.Org Mystery Writing Competition.

[King Henry V]

Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow .Organisms, I humbly present to you the .Org Mystery Writing Competition, with special thanks to Ludens for his approval and hopefully help. I know it is long past Hallowe'en, but since when has that stopped people having fun?
The idea of the contest is to write a story or lengthy caption which is spooky or that has something to do with the supernatural. As this is not an official contest, merely an officially approved competition, there is unfortunately no prize, just the satisfaction of winning the contest. Rather like Mastermind (without the glass bowl ).
However, since the prize is less, the rules will also be less stringent.
The Rules:
1) The submission must be completely original. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

2) The maximum number of words is 2000. Word processing programmes such as Microsft Word have a word wount option (you will probably find it under Tools).

3)Editing one's text will be allowed, but only if it is done before someone else posts their entry. We do not want any cheating going on.

4)The content and language of the entry must abide by the laws and customs of .Organia (i.e forum rules).

5) All patrons are allowed to take part in the contest.

6)One submission per member only.

The contest will be open for one week, from Wednesday 8th November to midnight GMT on Wednesday 16th November, after which the thread will be closed.
On Thursday 17th November a poll will be opened and will run for five days after which a winner will be announced.
I, as Master of Ceremonies, reserve the right to disqualify an entry if they break the afore mentioned rules of this contest. It's my perk for having come up with the idea for this type of contest.
Happy hunting.


Edit: As to the somewhat limited response, the contest will remain open until Monday 22nd November.

[Aenarion]

Hmmm, sounds interesting to me. Might take a try! Just wondering...do we post our stories here on this topic?

Thanks,
Aenarion

[King Henry V]

Hmmm, sounds interesting to me. Might take a try! Just wondering...do we post our stories here on this topic?

Thanks,
Aenarion

Yes, right here. It would be a bit hard for poor Ludens to run around all over the place closing the threads he thinks are the contest ones when the time comes.

[King Henry V]

Since Junior member cannot post in the Mead Hall, any who are interested could PM me with their story and will post it for them.

[Aenarion]

Thanks King Henry V for ur reply...I shall enter this challenge and should post my story by not later than this weekend...thanks!

[Kaiser of Arabia]

I'm prob. in, if I can find the time.

[edyzmedieval]

I'm probably in, if I can get my laptop back....

[King Henry V]

Everyone, if you are good enough to enter this competition, please say so in the Flash of Inspiration thread. This is supposed to be where the stories are posted.
Thank you.

[Ludens]

In order to kick this competition of, I am posting an sample story. As AM I cannot participate. It is not true horror, as that never has been my thing, but it contains some of the elements of horror. The structure is borrowed (again) from The Shadow One.

Any comment will be appreciated, though preferably through PM.

Good luck to all participants!


Afterwards

  “Paul! Paul! Have you found him?”
  “No! And keep your voice down.”
  “Then where is he?”
  “I don’t know. All these bodies look alike. Are you sure the captain fell here?”
  “Yes! Can’t we make a light?”
  “For God’s sake, Michael, keep your voice down! Light’d make the other looters spot us and with these uniforms on, we’re dead! Are you absolutely sure he fell here?”
  “Yes!”

  The regiment loaded their guns, listening nervously to the rumbling noises of the battlefield. On the other side of the field, the enemy cavalry lined themselves up for a charge.
  “Okay you bunch of cowards, listen up! We’re going to give them two volleys, one when they are far away and one when they are up close. Now I know all of you have the courage of a sick rat, but if we hit them at point blank range they’ll bolt like rabbits. So you are going to stand here no matter what, and give them that second volley! And remember that if any of you does decide to run, I’ll personally remove his guts with my sword!”
  In the distance, the enemy horsemen were cantering towards the regiment.
  The captain waited a moment and then shouted “Raise your weapon!”
  Fifty harquebuses were pointed at the horsemen.
  “Fire!”
  The blow of the volley was deafening. Smoke obscured the vision of the approaching cavalry.
  In apparent silence that followed the blast the captain’s voice could be dimly heard. “Reload your weapon!”  

  “Paul! Paul! We’ll never find him! Let’s get out of here!”
  “Shut up. The bastard’s got all our money. I am not leaving without it.”
  Michael anxiously watched a group of torches approach. They were probably carried by a band of looters of the other army. “They’re coming closer! Let’s get out!”
  “Shut up! If you’re such a coward, why did you want to come with me?”

  The thundering of the hooves drowned out all other sounds. Michael felt his heart beat like mad. With sweaty hands he put a bullet into the barrel of his gun and stamped it down.
  “Raise your weapon!”
  The ground seemed to shake under the weight of the horses as they charged towards the regiment.
  “Fire!”
  Michael closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The harquebus did not fire. But those around him did. The whole first line of horsemen was blown of their horses. But the second line charged on. Michael turned, and ran.  

  “Paul! They’re getting really close! We should – What the hell are you doing?”
  “Searching for their purses. What do you think?”
  “But that’s stealing of dead men!”
  “Better than stealing of live men. If I can’t get my money, someone else’s will do.”

  Michael heard shouts behind him as he ran, still clutching his harquebus. He kept running, looking over his shoulder to see the entire regiment being scattered by the horsemen. Then he tripped over something and he hit the ground hard.  

  The torches were getting uncomfortably close. Soon, their light would give Michael’s and Paul’s presence away to the looters.
  “Paul! We don’t even know if the captain’s dead! He may just have been wounded and crawled away.”
  “You said you saw him die!”
  “No! I said I saw him fall!”
  “Damn! Why didn’t you say so before? Let’s get out of here fast.”

  When Michael regained consciousness, the cavalry had passed him by chasing the remains of the regiment. He stood up unsteadily and picked up his gun.
  “Michael! You poxed coward!”
  Michael whirled round to see the captain running towards, sword drawn. In a reflex, he pulled the trigger of his harquebus.  

  For the second time that day, Michael and Paul ran away from the other army. Michael only stopped running when he reached the edge of the forest. That day the trees had saved them both from the cavalry’s sabres, now it saved them from the looters knives. Michael paused a moment to regain his breath, but when he looked up he could not breathe. Right in front of him stood the captain, sword raised, a bloody hole gaping in the middle of his breastplate. Michael went rigid, unable to move.

  When the smoke from the gunshot cleared, the captain was lying on the ground, his chest a bloody mess. In his right hand, he still clutched the sword. From his throat came a gurgling sound as he tried to lift his left arm.
  Michael threw away his gun, and ran.  

  The captain did not blink. He just stood there. Michael’s heart was beating so fast that it felt like it was about to explode. He had to breathe, so he coughed, but still the captain remained motionless.
  Slowly, very slowly, Michael brought his hand up and touched the captain’s armour. It did not feel like metal at all. The image of the captain faded. In its place stood an old and gnarled tree. Only with a great deal of imagination could the outline of a man with a sword be made out.
  Michael took a deep breath, and waited until his heart rate went back to normal.
  “I think we are safe here.” He said.
  There was no answer.
  “Paul?”
  Something creaked.
  “Paul? Where are you?” Alarmed, Michael looked around.
  Behind him, the leaves rustled.
  Michael whirred around, but was too late. The last thing he felt was a blade thrust in his belly.
  ...
  ..
  .

[Aenarion]

Ok here's my story...hope u like it! ... total words is 554.
____________________________________
Art Exhibition

It was a bright and sunny morning. I had just passed through the school entrance when I saw a long, tall stand in the middle of the main hall. It was an art exhibition. Seeing I had time till my first lesson, I gad a quick look at the artistic presentations. The pictures varied widely, from charcoal sketches to water painted landscapes. All were impressive.

At the end of the stand hung a single painting. All alone. All by itself. Away from the others. It was a creepy painting by … the label on the picture was torn off. All it consisted of was a dark blue background and an indescribable black figure with two small red eyes … I knew time was up; I had lessons all day long. So I headed off to the classroom.

Things happened that day. Strange things. Apart from the murky air around the school, everybody, even the teachers looked tired and unwilling to work. It must have been the Monday morning start, but it wasn’t like this on other Mondays. The same atmosphere kept on all throughout the day. During lunch break I went into the bathroom to wash my face, since I thought it must have been me who had woken up badly … to make things worse, there was no water in the taps.

Coming out of the bathroom I was shocked for a moment. Nobody was there ... In the corridors or outside….nowhere. I thought everybody was back at work., but the break had started just five minutes ago. Concerned, I checked the classes and they were empty. I was alone. Quickly I headed to my classroom and surprisingly enough I only found my bag there. As I ran down the stairs, the atmosphere around me seemed to thicken and darken and I thought I could hear whispering voices, talking a language I couldn’t understand.

As I walked across the main hall and past the stand in the centre, I froze…I looked around in horror. The figure in the creepy painting I had seen earlier that day had vanished. It wasn’t there. The background was untouched. Unharmed. As if the figure had never been painted. Shadows suddenly surrounded me. I turned away from the picture and ran out of the entrance…

Everything changed. Everything was bright and calm. It was a normal day. People off to their own duties. As I walked away from the school I wondered what was going on, but at least I was out. Out from what I thought were the gates of hell.

I stopped, closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh air ... relief flooded through me. I opened my eyes, blinked, and rubbed them with the backs of my hands ... no, it wasn't my eyes that were blurred., it was a thick mist a hundred yards ahead of me and which I had not noticed ... I looked left, it was there, to the right, it was there. The people I had noticed a few seconds ago had gone, disappeared into the mist. I looked behind, and it was fifty yards away ... I spun round ... it was closing in, in a darkening, thick mist, and was it imagination or were those black figures with small red eyes looming out of the darkness ...
____________________________

[Edited: Sry just noticed the spelling mistakes and grammar and added 2 paragraphs to it. Seeing no one had yet posted another story I just went in for it!]

Cheers,
Aenarion

[Beirut]

This is my first try at anything like this so please be forgiving. I hope you have some fun with it. Even though the AMs can't win, I felt like joining in.

*******************************************************

Here and there


The transition was gentle, like a touch on your body so soft you weren't sure you were touched at all. There was little to differentiate where he was, from where he is. Only hints, mild at first, flowing like foam, gave him any idea that anything was happening at all. Then, with a return to a conscious control of thought, the only sense he had, he realized he faced another age of darkness and oblivion. Fright and panic descended upon him again. It always did.

The great transition that led to this milder one was far more brutal and direct in intention. His car sped down the highway, he hit something, his body flew from the car, his head smashing through the windshield, absorbing glass and metal deep within his skull. Then nothing. Then pain. No sight, no sound, simply pain. Then nothingness again. Thought became everything, nothing else was there. He could not see, he could not hear, he could not move or feel anything. He could only think. This was what he became.

At first he was able to reason his reality. He had been in an accident, he remembered that. He remembered nothing else except the pain that overtook him then faded away as if it never existed at all. He thought he was in a hospital, but that was only a guess. He knew he was paralyzed, he knew he was blind, he knew he was deaf, he knew he could not move or feel anything, he knew nothing else. The only feeling he had was the uncontrollable movement of his bowels, but it was more of a light pulse in the void than anything else. Just feelings that came and passed and might never have happened. Aside from thinking, this echo from his insides, was the only hint he had that he was still alive.

Time passed, though he didn't know it. He lost all sense except of being in human darkness. The transitions, the soft one that came like a slow whisper and faded into dreams, and the one that ended in a whisper that turned to a roar of deafening panic, was all he had. To anyone else, falling asleep and waking up were normal, even happy things. For him, they were the descent from heaven to hell and back again. In sleep, though he never knew he was asleep, his mind wandered from nightmare to euphoria in an elaborate play of light and shadow, of sound and fury. While awake, thoughts that grew emptier, falling lower and lower, were all he consisted of. The days of hope and imagination were gone. Now were the days of madness and despair, loneliness and endless futility.

Sleep was his only escape. He tried to sleep on purpose. Like a man clenching his teeth, fighting the pain, he urged his powers of self-control to fall away and let him back into blissful sleep. But he had no teeth nor could he control the muscles that moved the bones in order to clench them. His mind pushed against the walls of itself trying harder and harder to break through into unconsciousness. The only achievement was the despair of knowing that he was still imprisoned awake. Sleep came only by chance and only when it pleased. It started without warning, lasted forever, then, in the worst moment of his life, ended, softly, almost sweetly, turning from muse to madness as conscious thought tore through what was left of his body. The cold untouchable numbness that started behind his eyes and ran endlessly for miles to somewhere in another lifetime where his hands and feet were able to move was the breadth of his life.

As time grew on him, the moments of transition gave way to something more terrifying - The ending of all transitions. There was no more bliss in the loss of self-awareness, no more panic in the realization that he was awake. Now there was just a blur, a cloud of self-doubt that hovered inside his mind like an invisible fly. He no longer knew if he was asleep or awake. Whether he was controlling his thoughts or merely experiencing them was not clear. He could not decide if the ever fainter ripples from within him were his organs working as blindly as he existed, or part of a dream that he wasn't’t even sure he was in.

He floated in a void that had no bearing. Thoughts that could pass in seconds lasted forever. Seconds became weeks, weeks became years, and years were only seconds. Time flowed backward and forward without consideration of him. He was a wave upon a non-existent pond, coming from nowhere and returning nowhere. There was not even madness anymore, no terror, no panic; just a weak awareness that he was he and nothing was everything. Whether it was sleep or death, who could tell. Like a man in the final moments of a drug overdose, life and death melded like salt into water, inseparable, an everlasting moment frozen in time with no meaning other than itself. Perfect neutrality between nothing and less.

In a moment, a concussion wrecked itself upon him, tearing him from his blinded and paralyzed void. A shock larger than life broke him into pieces. Coldness, the first feeling he had in ages swam through him. Wetness bathed his body. Furious sound shattered his eardrums. Pain like thin hot steel cut into his mind. His eyelids blinked open, scratching across shards of glass embedded in his eyes. Light burned into his vision, refracting into strange colourful shapes, dancing like needlepoints of fire across all he saw.

Before losing consciousness and descending into a blind and deaf stupor, his neck and back snapped in a dozen places, the last sight he had was of his car, fifty feet away, smoldering, crushed, the windshield gone. He sank into an oblivion of nothingness. A hole he could never climb out of, where sleeping and waking in utter darkness and immovable silence would be his only companions. Seconds had seemed like years. Now years would seem like eternity.

[Ludens]

Cowhead418 sent in this story for the competition. Enjoy!

==================================================


Grand Prince Olaf slowly walked down the long, winding corridors of the local prison. He was unsure of how or why he was in this unfortunate place of lost souls but there was some sort of force emanating from the end of the corridor that attracted his senses. As he passed several closed doors he heard screeches of extreme pain.

As the sounds grew more intense, feelings of dread and horror began to fill Olaf. “They’re being tortured!” he thought out loud as realization hit. Overwhelmed by his fears, Olaf turned and attempted to flee. The Russian monarch, however, was unable to escape the pull of the mysterious energy at the end of the hallway. The harder he pushed against this force the stronger its hold on him became. As Olaf turned helplessly around he suddenly became aware of a constant droning and the sound of grinding metal. Before he could discover the source, a door behind him slammed shut.

A dark figure draped in a black cloak that covered its face appeared to Olaf’s right and simply pointed with its disfigured hand toward the middle of the dungeon room. Hanging down from the ceiling was a contraption with a glass box situated on a wooden plank with two holes wide enough to allow an arm to squeeze through. Directly between these holes was a plastic vial filled with green, bubbly liquid. Suddenly Olaf’s body started to convulse wildly out of control. Olaf’s shrieks of terror mixed with the evil laugh of the cloaked figure.

Yuri woke up with a jolt. He was sweating up a storm and his blood pressure had risen significantly. After a few seconds of fleeting fear, Yuri climbed out of his massive, four-poster bed and walked quietly down to the castle courtyard. Finding himself a comfortable bench, Yuri lay there for a few minutes gazing at the clear, night sky before falling into a light, dreamless sleep.

The young prince was awakened from his slumber by the sounds of trumpets. As Yuri rubbed his sore eyes he was startled by a royal messenger tapping him roughly on his shoulder.

“Sire! I bring terrible news! Your father and brothers are dead! Murdered by some assassin that slipped past our sentries during the night!”

Yuri was third in line to the Russian throne. His father Olaf was the Grand Prince and he had two older brothers, Prince Ivan and Prince Yerik. Shocked, Yuri broke into a sprint and burst into the bedroom of his father. There was no sign of a body but a trail of blood flowed from the middle of the mattress and stopped at the base of the window facing the east. Examinations of the bedrooms of the two Princes produced the same results.

Unable to comprehend the situation, Yuri slipped into his own room for some privacy. What he found was even more distressing. His bed was an absolute mess. The posters were torn off and strewn on the ground. The bed sheets were ripped to shreds and several of Yuri’s prized possessions lay in pieces upon the stone floor. What was most horrifying was a sharp, 5-foot long sword in the center of the bed with a note attached to the handle. “YOU’RE NEXT” was written on the note in bright red letters in blood.

Over the next two months Yuri committed himself to extensive training in self-defense. He trained for six hours a day with the best swordsmen and the most skilled archers in all of Russia. Yuri had not yet assumed the throne and had hired a highly talented minister to carry out his duties until the assassin was caught. Nearly 10% of the budget was poured into an international investigation regarding the whereabouts of the criminal.

Everywhere Yuri traveled he brought along a bodyguard of at least 20 soldiers. He slept with four heavily armed bodyguards in his bedroom at night with 10 more soldiers guarding the entrances to his room and 100 more assuming patrol duties in various areas of the castle.

Seventy-six days after the death of Olaf and his two sons, Yuri married to a young Danish princess Thyra and presented her with half of his estate. Together they lived in adjourning bedrooms, his wife receiving a bodyguard of her own.

One night after a long, productive day of training and administrative duties, Yuri retired to his bedroom and sat at the foot of his bed, enjoying the vast landscapes that lay outside his window. This night was a particularly stormy night, and every thirty seconds or so a spectacular bolt of lightning would flash and light up the beautiful landscape of southern Russia. During one of the flashes something caught Yuri’s eye. He thought he had seen a shadowy figure dash across a farm at blazing speed while the lightning struck but he dismissed the thought as being part of his imagination.

A few moments later a lightning bolt struck a tree and a piercing sound soon followed. Yuri was suddenly aware of muffled shouts and screams from within his castle and jumped to arm himself with his bow and sword. Kicking his bedroom door open, he descended slowly down the spiral staircase and peered around a corner into the courtroom. Unable to sense or see anybody there, Yuri crept slowly toward the courtroom door that would lead him to the courtyard, where he heard shouting.

Lightning flashed again. Yuri was stopped dead in his tracks. Lighting a candle, Yuri peered around the courtroom. The handle of the candle clanged loudly against the stone floor and the flame spouted out instantly. Yuri had seen the remains of several of his soldier bodyguard strewn about the room. There were pools of blood everywhere but all of the corpses had one thing in common - they were all missing their heads. Horrified, Yuri stumbled into the courtyard and backed up against a wall, stringing an arrow to his bow.

Suddenly the gatehouse main doors burst open and a dark figure draped in a black cloak appeared. As Yuri gazed into its blood red eyes a disfigured hand came into view and pointed directly at Yuri. He began to feel tired and dizzy. Struggling to regain focus, Yuri aimed and let loose the arrow. It struck true and the cloaked figure collapsed to the ground, clutching its heart. Yuri sprinted over to examine his quarry and turned the limp figure over on its side.

The hideous, scarred face of Thyra appeared. Horrified, Yuri dropped his weapons. Thyra’s body began to go through massive convulsions and she opened her eye slits. Throwing Yuri a look of pure hate and evil she began to shriek “You killed me! You killed me! Now you are going to die!” Overwhelmed by his emotions, Yuri blacked out.

Yuri found himself in a dungeon room. As he looked around at his surroundings the big wooden door leading to the prison corridor slowly creaked open. Yuri approached the door warily and after peering into the hallway he decided it was safe to continue. The hallway corridor was pitch black, but somehow Yuri knew where to go. He had visited this place in his dreams before. Yuri knew that the same assassin who had killed his family was here to kill Yuri too but he was ready to face him. But as the screeches of pain and torture reached his ears, Yuri’s courage left him. He tried to turn back and flee but a forcefield had trapped him. This time there was no time to resist, Yuri was thrown off his feet and into another dungeon room, where his body crumpled onto the floor.

The same dark figure draped in a black cloak appeared he had seen twice already appeared. Feeling for strength deep inside, Yuri jumped to his feet and rushed his would-be executioner. The figure simply pointed with his disfigured hand and Yuri collapsed. The cloaked figure then pointed to the stone wall on the far side of the room where a black drape fell away revealing a mass of wooden shelves. Yuri gasped in horror as the heads of Olaf, Ivan and Yerik stared back at him. Turning away Yuri saw the figure point to the center of the room.

A contraption with a glass box situated on a wooden plank hung down from the ceiling. In the plank there were two holes wide enough for a human arm to squeeze through. Inside the glass box between the holes was a plastic vial filled with green and bubbly liquid.

Yuri became aware of a hissing sound. It took him a few minutes to realize it was coming from the cloaked figure “While you were unconscious in this dungeon you inhaled a poisonous substance. Over the next two weeks this poison will eat at your organs from the inside and cause a slow, extremely painful death. The vial you see is an antidote to this poison.”

Struggling to his feet Yuri felt himself walk over to the contraption and stuck his arm through one hole. Some kind of mysterious energy was guiding his actions. Unable to grip the vial firmly he squeezed his remaining arm through the other hole. Grabbing the vial, Yuri attempted to free his arms. But sharp knives suddenly filled the holes and pierced his skin. Yuri suddenly became aware of a constant droning and the sound of grinding metal. He looked up and saw a lever with a gigantic sword attached to it.

“Over the next two weeks, the lever you see will slowly descend, inching ever closer to your head. You will experience extreme pain from both the poison flowing in your veins and the puncture wounds on your arms. You will bleed but will not lose enough blood to warrant death. After this time the sword on the lever will free your head from your body and my collection will grow.”

The hissing suddenly stopped. The cloaked figure glided over to the dungeon door and vanished into thin air. Yuri tried and tried with all the energy he had left to free his arms, tears streaking down his face. “No! You can’t do this to me! NO! I’m heir to the Russian throne! Somebody help! Anybody! This can’t be happening to me! Nooooooooooooooooooooooo…!” All that could be heard in the distance was a hideous, evil laugh.

[Incongruous]

Definately not my best stuff but hey I have never written a horror before ok?


CANDLE ROOM


The candle flickered and then went out. “Gods! Light another you young fool!”
“Yes master” a new flame flashed in the darkness eliciting another curse from the ice haired man. “Is it so impossible to keep the damn silence boy?”
“I apologise master, it won’t happen again”
“Oh and is that a fact, you would be astounded at how many young ones I bring down here who say they shant again, then they do and they’re dead” the old man shook his head as if to rid himself of an old memory. “It’s always so cold in here, isn’t damnably cold in here?” the young one simply nodded his agreement; the old master knew his mind would be elsewhere. “The last time you were down here, huh!” a shadow flicked past the room outside in the hallway, its swiftness igniting the boy’s fear and extinguishing the candles flame. “Keep that bloody thing burning or else we’ll be down here for too long!”
“I… I cant! It’s out there it will…” the master turned on him, some unnatural blue glow illuminating his face. “Listen here boy, that candle is the only thing keeping us alive, so you just keep it going or else!” the boy shuddered violently the match flickered. “That’s better lad, keep it up and we’ll be fine t’wont harm us” the old man grudgingly reassured the boy, the gods knew it was the only way. “Wha… what is down within these depths master?” immediately the old man creaked his actions to a halt. “Something boy… that not even the gods could kill. A being” his voices tension strained “made of purest evil” the boy’s heart seemed to descend into his body until it caved in on its self. “Ahhh!” the boy jumped at the sound and quickly turned to see his master a look of horror on his face, “here it is, by the gods it is moth ridden, the greatest manuscript in the land, pah! Philistines” the master attempted to carefully scrub the dust off but to no avail. “Come no boy, you look as if you had seen a ghost”, he smartly exited the door and entered the grid of claustrophobic hallways. The boy rushed to keep up with him. “Oh damn it boy light it up!” the boy stopped fear coursing through his very soul.

He fumbled, the candle fell and broke “oh god’s quick boy follow me!” again the old man was illuminated by a blue light. The boy felt his eyes close the world around him, the old man went past a corner as the boy tripped.
He quickly regained his footing and with a panicking daze swallowing him up rounded the corner only to find it as bereft of light as it was of life. “Master! Master! Help!” he could here a noise up the passageway perhaps it was his master greeting the guards to the complex, so they were not as deep as he thought they were. “Wait master I am here!” he ran until he hit a wall, the blood stung his eyes and made them water, he felt his nose it was nothing more than a tangled mess of gristle and bone “ahhhhaha, master help me please my nose is gone!”
The boy now became the child he was crying and whimpering like a baby.

“Come, come…” a whisper darted through the air, the boys head turned quickly.
“Master, oh master I have found you… master?” the boy moved foreword his arms outstretched. He felt something bristly, his master beared “Oh master thank the gods it, ahhh! master! No! Oh gods!” the blood flowed copiously from the open guts. He turned and ran, ran as far and as fast as he could, then he saw it the light, the light of the room he had been in. “Oh thank the gods!” he exclaimed as he reached out to touch the candle. “The candle? But… it was broken!

[Aenarion]

Any poll available yet pls?

[Ludens]

Any poll available yet pls?

As to the somewhat limited response, the contest will remain open until Monday 22nd November.

I assume King Henry V means monday the 21nd.

[Aenarion]

Ok thanks Ludens for the reply! though King Henry V's quote cant be found anywhere on this post

[Ludens]

though King Henry V's quote cant be found anywhere on this post

Just above his signature (try using crtl+f and search for 22nd).

[Aenarion]

Great! Thanks Ludens! Found it. Sry for any trouble!

[King Henry V]

I assume King Henry V means monday the 21nd.

Yes, I do. My stupid computer clock is playing up.

[Ludens]

Yes, I do. My stupid computer clock is playing up.

Come to think of it: do you want it closed tonight or tomorrow night? It is a bit awkward for me since midnight GMT is one o'clock in the morning here, and I need to get up early.

[King Henry V]

Tomorrow evening at about nine o'clock GMT?

[Ludens]

Tomorrow evening at about nine o'clock GMT?

That's fine, if it's acceptable to you off course.

Thanks.

[Bouchious]

1342 words - spooky/supernatural right? hope you like.

He - Perfect

He clasped her neck, forcefully throwing her to the ground; his aged, creased fingers showing the folds of water. Moonlight filtered softly onto the brook, creating a heavenly sparkle reminiscent of the stars. The muddy banks in which his feet embedded themselves were sodden, they oozed water with every fidget, every nudge. The bleak winter’s torturous cold gripped everything in its path. The once magnificent tall oak trees that lined the stream were now but the mere skeletons of their former glorious leaf robes. One decaying tree stood nearer than most; its algae green bark peeling slowly, producing such a fowl smell like the rotten egg sulphur. The roots curled, covering a sodden patch of ground. A firm footing.

His arms; obvious to any that they were of great condition, muscles bulging from the soaked t-shirt. Yet his face. Steeped in the look of horror and despair. He thrust again, from the hips, manipulating her face to the side of a rock. His stomach; eight packed; her futile attempts to squander his blows were useless; he was built for defence. Droplets of her tears failed to distinguish themselves from the harsh torrents falling around them. Little glimmers of hope shone from her eyes; yet her face did nothing, it stayed fixed in position.

The wind blew past his neck; sending shivers to his spine; and power to his hands. Once again he plunged her face into the swelling waters, the water that once glistened, stained red. The stench of death was rife. His nostrils flared; his eyes squinted into mere slits shrouded by eyelashes, he became more and more anxious, hectically he began dunking all of her frail scarred body under the enflamed beck.

His face was different the lo

ok of horror now escalated further. Perhaps it was because she was taking to long? Because she cried?

Screams echoed now from the skeletons around him.

He released his stubborn talons from her.

She was pale, her lips blue, her hair blonde, her eyes closed. The skeletons screams stopped. Her body froze, her heart stopped. He arose from the kill, looking at the victim. She was not even 16; her long fair hair stained blood red; her head disfigured; her back scarred; her life was taken. His face of horror had been vanquished. Not an emotion could be drained from his face now. His lips red; his locks the stain of mud brown; his eyes cloaked by hair.

His work undone.

He knelt beside her, a solemn kiss to the victim, the final touch. Then with no notice, he fled, leaving her. No clothes, No dignity, No life.


The sun rose over the crescent at the back of his garden, it was springtime now, 4 months had passed with no more killings, rapes or riots. Things seemed to be getting better for him. The urges had subsided; and the visions had seized almost altogether now. Well; until she turned up.

She had long flowing brown hair, and hazel eyes. She had moved into the flat above, she was his Achilles.
‘Hey,’ she joyfully sounded as she walked past carrying pile after pile of boxes to her new home. He mumbled as she clambered by.

She seemed picturesque, her face had the features of an angel, her skin has tanned yet not dark; she was the embodiment of everything he hated. Why? For 4 months he had managed to suppress any anger, and the hallucinations stopped. Why? What had he done to deserve such torture in life? Why? He is conscience of his actions but it as if an outer force is in within him, telling him to kill, to seek revenge on those who are ‘perfect’. Why?

He tripped her as she stumbled by again; her hopeless look and despair fill him with a forbidden joy at such a pitiful act. She grimaces at him, he smirks back; them swiftly turns, slamming his door within inches to her face.

His flat is a spectacle to behold. A place of order; there is no rubbish on the floor, just a clean carpet. Everything is folded neatly, stowed away, hidden. He leans against the door, one fist is clenched the other holding it down, restraining himself. He threw himself in anger across the room; almost impaling himself on the corner of a bedside table. He starts to mumble inconsistently; the mumbles become louder until a screech ensues. he throws himself again, this time towards the door, he clasps at the handle pulls furiously and sets his sights on the ‘perfect’ she still lays there. To ‘perfect’ to get up; lunge forward with the intent; luckily his lunge was ill-aimed she shot up quickly and scampered out of sight.

He awoke now; on the seven, his eyes glowing fervently, flickering like a candle in the wind. He will never fade when the sun sets. She will.

Barely a week; that’s how long had passed since she arrived, he now lived in agony; hallucinations are now daily for him; the voices return with every thought; he shows his will; keeping his calm around them; he wouldn’t last.


The sun set lowly behind the now naked trees; the red spectrum of night cast its self over the clouds, the light is dim and long shadows cast themselves to the horizon.

He strolled to his kitchen lair, seized a bread knife and made for the door. He made his way towards the old brook.

He clasped her neck; she yelled at the top of her voice, no use. His grip tightened; she coughed violently; the suns high being so low cast beautiful shadows through the trees, her looks distorted by shadows giving her the face of a demon.

Her screams escalated, becoming vigorous; she dug her nails into his bare back; he raised his fist, in one swift action bruised, and scarred her face. Nevertheless, she did not relent. She began kicking out; herself becoming frantic, he remained, a face of pure dread, guilt and horror. Shrubs and brush swayed and whistled in the brisk wind. The wind caught his face. Sending him a thunderbolt of guilt. She became berserk

I walked by.



They he laid; sodden mattress also. The small police holding cell provided few creature comforts. His mattress on a cheap metal frame the only things offered to him as comfort. Light filters softly between the rusted black bars of his cell window; the dust hanging in the area made visible by the softest rays.

As if to twist his fortunes the weather changed; within the 5 minutes the clouds developed and darkened; sunlight stopped, rain started. The bar in his windows offered no cover, the mattress soaked up this downpour. His mood swung. His fist clenched tight and shaking violently, his flung out violently cracking the plaster on the wall, cutting his knuckles wide open. Blood poured freely from his skin; we look to his sodden mattress, lifting it and throwing it to the door;

‘Mr Macmillan?’ The patrolling guard enquired,
‘Not in ‘ere’

As if from nowhere he became anxious, he began flailing himself around the cell, cutting himself on the rough walls. His tore his body from his clothes, he became savage, biting at his own limbs; he wailed on for hours never ceasing. He developed a cold shiver; huddling him up into a corning he began to weep without consideration.

The guards round him did not patrol by often; came as a shock to them as well; seeing him hanging there like that. Guess he thought it the best for the perfects sake. A single severed limb laid separated from the rest; its torn end still leaking blood; that fresh smell of iron seeped from it, the bone pointed from its end; the tibia, so it was from the knee cap down. The guards remained at their distance, not daring to edge near, the crystalline walled stained red.

He was pale, his lips blue, his hair blonde, his eyes closed. His body froze, his heart stopped.

[Ludens]

By the order of his majesty, King Henry V, this thread and contest are now closed!


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