Frizan is a Contest Moderator.
dusochvatas
Izurich
TokyoPewPew
BrokenPromise
The Savant
zendevil
Lilibat
datadogie
Vampiretwilight
BaileyBlue302I Can Show You The World
Voting and Critique
Welcome to another round of voting!
I encourage everyone that cares about the Contests(and if you don't already, I encourage you to begin now) to read through all of the wonderful entries submitted in the past two weeks, and cast their vote for their favorite! The submission with the most votes will be posted in a stickied "Trophy Case" thread where it will be displayed for all to see, and its author added to the list of Meritorious Writers at the very top!
Of course, this thread is also for critiquing. Note I said critiquing, not shitslinging. Constructive criticism only, please. Feel free to go through any one or all of the entries and give your two cents in helping your fellow writers improve! Those that have entered this contest are absolutely allowed to critique each others' works, contestants can absolutely vote, though not for their own, obviously.
Needless to say, using multiple accounts to vote more than once is NOT ALLOWED, and if an author uses alts to vote for their own work, they will be disqualified on the spot and disbarred from entering any future Contests.
Please vote based on the merits of the work, not for the sake of a clique or just because the author happens to be your friend. And mostly certainly do not attempt to have an author falsely disqualified because you don't happen to like them.
He was under a bridge that had local traffic bustling and hustling across overhead in the rain. The dew of the day was total mugginess, yet the sun didn't let the shadows creep urban. -clink- opened the zippo -fwitch- -clank- -clink- -fwitch- -clank- -clink- -fwitch- -clank-. Life had no meaning before you started.. He had those thoughts countless times, never endingly, but they didn't exist. Once his life would start officially everything would be just that, a bliss to remember.
For now the Mohawk, lazily hanging over his face's right eye, brown, was all that he kept from his beginning. The hooded black denim sleeveless jacket, the green camouflage cargo pants, the black suburban combat boots. He could only do this once.
He throttled his motorcycles handlebar. The cruise liner was making it's last preparations, hauling in vehicles, lifting an automobile, no one turned their eyes towards him - the Street Viper. All he would need to do is place the black beret on once across the Pacific to the Baltic Sea. But it'd be black, not red, not green. Not that was ever the plan, he just knew that some people could only dream of those moments. And if he could dream of it for Poland, then he didn't need to rumble with reapers just to prove his motorcycle has a rider, he didn't need to join a gang of Skulls to prove he was better than a Sword Hunter, he didn't need any of those ... Myths.
He throttled his motorcycle again. The ocean, how positively worthless of him to have come here. F- this! Back to Chicago. I'm buying my way across. ...But the Polish girls there... For now it's about all the girls. And away he went into the light of day. One day for a lady of Poland.
For now the Mohawk, lazily hanging over his face's right eye, brown, was all that he kept from his beginning. The hooded black denim sleeveless jacket, the green camouflage cargo pants, the black suburban combat boots. He could only do this once.
He throttled his motorcycles handlebar. The cruise liner was making it's last preparations, hauling in vehicles, lifting an automobile, no one turned their eyes towards him - the Street Viper. All he would need to do is place the black beret on once across the Pacific to the Baltic Sea. But it'd be black, not red, not green. Not that was ever the plan, he just knew that some people could only dream of those moments. And if he could dream of it for Poland, then he didn't need to rumble with reapers just to prove his motorcycle has a rider, he didn't need to join a gang of Skulls to prove he was better than a Sword Hunter, he didn't need any of those ... Myths.
He throttled his motorcycle again. The ocean, how positively worthless of him to have come here. F- this! Back to Chicago. I'm buying my way across. ...But the Polish girls there... For now it's about all the girls. And away he went into the light of day. One day for a lady of Poland.
by @Viper Commando
The coming of dawn was as a soft whisper in the deep of the night. The air was still and did not stir with any sound, as all the world held its breath through the final hour of darkness. When the beginnings of a pale hue began in the eastern sky, it came with such gentle subtlety that none took notice. It was not until the first blush of coral dared to peek above the hills that the slumbering earth stirred back to life, one soul at a time.
In the Frost Hills to the north, a tawny owl turned her head from one side to the other, stretching open her great eyes that shone like orbs of obsidian. The ancient conifer in which she nested was crusted with snow, surrounding her with glistening adornment in the growing light. Here, the air was quieter than in any other place in the world, as the merciless cold froze everything into a perfect hush before the sun returned to revive the forest once again. She gazed towards the horizon and saw naught but the glimmering white boughs of pine and fir. Beneath them, tiny creatures would soon be stirring, and she would hunt once more ere the sun broke over the mountains.
Far to the east, a scrub doe stepped forth from her thicket deep within the Whispering Wood. Sparrow and finch could not withhold their song from the burgeoning morning, for the sun had already risen here. But the space beneath the towering trees was yet full of a misty, green shadow. Cloven hooves stepped daintily over moss and root as she sought the cool refreshment of a bubbling stream that churned in a deep cut between the lichen-spotted trunks of graceful aspen and birch. Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to follow the wandering path of the water, for she knew that she would find acorns and mushrooms in plenty at the grove of oak trees just beyond the gentle slope where the creek dropped and danced over a tiered fall, and spread out into the forest’s lowlands.
Silence was an unknown thing in the lush labyrinth of the Twisted Grove. No one could recall when the southern-most island upon which it grew had first risen from the salty sea, nor how so many varied creatures had come to call it their home. Beaches of black-sand embraced it on all sides, and in its center, the land rose sharply, culminating in an asymmetrical tower of shining, dark-grey stone. All else had been taken over and consumed by the Grove, a relentless tangle of vines and wide-trunked trees laden with exotic fruits. Even in the last throes of night, frogs cheeped from their hiding places, and brightly colored crickets sang in staccato bursts. It was here that the velvet-furred hunter prowled, a shadow amongst shadows. Golden, slitted eyes peered up between the gnarled branches of a strangling fig tree. Lumpy shapes were silhouetted against the softly brightening sky; sleeping monkeys that were full of fruit and slow of senses. His breakfast would come easy today.
Despite the open, rolling land of the Bare Fells in the west, it was last to receive the blessing of the sun’s light. In a wide, brown valley, a stallion stood with his head erect, inspecting the landscape while a small herd of stocky, short-legged horses dozed behind him. Here, the wind never ceased, for there were no trees to buffer its restless wandering. The thick tussocks would provide sustenance for his family, but it was a life of endless movement; grazing from one shallow dell to the next, keeping near the thin, scattered bits of water that survived the inconsolable gusts of dry wind.
And still the sun rose on its great arc, steady and relentless, uncaring of the toils and trials of the endless, tiny souls that thrived and struggled beneath its life-giving illumination.
In the Frost Hills to the north, a tawny owl turned her head from one side to the other, stretching open her great eyes that shone like orbs of obsidian. The ancient conifer in which she nested was crusted with snow, surrounding her with glistening adornment in the growing light. Here, the air was quieter than in any other place in the world, as the merciless cold froze everything into a perfect hush before the sun returned to revive the forest once again. She gazed towards the horizon and saw naught but the glimmering white boughs of pine and fir. Beneath them, tiny creatures would soon be stirring, and she would hunt once more ere the sun broke over the mountains.
Far to the east, a scrub doe stepped forth from her thicket deep within the Whispering Wood. Sparrow and finch could not withhold their song from the burgeoning morning, for the sun had already risen here. But the space beneath the towering trees was yet full of a misty, green shadow. Cloven hooves stepped daintily over moss and root as she sought the cool refreshment of a bubbling stream that churned in a deep cut between the lichen-spotted trunks of graceful aspen and birch. Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to follow the wandering path of the water, for she knew that she would find acorns and mushrooms in plenty at the grove of oak trees just beyond the gentle slope where the creek dropped and danced over a tiered fall, and spread out into the forest’s lowlands.
Silence was an unknown thing in the lush labyrinth of the Twisted Grove. No one could recall when the southern-most island upon which it grew had first risen from the salty sea, nor how so many varied creatures had come to call it their home. Beaches of black-sand embraced it on all sides, and in its center, the land rose sharply, culminating in an asymmetrical tower of shining, dark-grey stone. All else had been taken over and consumed by the Grove, a relentless tangle of vines and wide-trunked trees laden with exotic fruits. Even in the last throes of night, frogs cheeped from their hiding places, and brightly colored crickets sang in staccato bursts. It was here that the velvet-furred hunter prowled, a shadow amongst shadows. Golden, slitted eyes peered up between the gnarled branches of a strangling fig tree. Lumpy shapes were silhouetted against the softly brightening sky; sleeping monkeys that were full of fruit and slow of senses. His breakfast would come easy today.
Despite the open, rolling land of the Bare Fells in the west, it was last to receive the blessing of the sun’s light. In a wide, brown valley, a stallion stood with his head erect, inspecting the landscape while a small herd of stocky, short-legged horses dozed behind him. Here, the wind never ceased, for there were no trees to buffer its restless wandering. The thick tussocks would provide sustenance for his family, but it was a life of endless movement; grazing from one shallow dell to the next, keeping near the thin, scattered bits of water that survived the inconsolable gusts of dry wind.
And still the sun rose on its great arc, steady and relentless, uncaring of the toils and trials of the endless, tiny souls that thrived and struggled beneath its life-giving illumination.
by @GeekFactor
In the forest is an old oak, it’s the home of a woodnymph so never break off any branches from it. South of the oak is an animal trail, if you follow it you’ll reach an area where a sea of waist-high fern fills every inch of the ground under the oaks and beeches, the chestnuts and hazelnuts. There is no discernible path but continue south. The sun may be hard to see through the leaves, just remember that moss tends to grow on the north side of trees.
When you leave the fern behind the trees will grow in abundance, with every step south more and more trees stand tall, until the roots intertwine and cover the entire forest floor. There is barely room between the trees and the thick leaves stop the sunlight from reaching the ground, leaving the area in permanent green dusk during the day.
Once you made your way through the thick forest you will see a willow tree with its branches reaching the ground, like many trees it’s home to a woodnymph, so don’t pull any off, it will feel to her as if you’re pulling out her hair.
When you step through you arrive in a new part of the forest, everything, the ground, the trees, the rocks, are covered with a dark-green moss, adorned with red and purple flowers. Here they eat, sleep, play. Dragon fairies, their bodies not larger than your hand and with wings like a dragonfly, come in different shades of all natural colours, and they play more than anything else, often with their fairy friends.
On the mossy branches of the trees the fairy dragons make their nests, the eggs are tiny and it’s the father who stays in the nest until they hatch, if his partner is not there other fairy dragons make sure he has enough food or take over if he needs to leave the nest for a moment, but usually the female stays close to help her partner.
That’s where you will find Linda. Linda Demi Autumleaf. They keep all the names they get, her parents called her Autumnleaf, because her yellow scales resembled the falling leaves, Demi was the name her partner had given her, and Linda is the name I gave her when she said I could give her one.
Please hurry, we need her.
When you leave the fern behind the trees will grow in abundance, with every step south more and more trees stand tall, until the roots intertwine and cover the entire forest floor. There is barely room between the trees and the thick leaves stop the sunlight from reaching the ground, leaving the area in permanent green dusk during the day.
Once you made your way through the thick forest you will see a willow tree with its branches reaching the ground, like many trees it’s home to a woodnymph, so don’t pull any off, it will feel to her as if you’re pulling out her hair.
When you step through you arrive in a new part of the forest, everything, the ground, the trees, the rocks, are covered with a dark-green moss, adorned with red and purple flowers. Here they eat, sleep, play. Dragon fairies, their bodies not larger than your hand and with wings like a dragonfly, come in different shades of all natural colours, and they play more than anything else, often with their fairy friends.
On the mossy branches of the trees the fairy dragons make their nests, the eggs are tiny and it’s the father who stays in the nest until they hatch, if his partner is not there other fairy dragons make sure he has enough food or take over if he needs to leave the nest for a moment, but usually the female stays close to help her partner.
That’s where you will find Linda. Linda Demi Autumleaf. They keep all the names they get, her parents called her Autumnleaf, because her yellow scales resembled the falling leaves, Demi was the name her partner had given her, and Linda is the name I gave her when she said I could give her one.
Please hurry, we need her.
by @Calle
Streaks of red lit the night sky, crowds of people thronging the city streets in costumes, both ancient and modern, to partake in the yearly celebration. Torches and bonfires danced in the cool winds, sending orange sparks skyward where they disappeared by the light of the full moon. Music of old graced the proceedings, bringing a sense community and spiritualism on the heels of pride and family. In this time, no one was immune to the charms that Scotland portrayed. Tourists and natives shared stories of the past, memories of loved ones near and far, and sent love to the afterlife for those watching over. On this night, when the veil was thin, souls crossed the threshold to join the gala and revel in the freedom the earthly plane provided.
Scattered through the town, bands played songs of their own composing as tributes to their ancestors. Street vendors cooked and sold delicious foods meant for this celebration; Boxty, and Fairy Spice Cakes, Colcannon, Golden Herb Rolls, and pumpkin breads, coupled with bitter ales, spiced teas, and wines specially brewed after harvest. Customary merchants sold incenses of cinnamon, dragon's blood, and sage; loose and in sachets to carry as you wandered, as well as masks and bags to stock up on the various treats. Traditional items included altar kits to pay homage to family, symbols painted on wooden discs, wands, straw men, and remembrance cookies, each shaped like a miniature person. These could be eaten or placed around a ceremonial bonfire as an offering to the departed.
Processions wound through every cobbled street in the capitol city of Edinburgh, 414 miles from London. The stone buildings danced in the fire light, swaying as the holders walked, shuffled, or danced in time to the music, each clad in their own variant of deity or creature; bodies painted to seem otherworldly, wearing clothes of their ancestors, goddesses with towering tiaras and headdresses, gods with painted symbols, while most adorned masks and simple clothing to stave off the cold. Children, it seemed, were both spectator and participant, connecting with their ancient roots, and enjoying the lively atmosphere. Generations of all walked this solemn night and continued the practices that had once been snuffed by religious wars.
They had sought to crush the tradition, but it had become so much more.
Leaning against the pillar of St. Giles Cathedral, dark eyes watched the procession in silence, staring at each participant with wonder and pride. Another year gone by and people still flocked to the old ways; fires, tunes, gaiety, and comradery that seemed sorely lacking in today's age. Complete strangers honored the ancestors of old and made offerings at each stop so the dead could roam easily. Through the ram mask and headdress, the scene was like a theater; all the players were precisely where they needed to be, with new ones joining every hour, though not to be seen by those still walking the mortal plane. As she pushed from its safe point and took the stairs back to the streets, the hoodie/cloak wafted in the breeze and the feeling of happiness rushed through the ethereal form; it was good to be home.
This vacation came once a year, and it was a chance Andras could never miss. Each time she visited, humanity was one step ahead, and new fashions came into being; women wearing pants instead of gowns, mingling as equals, cars to replace horse travel and best of all, connecting through handheld devices to share the spirit of the season with those abroad. It was strange, the blueish glow coming from a simple black device, but it brought them joy. In the realm beyond, they had nothing as divine, though powers still outstripped their primitive technology.
As a Psychopomp, she was able to step through the veil and be at a person's side as the last breaths were taken. She'd seen the most beautiful sunsets on every continent, heard the outcries of loved ones left behind in all languages, and never had to wait for transport. Yet, there was nothing like that special link; the ability to instant send and receive such messages of people you wished to hear from, or capture, in complete essence, the majesty of the natural world. Civilizations had come and gone, and now, only existed as photos in her memory. To be able to share that… Such gift was priceless, and they would never know it until it was gone. Though, in their defense, their moments would forever be cemented on their individual pages and websites as reminders for their future families.
If they knew, could only see, the faces that stood beside them now. Would they be so apt to hide their identity and walk the grounds for trinkets and distractions? Grandparents and parents, siblings, cousins, children, and fallen friends, roamed mere steps behind their lineage and talked among themselves in states of pride or sorrow. The gray specters nearly gleamed in the dancing lights, the veil having broken hours before, and it was heartwarming to witness the generations come together and find the comfort they'd been denied. If only for this short time, the world had been righted, and she could revel in the normalcy of being.
Outside of the bright lights and orderly chaos, throngs of living and dead wound their way across dirt roads to the Calton hillsides where another show was taking place. Set in an almost Grecian temple, steeped in tradition and lore, an intense standoff between the Summer and Winter Kings saw characters in bright red face those in white. Spectating this battle, the Hag Goddess Cailleach, keeps her gaze sharp, but fair. As the tale unfolds, it will be her that decides the fate of the kings and brings in the change of season. The woman, grey haired and aged, had always been revered for her judgement and wise action, and this night saw no change.
Music and dance surrounding a large bonfire lend their own atmosphere and feeling to the night. Once upon a time, this performance was the main event of the season and townsfolk far and wide came on foot and horseback to partake in the joy. Homebrewed cider was passed between families and they'd spend the time following in reverence to their ancestors. Though most chose to ignore this, the cemetery they'd passed had been filled with altars and smaller parties and they chatted amiably of times past.
How she hated to see this come to an end. The ones who were gifted and could discern the silver shimmers in the darkness had cause to shed tears and stay in these hallowed sections until the daylight broke the veil to renewed life. It was their one night, a last chance, perhaps, to say what you'd missed in their life and find the peace ones heart so desperately needed. After all, she'd stayed at the bedsides of these individuals as they drew their last and watched the pain the ones behind suffered. The cries were always heart wrenching, but it was only for a time. Eventually they'd move far enough on to continue living, but their minds were forever burned with the memories. How short a time it was until they were reunited and the smiles reigned as they cross the bridge to their loved ones waiting arms. She was both fortunate and not to watch the cycle; she was the Ferrier for anguish and joy. Her consolation was the isolation from personal experience and she stayed forever thankful.
As dawn came to peak over the horizon, Andras slid the mask to rest on her head and opened the veil to the other side. The translucent beings said their goodbyes to the mortal coil and stepped back to their everlasting heaven. Another year come and gone, but there was now tranquility. Homage had been paid, fears laid to rest, and the sides pressed on. They'd take this knowledge and bide for next Samhain.
For herself, it was a return to her labor; shepherding new souls, and to repeat the ceaseless dance that had been bestowed at time's creation. She'd walk the lines of life and death as a goddess to some and a devil to others, but forever a goddess in her own right.
Scattered through the town, bands played songs of their own composing as tributes to their ancestors. Street vendors cooked and sold delicious foods meant for this celebration; Boxty, and Fairy Spice Cakes, Colcannon, Golden Herb Rolls, and pumpkin breads, coupled with bitter ales, spiced teas, and wines specially brewed after harvest. Customary merchants sold incenses of cinnamon, dragon's blood, and sage; loose and in sachets to carry as you wandered, as well as masks and bags to stock up on the various treats. Traditional items included altar kits to pay homage to family, symbols painted on wooden discs, wands, straw men, and remembrance cookies, each shaped like a miniature person. These could be eaten or placed around a ceremonial bonfire as an offering to the departed.
Processions wound through every cobbled street in the capitol city of Edinburgh, 414 miles from London. The stone buildings danced in the fire light, swaying as the holders walked, shuffled, or danced in time to the music, each clad in their own variant of deity or creature; bodies painted to seem otherworldly, wearing clothes of their ancestors, goddesses with towering tiaras and headdresses, gods with painted symbols, while most adorned masks and simple clothing to stave off the cold. Children, it seemed, were both spectator and participant, connecting with their ancient roots, and enjoying the lively atmosphere. Generations of all walked this solemn night and continued the practices that had once been snuffed by religious wars.
They had sought to crush the tradition, but it had become so much more.
Leaning against the pillar of St. Giles Cathedral, dark eyes watched the procession in silence, staring at each participant with wonder and pride. Another year gone by and people still flocked to the old ways; fires, tunes, gaiety, and comradery that seemed sorely lacking in today's age. Complete strangers honored the ancestors of old and made offerings at each stop so the dead could roam easily. Through the ram mask and headdress, the scene was like a theater; all the players were precisely where they needed to be, with new ones joining every hour, though not to be seen by those still walking the mortal plane. As she pushed from its safe point and took the stairs back to the streets, the hoodie/cloak wafted in the breeze and the feeling of happiness rushed through the ethereal form; it was good to be home.
This vacation came once a year, and it was a chance Andras could never miss. Each time she visited, humanity was one step ahead, and new fashions came into being; women wearing pants instead of gowns, mingling as equals, cars to replace horse travel and best of all, connecting through handheld devices to share the spirit of the season with those abroad. It was strange, the blueish glow coming from a simple black device, but it brought them joy. In the realm beyond, they had nothing as divine, though powers still outstripped their primitive technology.
As a Psychopomp, she was able to step through the veil and be at a person's side as the last breaths were taken. She'd seen the most beautiful sunsets on every continent, heard the outcries of loved ones left behind in all languages, and never had to wait for transport. Yet, there was nothing like that special link; the ability to instant send and receive such messages of people you wished to hear from, or capture, in complete essence, the majesty of the natural world. Civilizations had come and gone, and now, only existed as photos in her memory. To be able to share that… Such gift was priceless, and they would never know it until it was gone. Though, in their defense, their moments would forever be cemented on their individual pages and websites as reminders for their future families.
If they knew, could only see, the faces that stood beside them now. Would they be so apt to hide their identity and walk the grounds for trinkets and distractions? Grandparents and parents, siblings, cousins, children, and fallen friends, roamed mere steps behind their lineage and talked among themselves in states of pride or sorrow. The gray specters nearly gleamed in the dancing lights, the veil having broken hours before, and it was heartwarming to witness the generations come together and find the comfort they'd been denied. If only for this short time, the world had been righted, and she could revel in the normalcy of being.
Outside of the bright lights and orderly chaos, throngs of living and dead wound their way across dirt roads to the Calton hillsides where another show was taking place. Set in an almost Grecian temple, steeped in tradition and lore, an intense standoff between the Summer and Winter Kings saw characters in bright red face those in white. Spectating this battle, the Hag Goddess Cailleach, keeps her gaze sharp, but fair. As the tale unfolds, it will be her that decides the fate of the kings and brings in the change of season. The woman, grey haired and aged, had always been revered for her judgement and wise action, and this night saw no change.
Music and dance surrounding a large bonfire lend their own atmosphere and feeling to the night. Once upon a time, this performance was the main event of the season and townsfolk far and wide came on foot and horseback to partake in the joy. Homebrewed cider was passed between families and they'd spend the time following in reverence to their ancestors. Though most chose to ignore this, the cemetery they'd passed had been filled with altars and smaller parties and they chatted amiably of times past.
How she hated to see this come to an end. The ones who were gifted and could discern the silver shimmers in the darkness had cause to shed tears and stay in these hallowed sections until the daylight broke the veil to renewed life. It was their one night, a last chance, perhaps, to say what you'd missed in their life and find the peace ones heart so desperately needed. After all, she'd stayed at the bedsides of these individuals as they drew their last and watched the pain the ones behind suffered. The cries were always heart wrenching, but it was only for a time. Eventually they'd move far enough on to continue living, but their minds were forever burned with the memories. How short a time it was until they were reunited and the smiles reigned as they cross the bridge to their loved ones waiting arms. She was both fortunate and not to watch the cycle; she was the Ferrier for anguish and joy. Her consolation was the isolation from personal experience and she stayed forever thankful.
As dawn came to peak over the horizon, Andras slid the mask to rest on her head and opened the veil to the other side. The translucent beings said their goodbyes to the mortal coil and stepped back to their everlasting heaven. Another year come and gone, but there was now tranquility. Homage had been paid, fears laid to rest, and the sides pressed on. They'd take this knowledge and bide for next Samhain.
For herself, it was a return to her labor; shepherding new souls, and to repeat the ceaseless dance that had been bestowed at time's creation. She'd walk the lines of life and death as a goddess to some and a devil to others, but forever a goddess in her own right.
by @Candlelitsoul
