement for Forsher's story

Characters - 3/25

I could detect little to no characterization for the people in this story.

Plot - 3/25

A girl wears jumpers that cause whatever is written on them to happen. "Warning: Explosive Chemicals" doesn't rhyme, despite the company that makes them being explicitly said to make rhymes on the clothing. "I just flew in from Texas, boy are my arms tired'" doesn't rhyme either. A lack of consistency, reason for the story to exist, and overarching plot all hamper the writing. It's just an idea used to string together a couple of unrelated scenes in which very little of interest happens.

Setting - 3/15

Er? Some high school in the modern world?

Creativity - 3/15

The basic idea feels stale and cliched.

Style - 2/15

You spend a good sixth of the story just blandly describing the main character's clothing. I'm not even sure how to criticize the writing.

Grammar/spelling - 3/5

Severe underuse of commas and punctuation.

Overall - 18/100

Well, at least I was consistent...

A question and a point which I think needs making. There's another but that's that.

Actually, Harson Clothes was created purely to explain the bad rhyme of the initial jumper. The others were made by a different company, or companies...

The basic idea feels stale and cliched.

How so?