FFS! Flash Fiction Selections: Skeletons in the Closet

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Nemopedia

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Hello Iwakuians! At the beginning of this month we had introduced a new event called: Flash Fiction Selections! We challenged you to write a short story between 100-1000 words and submit it before the end of October 15 following the chosen theme:


Skeletons in the Closet

To add in to the challenge we also gave you four quotes to choose and incorporate in your pieces that match the theme:

  • ”Some doors shouldn’t be opened.”
  • ”No! Don’t open that door!”
  • ”If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance” - George Bernard Shaw
  • ”I can feel it in my bones.”

we are happy to announce that you delivered! We got an exciting amount of submissions in which we will all share with you in a bit. Enjoy the wonderful submissions and leave a review if you like. However, remember, unlike the Misc. contest there will be no public voting. The Flash Fiction Selection is meant to be a challenge to complete a story within a short time with a limited amount of words. So, instead of winners there there will be Finalists, chosen and nominated by the judges. If one particular piece stands out a Grand Finalist will be announced, but a round may very well pass without one being chosen. The pieces of the Finalists and Grand Finalist will receive a special spot in the FFS Hall of Fame and the writers get snazzy ribbons under their usernames to show off!

Your judges for this event are: @Turtle Knight, @Nemopedia, @Dipper, @Elle Joyner, and @Holmishire


    • You can still leave a review for the submissions if you like! Just because this isn’t a contest and there will be no public voting doesn’t mean that we will take away the fun of reviewing. To help you a little we shall reveal the judging rubric the judges use to choose the Finalists of this event in the 'Rubric' tab.
    • Please make sure to read over the rules under the tab 'Rules' before you leave and write your reviews.
    • Submissions may contain graphic material. Only entries with explicit sexual content are marked with NSFW.
    • Finalists will be announced later down the road after the release of this thread.
    • There will be multiple Finalists. It can also happen that the judges decides that everyone is nominated as a Finalist.
    • The title of Grand Finalist will be reserved for the one exceptional piece that the judges believe deserves some extra recognition and attention. However, not every FFS will see a Grand Finalist announced.
    • Unless the author explicitly expressed the wish for anonymity all entries will be published with the author's name attached next to it.

    • You are welcome to leave a review and critiques of the entries. However, keep in mind to keep it constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go.
    • You are encouraged to read every submission before reviewing. None of the entries exceeds the 1000 word count, so they aren't exceptionally long. We know we can't enforce this rule, but try to give every piece the attention it deserves!
    • Not all entries are open for reviewing. These submissions are marked as 'No reviews' or 'Judge only reviews'. Please respect that wish and refrain from reviewing these entries.
    • We encourage you to lay down the strengths and weaknesses of the submissions based on the rubric instead of letter/numerical grading. This is because point/grade systems can vary in interpretation and understanding. We invite you to write out why you find it a hit (or miss) at certain points over lazily grading it.
    • The rubric provided is entirely optional for use. You don't have to follow it. It is merely to give you an idea on how the judges will review the submissions.

  • Cohesiveness
    • Did the author manage to bring a complete story to the table?
    • How did the entry match the prompts given? Did it fit, or did it feel forced?
    • Is there a clear beginning and end? Does it flow seamlessly from beginning to end?
    • Were there any lines, or details that you felt like unnecessary? Or did every line have its function?
    • How engaging was the story?

    Engagement
    • How did the author convey the emotion in the story? Did it sway you, manage to pull you in?
    • How engaging did you find the story to be as a reader?
    • Did the mood feel appropriate for the setting given? Did it make sense?

    Originality
    • How creative did you find the entry accompanied with the prompts given? Was the plot a refreshing take on the prompts, or did it show a lot of imagination?
    • What about the plot twists? Did the writer manage to surprise you?
    • Did the author make use of any literary devices (foreshadowing, euphemisms, personification, etc...)? What did you think of the execution of it?
    • Are there any underlying themes or subplots that you could find?

    Polish
    • Are there any spelling/grammar errors in the piece? If so, did they distract or add up in the story?
    • What about punctuation and sentence structure? Did they vary, or was the writer lacking in that department?
    • Were there any words that you would have replaced, or that confused you?
    • What did you think of the paragraphs? Were they properly formed, or perhaps too long? How did it affect the reading?



And now, finally to the submissions! Enjoy!

Open to reviews. Written by @neobendium. (781 words)
Pain was the only thing her body felt. Weak at the knees, Ailbe staggered slightly before dropping down to all fours. The room tilted around her. Her stomach churned and the girl rolled onto her side to keep it still. Olive eyes blinked at the stained wallpaper, dim lighting from the nearby hallway streaking the walls with shadows. A crunching sensation suddenly shot through her spine and she curled in on herself, crying out weakly.

No one came, of course. No one ever had.

But then the room grew darker, and somehow the girl knew it wasn't just from her...condition. She managed to lift her head slightly and look up at the figure in the doorway. Ailbe couldn't really make out their face. "Who are you?" she choked out, trying her best to keep back sobs.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is you. What you can do." It was...her voice. Hers. But that was impossible, wasn't it? Still, she answered, even as her mind raced and tumbled in confusion and fear.

"What I can do will get me landed in a prison."

"Perhaps. But you've never given it a chance."

A frown creased her face as the pain receded slightly. The redhead pushed herself up and rested on her knees, palms braced on the floor. She didn't answer, too busy trying to make out the figure's face. In response, the shadow curled its hand into a fist. The ache returned as if a thousand dull knives were stabbing into her stomach at the same time. Ailbe screamed and doubled over. The figure scoffed. "Your family was always so stubborn. None of you accepted me. Not one of you even gave me a chance. Well, you know what I've learned? If you can't get rid of your skeleton..." It released the fist, allowing the pain to disperse and sending the girl collapsing to the floor once again. "...you may as well make it dance. If you won't use me, I will use you. I am tired of staying in the shadows."

Panting, the girl tried to look up, but she found herself unable to move. Light footsteps danced toward her. "No one will ever believe you," it cooed, her own voice taunting her. "After all, you're just crazy, right? Medications and everything, because you....see things. That's the beauty of it."

"You're a monster."

A disappointed sigh came from above her. "See, that's where all of this started. You still haven't given me a chance."

"I'm not going to."

"Why?" It sounded almost hurt. "Because you're afraid?" A sneer entered its tone. "Because you don't want to be guilty of something you might....do? I don't care anymore. No one cared about me."

She was struggling to stay awake. "That's because you aren't supposed to have feelings."

"But I don't really have feelings. I feed on yours. And see, you're always afraid. Of me, of yourself, of other people. Why? You have me. I can protect you."

"You never have," Ailbe snarled.

"You never let me."

The girl felt her body being pulled up and she was forced to stare out of her own eyes as if she were a passenger in a car. She was walking down the hallway. Fingers- not quite her own, somehow- gripped a doorknob and twisted. "What are you doing?" she demanded. Ailbe thrust her feet down, trying to feel the floorboards, trying to slow herself down. It didn't work. She was...floating. Suspended in darkness, with no way to slow herself. It had pushed her back.

"I'm taking over." It sounded angry now, and the redhead couldn't help but feel a twinge of dread. "If you're so bent on being afraid of me, I'll give you a reason to fear me."

"What do you mean?" her voice was a whisper and she struggled harder and harder to feel as if she were in her own body again. Nothing. "What are you planning?"

"I wonder what your neighbors will look like when they become the decorations on their walls," it replied darkly.

A suffocating feeling pressed down on her chest. "You can't."

"Watch me." Ailbe's hand reached out and wrapped around the handle of her favorite kitchen knife. "No....watch yourself. I'm you, remember?"

"Stop," she begged. "Please. Stop this."

A simple chuckle rose from her chest, painful in its amusement. Her free hand shoved open her neighbor's apartment door, sending the broken lock thudding lightly to the carpet. Alibe was forced to be a passenger of her own body as her legs carried her to their darkened room. She watched in horror as her arms acted of their own volition and brought the blade toward the sleeping couple's chests.

"Dance."

Open to reviews. Written by @Greenie. (824 words)
What’s in the Closet?​

Bleak and cloudy, it was the perfect day for a young vampire to venture outside. Instead, sixteen year old Nisha Laurent was spending her time inside, sprawled on her bed as she picked through Wuthering Heights, a novel she had to read for school. It was bland and boring in her opinion and she would have given anything to put it away. In fact, it was apparently so boring for Nisha that the words blurred over, and soon enough she had dozed off, face pressed against page forty-seven.

The sound of her bedroom door opening and the subsequent footsteps caused her to blink awake, just in time to see her mother, Radha, heading towards her closet.

"No! Don't open that door!"

In a flash Nisha leapt off her bed and raced for the closet, reaching it just in time to stop the rather bewildered woman from opening it.

"Don't be silly now, Nisha," Radha scolded, motioning with her free hand at the clothes she had hanging over her arm. "I already know all about the more graphic Japanese comics you hide in there. Believe me, with two vampires in the house, any element of surprise in my life has been long gone. Now please, open the door."

A nervous laugh escaped Nisha. "Uh, well… I only have those ones to practice different art styles.” It was no secret that she wanted to be a manga artist, even if she did try to hide the sketchier of her graphic novels. “Anyway, eh, you can just put my clothes on the bed, I'll hang them myself."

The expression on her mother's face was now quite suspicious, and Nisha could only imagine the thoughts that were going through Radha’s mind, probably wondering what other nefarious things were hidden in there.

"Nisha Laurent." The young vampire sighed; whenever her mother called her with both her names it meant she was serious. "Open the door now and I won't get upset."

Nisha was about to say something but stopped when she heard her mother mutter in Hindi. This was another telltale sign that Radha was becoming annoyed, and the last thing Nisha wanted was to cause her already sick mother any more stress. So without further ado, she pulled the door open.

Radha eyed the closet as if looking for something unusual. “You know Nisha, you can talk to me about anything, right?” She pulled moved a couple of hung hoodies to the side to make place for the clothes she had to hang.

“I know Maman…” Nisha was fiddling with the hem of her shirt, clearly nervous about something.

“You’re a teenager and life can be hard,” her mother continued, carefully hanging the blouses in a colour coded fashion. “There may be things you wish to try…”

“Yeah, Maman…” Just hurry up already… The conversation was becoming unbearable.

“It’s so different from when I was in India-” Radha stopped in mid-sentence and moved back, her fingers having brushed against something strange. “What on Earth?” Tentatively reaching into the closet once more, she pulled aside a dress, and there in all its glory was a skeleton wearing a top hat, standing rather rigidly against the back of the closet.

"I guess the cat is out of the bag now.” With that, the skeleton took a step forward, attempting a half bow. When that didn’t work out well, it took hold of Radha's free hand, giving it a polite and rather toothy peck.

"..." Radha seemed momentarily stunned. "Is that you, Skellington?"

"Ahaha, I would rather go by Randall if you do not mind-"

"Yeah Maman," Nisha interrupted, “it's Skellington." The living skeleton was an old family friend who had been off the grid for quite a while. Nisha's father had managed to find him and had wanted to keep him as a secret until Halloween to surprise his wife, who quite enjoyed the flamboyant skeleton's antics.

"Oh my goodness, how long have you been here?”

"Just the one day, Maman," Nisha cut in once more with a sigh.

"Have you been stuck in Nisha's closet all this time?" Radha seemed rather scandalized by this thought.

"Papa wanted to keep him as a surprise for Halloween, he was going to have him sent over to Uncle Ravan's later tonight. Don’t worry, he wasn’t peeking or being a creeper-"

"No, no, this will not do! To the guest room with you. It has been so long since we met, there's so much catching up to do..." The teenage vampire watched as her mother dropped the rest of the clothes she had been holding on the bed. With both hands free, she clasped Skellington's bony wrist and practically dragged him out of the room.

Well, so much for that surprise, Nisha thought, shaking her head. To think I'm gonna have to put my clothes away after all. Well... At least it'll be fun to watch Papa cry like someone in my manga.

Open to reviews. Written by @Nim. (847 words)
As the rain drops fell on their heads, Michael and Lisa couldn’t help but feel as if this was the worst day to go and visit their old friend. They suffered from a flat tire, two roads that got blocked by fallen trees and a speeding ticket, all on the way over. It was truly a mess on the way over, but finally they have arrived, with both of them feeling rather excited, as they haven’t seen their friend in many, many years.

Knocking on the door, Lisa tried to make her hair look a bit better while Michael peeked through the window. The living room of the house seemed warm and very inviting at the cold weather, and it was honestly a sight for sore eyes in his opinion. Soon enough the door opened, and a woman at the door gave the two a very big smile.

“Michael and Lisa? It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Please come in. I’d hate to keep you out in the cold rain like this.” The rather tall and full appearing woman quickly moved to allow the two to enter the household “I’m Miriam Davis, George’s sister in law, from his brother’s side. He asked me to come over and help with the kids.” She quickly explained, to which Michael nodded while Lisa took off her coat and let the heat of the house get a hold of her.

As they made way to the living room, Lisa noticed a door to a basement, and while there was nothing to show it was anything out of the ordinary, something about it just made her curious. Michael nudged her to keep moving, and so she did, walking with her husband and Miriam to the living room.

Not even 10 minutes passed, and George showed up. Lisa noticed he did not come from upstairs, but that was quickly explained with how he was out getting last minute supplies and thinking the two wouldn’t arrive for another 30 minutes, with the heavy rain, closed off roads and such. As Michael and George begun joking around like back at high school, Lisa couldn’t help but wonder how George had seemed so dry, when barely a minute outside got them soaking wet. His house did not have a garage, and there was no way for him to skip the rain that still made plenty of knocking noises on the walls. Before her mind could begin to wander away even further, George turned to her, and the three of them begun reminiscing about the old times and talking about how much has changed in 30 years.

Two hours into the meeting, while Michael and George were having a joke-off that made all three have difficulty to breath, Lisa stood up “Which way is the bathroom George?” She asked, and the man took a moment before answering “Hallway, second door, left.” He said in a rather broken answer, clearly still trying to catch his own breath. Giving him a wink and patting Michael’s shoulder, she begun heading in the direction given to her, and soon enough she would pass the basement door. This time she stopped next to it, with something catching her eye.

The light was on. It hadn’t been on before, and there was no sound of anyone opening it before. Glancing back, it was clear that neither George nor Michael could see her, and from what she could hear, Miriam was still upstairs with George’s kids.

Biting her lips, Lisa decided to give in to her curiosity. Grabbing the handle and opening the door with a quiet motion, she moved inside in a rapid motion. The door quietly closed behind her, and Lisa’s eyes widened at what she had found.

Three more hours passed, and Dinner had too. George and Michael walked towards the door, and Michael stopped by the basement door. Looking at it, he begun reaching to the handle before George stopped him “No Michael, don’t open that door.” George said and let go of his friend. The latter rose an eyebrow, and George sighed “Ever since I moved here, I marked this door as forbidden. It just gives me the worst vibes, as if it is cursed. I never touched it or walked downstairs. I’m actually thinking about moving closer to my brother’s place. But that’s enough talking for one day, wouldn’t want to leave your kids without their father for longer than needed.” He said.

As George opened the door for Michael, he grabbed his jacket and briefly looked at a coat that laid on the side “Something wrong Mick?” George asked, and Michael quickly shook his head “No, no, just felt for a second like I was forgetting something. Well, I’ll wait for you to come around my place next time we meet.” He answered, and George smirked.

“Hopefully by next time you’ll have a wife!”

Michael waved as he walked away “Right back at you!” He exclaimed. As he reached towards his pocket, his hand briefly stopped over his phone.

Was there something he forgot, after all?

Open to reviews. Written by @Auphe. (958 words)
He wished he could tell her. Every dirty, horrible, violent thing he’d done. Was going to do. That last one was probably longer than the umbilical cord that should have strangled him in the womb. Pulling the last lungful of smoke from his cigarette, Liam crushed the butt into the ashtray. Five PM and it was the start of his day, his mother inside the house making food for him to take ‘to work.’ Hearing her humming an old song her mother or grandmother must have taught her, he once again wished he could confess his sins.


Liam didn’t know if the urge would ever go away, but it was growing just as distant as his emotions. Bending to kiss his mother’s cheek as he passed her, his face pulled into a grin reflexively at her laughter. The hollow feeling inside of him didn’t even twitch and his face fell as soon as his back was turned.


“Go shower, you stink!” Her giggling followed him up the stairs of the house. All for her, a way out of the poverty-stricken Reservation he’d been born to. Liam had it covered. Thanks to his father, Liam could do all of this for his mother and then some. It just had to be a secret, like the basement.


Once the scalding water was pouring over him, Liam went through his extensive cleaning routine. His mother had given him a knowing look, convinced she knew that he was ‘primping’ himself. Scraping anything out from under his fingernails, he wished suddenly that was all he was doing. Anger at himself followed swiftly, large paws curling into fists as he berated himself for being so ungrateful. His father had lent them the money to get out of poverty on the Rez; given him a job when Liam couldn’t even write his own name at thirteen. He had no right to want anything else.


Forcing himself to breath, Liam closed his dark eyes, trying to search for something to take his mind off it. Beer? It tasted good, but it didn’t get him buzzed anymore. Pot, coke, molly… No. His brain went to his mother and a deep, ragged wound of anguish made his eyes fly open, a gasp at his lips. Standing there shaken, Liam took a moment to convince himself he wasn’t hurting. Partially successful, he slammed his hand into the water nozzle to turn it off, routine forgotten. It was time to go to work.


More violence, more death, another round of praise from his father. A man so different from his mother their worlds should never have touched. Accepting the celebratory bottle of liquor, Liam didn’t bother reading the label before cracking the top and taking a gulp. The burning let Liam know that he was still alive after that chaos, but it also forced his brain to stop repeating the same moments like a skipping CD. ‘One girls eyes had been green, another a natural red head.’ That bottle went down quickly, then more followed.


Any other night Liam wouldn’t have attempted to drive his motorcycle back home. Instead of passing out in a heap somewhere near his father and ‘brothers’, he stumbled out into the early morning and rode precariously home. The sun was cresting the horizon when he made it to his house and Liam knew his mother would be awake. She was perpetually the early bird. His guilty conscious whispered again to confess everything, that he would be forgiven and helped, but he brushed it off as he got off his bike and headed inside.


Attempting to be quiet as he entered the house, Liam took his time to take off his boots so the heavy soles wouldn’t echo against the wooden floors. Drunk and high, he got distracted for a long moment as he looked over the entry way of the house and what he could see, warmth spreading through his chest. He had bought this, he had made life better for his mother. Shoes off, he went further in, turning into the kitchen and glancing at the door to the basement out of habit. Instead of it being left alone, his mother was there, her hand on the knob and her fingers on the open padlock. The warmth inside of him turned to ice in a second.


An anger unlike anything he’d felt before rose up, clouding his brain. “No! Don’t open that fucking door! I told you!” Long legs ate up the distance between them and his mother, seeing something in his face, cowered away from him for the first time ever. The violence of his ‘job’ finally got into the house, but Liam couldn’t say for sure what exactly he did or what she had said in her defense. He left her laying on the floor as he stumbled towards his room, indifferent to her sobbing as he sought out his bed, suddenly exhausted.


Waking up to being yanked out of bed and handcuffed, Liam was reminded of something he had neglected the night before in his rage. His mother was not a quiet victim, never had been. She always found a way to get even. He watched from his seat in the back of the squad car as his whole construct fell apart. Guns, drugs, trophies, his miscellaneous keepsakes all being retrieved from the basement where he had thought them safe. Eyes moving over to his mother, curled up onto herself and covered in bruises, Liam idly noted that she looked broken. He knew everything was going to come out now. This would be the last time he would see his mother, especially when she found out that he had been working with his father, her rapist, to give her this life.

Open to reviews. Written by @PoetLore. (901 words)
I was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear voices but they seemed very far away. Even though I started running, The faster I ran, the further away the door ahead became. The door was so close now. I reached for the knob and turned it. The voices grew louder. A moan, a giggle, a groan. The voice was familiar but seemed different somehow. ‘Some doors should not be opened’, my mind screamed.

I saw the bed. Two bodies tangled together like serpents were writhing there. Knowing I should look away didn't matter. I was mesmerized by the image and drawn even closer, though I wasn't walking. I saw the woman's face. Violent green eyes peered into mine. I gasped and stumbled, but something pulled me back against my will. Then, as I tried to shut my eyes, the man's face appeared. It was Scott. He was laughing.

"Never knew," he sneered, "Did you little Lainie? Stupid little Lainie!"

"How could you?"

"How could I what? Desire a real woman? Are you really so surprised little Lainie? You shouldn't be. You were just there. I never loved you. You were an obligation. Nothing more."

"But what about the kids?"

"What about them?" he spat, "Just more complications. You were nothing but problems. Didn't you know that little Lainie? Nothing but problems to me."

He turned to the woman beneath him and kissed her. Her eyes never left mine as he made love to her. I was powerless to look away. Knowing she had won made her bold.



I sat bolt upright in bed. Shocked from my reverie, I was sweating and shaking. ‘It's just a dream,’ Lainie. ‘It's just a dream.’ It was the third night in a row now, and I knew I had to do something about this. Who was this woman and how did she know Scott? I had to know the truth. Speculating and worrying weren't going to help. Maybe this was a side effect of the medication I’d been given to cope with Scott’s death, I would have to ask her doctor.


It had been three weeks since we buried Scott, and the day of the scheduled meeting with the lawyer and the reading of a will I hadn't even known existed had arrived. A tear slid down my cheek at the thought that Scott had protected us in this way. I dressed in the only business-like suit dress I owned and made my way to the address I’d been given.


"Mrs. Grant," Edward Brennan said as he offered his hand in greeting, "I am so sorry for your loss. We should be able to conclude our business quickly and get you out of here. We are just waiting for two other people to arrive and we can begin."

"Two other people?"

"Yes. There are three people mentioned in your husband's will."

"Oh." Who could they be? Scott had no family left, that I knew of at least.

As I mused, the pastor of our church entered. I should have realized Scott would remember the church. Then a stunning woman, dressed very professionally walked into the room as if she owned it. Those were the green eyes from my dreams. I took a deep breath and prepared to be crushed, both emotionally and financially. I didn't know how but I felt it in my bones.

I listened in horror as the attorney read the last will and testament of the man I loved and thought I knew. I felt the whole world crumble from beneath my feet. How could this be? How could I have been so totally blind? How could Scott have done this to me? To the kids? My mind was racing so fast I could hardly keep up.


I glanced over at the woman to my right. She was glowing with pride and victory. I have never hated anyone in my life, not really anyway, but I hated her. The fact that I have no idea who she was didn't matter at all.


I was to receive half of Scott's insurance money, the cars, and the house. The church would receive a lump sum of six thousand dollars and everything else would go to the mystery woman. Scott had invested wisely and was worth a fair sum of money, I was to receive none of it. I was in total shock. I don't think I was breathing. Our pastor laid his hand on my shoulder in sympathy before he left, offering me any assistance I might need. I think I thanked him, at least I hope I did.

The woman turned and looked at me. Knowing that she had taken everything from me, she smiled and left, pure evil glee dancing in those eyes. I looked over at Mr. Brennan with what must have been total bewilderment. His eyes fell to the desk and he began to fidget with his pen.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Grant.”

"So am I," as I rose and gathered my dignity and exited the room. How I managed to walk to my car I have no idea. It took me four tries to get the key in the lock. When I did get the door open, I fell inside and clung to the wheel. Trying to process all of this now was going to be impossible. Just go home Lainie, just go home.

Open to reviews. Written by @Rathashan Ninelives. (998 words)
My name is Dareskilith Del'Tharen, and I am the bastard child of cleric. Doesn’t sound interesting? Well let’s open a door that shouldn’t be opened. My father was an adventurer, and a scummy human at that. He and a few of his compatriots decided to go down below for a bit of fun, maybe a little glory, but most of all, loot. Boy, were they in for a surprise. Only a few hundred yards down and they were taken out by some slaves of the Underground Fief, Del'Tharen.

There were two survivors, my father, and their guide, a stupid dwarf who’s name I cannot be bothered remembering (if I could anyways). They were taken to the matron mother and her daughters to be tested, to see where they would fit in is the slave chain, or maybe if they would go into the arena if they were lucky. Unfortunately, luck was not with the dwarf that… well at that time. I have no clue what happened to him, but my father was another story altogether.

He was hauled in chains to the arena, nothing on him except his breeches and his trusty falchion. He was thrown onto the stony grounds, and the beast approached. ‘Just a panther with a few tentacles’ or so he was thought to believe. He threw himself at the beast with wild abandon and it faded out of the way, he felt the beast’s claws strike him from behind, then from the left, next the right. The beast toyed with him, as if he were nothing but a rag puppet. But as the beast went to finish off the ragged man, but that is when things turned interesting. The beast towered over the man, ready to tear his head off. But instead the man wrapped his arms around the monster’s neck. The creature reared back in surprise, unable to use its illusionary abilities on something locked onto it. It tried as it could to shake the man off, but it was too much… the beast was tiring, the lack of oxygen and the weight of the man being more than it could handle for a long period, and as it came to a slow, the man once more picked up his falchion, and cutting off the beast's' head, showing it to the crowd of stunned Dark elves.

My mother watched him with interest one time, as he faced off against a basilisk, his breeches tied around his head, his blade in his hands and nothing else on him at all, and leaving nothing to the imagination. He waited for the lizard like creatures attack, then as it reared back and hissed, he struck towards the sound with his falchion, driving it through the creature's skull and into its’ brain. She smiled as she saw the warrior hold up one of the basilisk's’ fangs in triumph, a scheme forming in her mind. He was escorted to the main house, and there, laying wait for him, was my mother, High priestess of Spiders, Delphine Del'Tharen. I don’t think you need to know what happened from there, but I will leave it up to your imagination.

Now it takes about a whole year in human time for a dark elf to cook up within his mother, and about three quarter of that for a human, so I took somewhere in between, ‘bout 10 to 11 months. Now, I sometimes wish that I was born a girl, but the Spider Bitch had it in for me it seems, and a little male me popped out.

Well, the first 14 years of my life was pretty standard, harsh and brutal training and being forced to the peak of physical and mental ability. By the time I was fifteen I trumped them in melee combat at the school of fighters, my speed, dexterity and finesse outdoing and overpowering their clumsy movements and brute force, although a little force is always needed in combat. Don’t want to be a weakling. Training with the mages was slightly easy, for evocation and transmutation and abjuration was all just stuff and nonsense to me, illusion on the other hand, was fun, playing tricks on the mind to make others think something that never happened, happened. I went well there, for no-one else but myself. Then the teachings of our religion came, and they went on and on, boring me for hours upon hours. I couldn’t stand it, doing chaos and mayhem for some all-powerful spider bitch. I wanted chaos, surely, but for no-ones enjoyment but my own. Chaos in its purest form. It was a few years later I managed to make my escape.

I had finally made it on to a patrol, and we ran in to a group of Dwarves (Who I paid off in advance). We had battle, and with a few drow against a large group of greedy Dwarves... it was magnificent, limbs flying, the sound of metal clashing and weapon hitting flesh, the cries of the dead and dying made me feel like I was writing a symphony. During the battle, I faked my death.

It was quite spectacular if I say so myself, fake blood sprayed all over me in the chaos of battle, I had just finished fighting the Caster then I feel the point of a sword slip between my arm and my chest, the blood sack spraying everywhere. I fell where I was, telling my companions to flee while they could... The drow retreated, being only fresh out of the academies and with a large and experienced group facing them. I stood, outsides coloured red. I smiled at them, thanking them for their service. Trading my house attire for a simple chain shirt and a rapier, I thank them… then murdered the bastards where they stood. With the loot, I travelled as far away as possible. Causing all the chaos possible along the way… I am pretty sure I am wanted across half the world.

Open to reviews. Written by @RiverNotch. (543 words)
The Machine

Before she knew it she was a wife, a mother, an old woman mourning the loss of a child – magnificat, song of longing. Winter came and went, yet even among flowers she was her husband’s, asphodels stained by the pomegranate. And again she returned, all concrete image melting away…

We open with Ilya’s entrance into university. At this point, he’s not yet a poet: he’s written a few verses, but his words are devoid of image. All he has are abstractions, imitations. When he writes in iambic he channels the spirit of Shakespeare, not of Dante.

Like a Shakespearean hero, he entered Hades with his speech. He talked and talked and overheard himself, he feared his words and sought to change his tongue, he drew his knife and bade the light goodbye. Winter came and went – not his lover but his mother returned to him, he’d given up the wrong organ…

Some nights Ilya returns to the machine. Some nights he cries in bed, thinking about coulds, could-have-beens. He remembers the night when the doors were opened for him. No, it wasn’t a lover, it wasn’t a teacher, it wasn’t even his mother who played Beatrice, however much his analyst insists. He was wrestling with words, writing about a forest. One of those words broke his hip.

At this point, he’s not yet a poet: what lies in front of him he cannot visualize, while his past remains cloaked in metaphor.

Of the heroes, few went through a truly katabatic journey. Not Hercules: he merely danced with death when he restored Alcestis. Not Ulysses: he was a liar, finding his way back through sheer invention. Not even Aeneas, keeper of all the virtues: he could not bear to stare into his dead wife’s eyes again. Only Orpheus, whose goal was the most selfish, whose voice, not struggle, made him practically divine…

A hug, a simple hug, is all it takes. All memory of longing and hardship and regret is swept away. An itch in the nose, smells of kerosene and monoxide. Question: where do we come from? what are we? where are we going? Answer: love is the fuel of an atom bomb.

And so, the man-god entered Hades with only a crown of thorns. In three days, he finished his task – in three days, he rendered the old gods homeless, the legends moot, and all men free to live and die without fear of one or the other. In his kingdom, there is only ecstasy: the ecstasy of love, the ecstasy of choice, the ecstasy of wine and sex and theater. The ecstasy of his deified mother, embracing his father’s naked splendor…

In his youth, Ilya thought university would be a church of light. There, in its hallowed halls, his genius could bloom: he’d become a poet, a wise teacher of men, even a lover. Perhaps he’d made a wrong choice – entered the wrong door, danced with the wrong muse.

Things weren’t supposed to go this way, and the therapy isn’t helping. Everyone’s given up: dad can't hide it anymore, whereas mom just tends to the garden. Clouds, raindrops.

The forest melts into heathland. The machine opens its mouth. Words flow out, bedlam devils.

Answer: some doors shouldn’t be opened.

Open to reviews. Written by @Moose. (462 words)
The sons of God were gathered in heaven as they often were, and the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse were among them. Benny Haseraph ascended to the courts of Heaven to visit them, and he went to the Horsemen to mock them. He sat across from them at the table they occupied, alone. He leaned over the table and rested his elbows on them, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his hands, “Evening gentlemen.” He said with a grin.

All four of the Horsemen glared at him, War growled lightly.

“Plague, Famine, neither of you are looking very good." He began with a smirk, both of them were looking gaunt and aged, as if wasting away from some illness, "Like you're dying, maybe you should talk to Death about that?” He asked.

“Piss off.” Death said.

“Was it something I said?” Benny asked with a chortle, turning to lie down on the bench he was sitting on, “I'm just worried about you guys. War, you're looking a bit thin, having trouble since democracies fight a lot less than kingdoms?” He asked.

“Nothing clever to say about me?” Death asked, his pale skin and hair glowing in the bright lights.

Benny looked at him for a few moments and smiled, “Your friends are dying, you may never die, but after they're gone, you're gonna start looking like War there.” War shook his black mane of hair, hiding his thinned face. Plague and Famine stood up and left, shambling away on their shriveled legs.

"Some doors shouldn't be opened, Benny. There are terrible things behind it, after all, your mother species made me a new Horseman.” He said with a grin, “Two actually, you don't use them too much.”

Benny grimaced and Death laughed, “Your day will never come Death, you will never be released upon the world, and you will never have your apocalypse!” Benny said, slamming his hands on the table.

Death smirked and leaned across the table, “My day comes every day. More life means more death, it is all inevitable. I don't just take humans, I take angels, demons, and beasts of the Earth. I don't want the apocalypse to come, I am comfortable right where I am. A man may have some catharsis from burning down his office building, but know this, no matter how many skeletons you have in your closet, I have more, and they're proudly displayed.” He leaned back on his bench, “You can't intimidate or mock me, so unless you have something good to say, I would appreciate it if you didn't waste my time.”

Benny growled and stood up, pushing up from the table. He left the angels in their heaven, and returned to Earth, where the other half lived, and died.

Open to reviews. Written by @Doctor Jax. (321 words)
Some doors shouldn’t be opened.

I think I had known for a long time what had been going on, but I chose to ignore it. The baby clothes. The crib. The tiny shoes. Must have been hundreds of dollars’ worth of the stuff. She spent hours in the nursery. I had chalked it up to mourning. I hadn’t known it had grown to obsession.

Maybe I didn’t want to know. Some doors shouldn't be opened.

“Mom?” I asked in front of the nursery.

I leaned my forehead against the baby blue door, staring down at the drips of red on the white carpet leading up to the jamb.

“Mom?” I asked again, louder.

She wanted my baby sister so bad. I felt so much guilt when they told us they couldn’t find a heartbeat. Those four months I had felt replaced. All the attention was on the baby. Afterward, I kept thinking “I have my own mom again”, but that was horrible of me. She’d lost a whole future. We didn’t have the heart to tell everyone. Some doors shouldn't be opened.

It broke her.

Weeks after, she spent our rent money again on stuffed animals, bottles, mobiles, blankets. She bought baby dolls, expensive ones, but she never pretended they were real. She just disappeared into the nursery with them. Maybe that was why I thought she was fine.

I don’t think it was enough. I had thought after she’d tossed her last silicone darling into the trash that she’d given it up. That maybe she was finally healing.

But I couldn’t find her today. All I saw was a missing kitchen knife and blood from the couch and into the nursery.

I bit my lip as I heard ragged breathing.

“Mommy?” I whimpered, beginning to sob. “What did you do?”

“Honey… get… get me a towel. I want… want you to meet your baby sister. Come meet your baby sister.”

Open to reviews. Anonymous submission. (531 words)
Her quickened, panicked breathing and the sweat dripping down her brow are what the twenty year old Ava forces herself to focus on as she crouches hidden underneath her clothes, not the clattering and banging just outside her closet. Why? Why is an escaped serial killer tearing her room apart? The man hadn’t seen her yet, but she recognized Dylan Moon as he approached her home. Anyone who paid attention the news would have. Quickly hiding away, she now hugs her legs, cold shivers overtaking her body.

What should she do? She’s already called the police like a good citizen. They should be here at any moment, having given them her address and name of the criminal. Now all she has to do is wait and make sure she isn’t found. Then the situation would be resolved peacefully, the best outcome a good citizen like her could hope for.

And then she hears the sound of her front door creaking open. First relief, then terror floods Ava. “Yo, Ava, you home? Ah, your shoes are here. Guess you are, huh?” It’s a bright voice, one all too familiar to her. An obnoxious ten year old brother, entering the house completely unaware of the situation.

Don’t come! Get out! Please!

“Woah, what’s with all the dirt? You play in mud before you came back?” He doesn’t heed her silent warnings, small footsteps getting closer and louder, and now Ava can hear the man just outside her closet suddenly stop moving, wary of her brother’s presence. She doesn’t know how the rest of the house looks right now, but she can imagine the killer must have brought some dirt in.

Which meant it would lead right to her room. Her little brother is heading right for her room in which a serial killer stands.

No! Don’t open that door!

“Av-” His bright voice is silenced, replaced with the thump of a body hitting the floor. Ava doesn’t remember what she did next clearly. She doesn’t remember bursting out of the closet. Nor does she recall grabbing a pair of scissors as she sprints towards Dylan. All she can feel is the impact of her jamming those scissors into Dylan’s throat. The warmth of his blood splashing onto her. The crimson liquid spurting out as though to quench her thirst for justice.

“Execute Justice, Not People,” Ava had just spoken yesterday, a crowd gathered before her. Various picket signs could be seen raised by the group on the street. “No Killing is Justice,” some of the signs said. “Executions teach Violence and Vengeance,” said others. With a righteous smile, Ava continued her speech. “The real world doesn’t work like a multiplication problem. Two wrongs do not make a right. The death sentence of Dylan Moon is not the road to peace, but to even more bloodshed...”

How quickly things change.

When the police finally arrive, Ava doesn’t have much to say. Most of the details escape her, and the details she does recall she does not wish to recount. The twenty year old girl stares silently into the dark window of a police car, sunken eyes and a blood-stained face gazing back at her.

Open to reviews. Written by @Ananfal. (645 words)
I can feel it in my bones. The aching, the pain. It is drawing ever closer, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.

The ink had barely dried on the paper before it was snatched up by the claws of the unknown messenger bird and spirited away through the window left open for this exact purpose.

“Blasted bird.” Was heard from the other side of the table, and empty eyes turned to examine the speaker.

Human, of middling age, though with few wrinkle lines and other such markers of age. Hair that reflected every spectrum of light, with eyes that warped sunbeams like prisms and sent rainbows dazzling into the farther reaches of space.

A personal quandary, insomuch as anything can be personal to a being made of other beings, combined together into a hive mind with a common goal.

“The bird has not been shot at. We... I do not understand.”

“‘Course you wouldn’t. Not from here, are you? Shoulda known you were one of ‘em.”

The voice was regional, in a way that was confusing. Why had such drastic differences developed in societies only a small distance apart? And populated by the same species, speaking the same basic language. It was puzzling.

And this disturbing... perception.

“How did you come to this conclusion?”

“It wasn’t hard, now was it? You might be looking like a human, but you definitely ain’t passing for one.”

The treaty was only a holding measure. It would not last very long. Whatever was coming, was not stopping. Was not slowing down.

“Every time I think I’ve met everything out there to be met, I find something like you. So what are you this time?”

A series of melodic hums answered the query.

“Ah, I see. From that nether region of space, are you? I don’t remember your guys’s signatures on the Accords, do you?”

An angry bee buzz.

“Now now, don’t get offended. There’s still time to sign, you know.”

A slow, almost funeral march. A low drone, followed by what would have been a sigh. If the speak had been human, that is.

“I know what you mean. It’s not going to help in the long run. But hey, it’s the only thing we’ve got so far. Why not?”

A trumpet. A clarinet? No, definitely a trumpet.

Everyone knew it. But it seemed as though a very human-like quality began to overtake them. An urge, perhaps, to fight against the inevitable.

“That was a very humane thing you did there.”

“Is that meant to be an insult?”

The human laughed, a sound mostly beyond the range that the second conversationalist could hear.

“No. A compliment actually. Though I suppose you wouldn’t see it that way.”

A moment of silence.

“Why did you lie? I thought that was something limited only to my species.”

“We both know what is coming. I did not want to... make them sad.”

“What a human thing to do.”

“No. What a universal thing to do.”

No, it wasn’t only a human urge. It was one we all shared. But even as we came together, we began to fall apart. It had come.

Both occupants sat in the quiet, neither one looking at the other. Nor did they look anywhere that might remind them of what was going on. Of what had begun.

“I could feel it in my bones. Could you?”

“I was unaware your calcareous infrastructure held any such divinatory powers. I shall update my mental notes for the...”

“For the future we’re never going to have? Yeah, nice one. And besides, I ain’t got any magic powers.”

Now that the elephant in the room had been poked and prodded into action, there was no more time to dance around the subject.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“No. But when has that ever stopped us from trying?”

Open to reviews. Written by @Peregrine. (129 words)
The first thing Hamilton noticed after he entered the living room was the tear streaked mascara under Emily’s eyes. He froze as he noticed the second thing, the monogrammed gun case he’d given her as a joke for their 25th anniversary. It was empty.

“I told you not to do this.” There was something cold and broken in his wife’s voice. It made her tears for him seem like a lie. Maybe they were– the ring on her finger was gone. “Some doors should never be opened.” The gun in her hands quivered slightly, and the taste of bile rose in his throat.

“Now I have to protect our son from you.”

He felt a brief burst of pain. She never gave him the chance to justify his choice.

Open to reviews. Anonymous submission. (968 words)
ONE DAY ON A PLANET CALLED SIDBURY…
by Anonymous​

Humans had discovered the planet Sidbury over a hundred years ago. Discovered, invaded, and easily conquered since the native humanoid life form, the Bungee, pathetically offered no resistance. The hairless, svelte Bungee, whose skin color ranged from pale violet to deep aqua with gold splotches, were ridiculously passive compared to myriad other sentient beings encountered since Earth United had perfected travel between the stars.

As planets went, Sidbury couldn’t hold a candle to old (polluted) Earth--it had only one viable continent. But that continent was exceedingly pleasant—not only a breathable atmosphere, but soft breezes, lush vistas and now, ready-made servants (slavery was frowned on). Earth United made a huge killing selling tracts of land to the highest bidders. And even a more sizeable fortune selling the rights to the new planet’s name.

∞​

Skipper G. Sidbury woke up on his 13th birthday at first brush of daylight, instantly alert. With a huge smile, he impatiently sprang out of his opulent bed. Today he was going to the planet’s premier amusement park! There was a soft knock at his door.

“Come,” he called out.

Varete, Skip’s favorite Bungee servant, entered the suite with Skip’s daily outfit (white flowing trousers, silky beige undertunic, and white, high-collared overcoat embroidered with the family crest) folded over one slender purple arm.

“Hey,” Skip called out excitedly, “We’re going to the park today! You and me, afino! And well, about 200 other kids.”

Varete smiled gently. He had been looking forward to this day, also. Today, Skip officially became the head of the Sidbury dynasty. The possibilities... Although it was only a fool who bet on a kamet’s egg before its shell splintered.

Initially, the Bungees suffered derisive suspicion from their human overlords. However, after 100 years of living side by side with these gentle, subservient natives, the humans that once scorned his people now found them indispensable to their comfort.

Thus, Bungees were a commonplace sight in all aspects of life. It was not unusual for him to accompany the boy to his amusements. Skip’s elders were too busy to spend frivolous time with a 13-year-old boy. Instead, a stiflingly formal birthday dinner would be held tonight with local and foreign dignitaries, some of whom were currently guests at the estate.

“Varete,” mused Skip, lifting his arms as the servant fastened a gold sash around his waist, “I overheard some people talking last night. They said my father was a ‘mifir-sangi.’ And laughed! I asked grandfather about it and he got mad at me. He said ‘some doors shouldn’t be opened’ and kicked me out of his study. Why?”

He looked at Varete plaintively, his soft brown eyes troubled.

Varete coughed softly, caught off-guard. There were ears everywhere. “Ah. Yes. Well. I believe it means something unpleasant not to be mentioned in polite conversation. We can explore that later perhaps, but now you must eat breakfast and get ready to go! All your friends will be waiting for you to open the park.”

Successfully distracted, Skip nodded happily, his long blonde hair over one eye, “They’ll kill me if I’m late!”

Varete sighed in relief. Truly, this was not the right moment to explain to the teenager that his father indulged himself with Bungee lovers. And certainly not why they were more than willing.

∞​

Skip shook his head to clear the waves of slight dizziness he had been feeling all morning. He was determined to have the best day, ever! Except for the Bungees and some human amusement park workers, the environment was adult-free. All the young heirs were here, most of them friends from school. The young elite swarmed like a mass of crop-eating insects from attraction to attraction, laughing, screaming, and shouting at a volume that made their servants cringe.

They approached a newly-opened attraction—a domed building labeled “The Mysteries.” Statues of strange deities postured, as if warning them to stay away. A recorded voice enticed them to “TRY YOUR LUCK! WHO WILL BE DEEMED WORTHY TO VIEW THE MYSTERIES?” Two exotically-clad guards at the door stood with wooden expressions. When plied with questions, they simply gestured towards the entrance indifferently.

One black-haired boy aggressively elbowed his way to the front. Everyone watched as he swaggered onto the entrance platform, and a light overhead flashed bright orange. The platform revolved and spat him out again. The crowd laughed and teasingly jeered. “Reject!” “Loser!”

Skip inhaled nervously and went forward. Varete sighed in relief as a rainbow of colors flashed overhead when his master stepped onto the platform. An interior doorway then appeared and Skip walked through it, out of sight of the crowd. Soon over 120 teenagers had passed through the portal and the bored and disgruntled rejects drifted away in search of other fun.

∞​

Along with other key personnel, Varete slipped into the amusement park building through a back entrance.

His people had not been warriors, but they had other skills. Decade after decade they had interbred with the humans; slowly, skillfully altering their genetic composition. The colonists’ lax morals had made it all the more easy, no matter how much they wished to hide their sins. There was scarcely a pure-blood human left on the planet.

Here and now, the culmination of decades of work would be tested.

They had designed this current crop of children to trigger in full at a certain age so that with certain stimuli so that they would morph into something neither human nor Bungee, but a new breed who would be walking flashpoints—generating changes in every sleeper they encountered.

Soothed by the chemically-altered atmosphere inside The Mysteries, Skip sat happily giggling with his friends, as they watched their skin change colors: light violet, aqua, deep red with silver streaks. So pretty!
 
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FLASH! reviews (serious ones come later)

129
Again the shortest (and so far, the most impactful). You know, I still remember that pleasure of a tanka...

although maybe it's just the font.

321
I see someone read Hemingway.

462
Benny Haseraph isn't a Jewish enough name for an angel. xP

531
That is why you fix your prison system (and by extension, the socioeconomic conditions that force roughly 70% of your offenders into crime) BEFORE you abolish the death penalty. (I'm talking to you, American/Philippine neolibs)

543
First heaven, now hell. I can't make heads or tails of this -- it's as if the author was trying to write, I dunno, a poem, and the plot and characters feel so undeveloped. (xD)

645
FINALLY, a piece that's not all Jim Morrison.

Quick, serious, note: "almost /funeral/ march" doesn't work, since funeral isn't an adjective. I think that should be "funereal".

Also, since this piece is mostly conversation: I see someone read Hemingway.

781 (last for the moment -- haven't gotten to the others yet.)
I always thought it was spelled "Ailbhe", since "bh" is a very different sound in Irish Gaelic.
 
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781 (last for the moment -- haven't gotten to the others yet.)
I always thought it was spelled "Ailbhe", since "bh" is a very different sound in Irish Gaelic.
Hm. I don't know, it was spelled like 'Ailbe' on the baby naming website...*shrugs* I know nothing about Gaelic xD
 
Interesting entries, everyone! I noticed there's a general grim/dark theme to almost all of them, which I guess makes sense for October ^_^
 
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824
Wuthering Heights? Boring? WTF?

847
I love the concept! Reminds me of a comic I read once -- I think maybe it was that Sandman issue where one of the characters got lost in a forgotten city.

901
I expected a twist, but what I got was a fairly straightforward examination of a scorned wife's experience. Interesting...

and it turns out the mystery woman was Scott's long lost mother! Dramabomb!

958
I... didn't like this piece. Not because it was poorly executed, nor because its politics was anything I particularly disliked, but... the nature of the piece, particularly how the son was working for his father, who was also his mother's /rapist/, seemed like it demanded a lot more... sensitivity? I dunno -- perhaps, with regards to art, I am a bit of a cuck -- but ultimately the focus on the boy (whose treatment of the mother seems edging towards disgust), as well as the usage of the rape as the chief 'twist', seemed like it used rape, an issue that is proving to be far more universally contentious than a lot of other social issues, as a cheap device, without any particular moments of self-examination. It didn't feel like the right choice of point-of-view, at least for a medium that demands such brevity -- but that may just be me.

Also, it's surprisingly unclear whether the characters were human or not (paws, and who the heck can shower in /scalding/ water?). There are a lot of fantasies here, so it's kinda important.

968
Eugenics! Although I have to wonder -- how the hell did humans manage to make viable offspring with a species from a completely different planet?! We can't even interbreed successfully with chimps!! --- not that I would, by experience, know anything about that......

but seriously, that's the key thing missing for me. At least Asari babymaking /sorta/ made sense... or maybe I should approach this like, I dunno, Barsoom.

998
Christ on a bike, more interspecies. What is wrong with you people?! (xD) It reads like a fragment, though, rather than a closed loop -- which is kinda annoying.
 
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oh, that's it for the first impressions. detailed reviews later -- or much later, or never, i'm a busy, lazy, dedicated, forgetful man.
 
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Interesting entries, everyone! I noticed there's a general grim/dark theme to almost all of them, which I guess makes sense for October ^_^

I think everyone was in the mood, considering this contest both had sentences that fit the dark themes and feelings that can go along with Horror things, and even had a Friday the 13th!

And hopefully I'll get around to reading all the other entries once I'm home and got some time and a cup of hot cocoa :D
 
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You guys all did a great job! I'm so glad this many people turned up to the first installation and I scincerely hope there will be another one in the future. :3
 
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I think everyone was in the mood, considering this contest both had sentences that fit the dark themes and feelings that can go along with Horror things, and even had a Friday the 13th!
I went in the complete opposite direction lol :bananaman:
 
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XD I couldn't help it lol. Even when I try to write grimdark, I end up with some comedy.
That's just what you do and I love it. Personally I try to write happy comedic crap and always end up murdering someone instead because I get bored. Yay me. We'd make a good team XD
 
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That's just what you do and I love it. Personally I try to write happy comedic crap and always end up murdering someone instead because I get bored. Yay me. We'd make a good team XD
Together we'd make a very scary clown. XD
 
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I went in the complete opposite direction lol :bananaman:

There is a tiny bit of spookiness in your story, if anyone is just deathly afraid of the thing that is featured in it. And I'd say it is still done in the spirit of the month, even if in a comedic way :D
 
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645
FINALLY, a piece that's not all Jim Morrison.

Quick, serious, note: "almost /funeral/ march" doesn't work, since funeral isn't an adjective. I think that should be "funereal".

Also, since this piece is mostly conversation: I see someone read Hemingway.
I find it interesting that instead of using the titles given, you used their word counts.

As for my actual review, I'm glad that I'm not too similar to others. As for my word choice, I was using "funeral march" not as an adjective describing a noun, but as a genre of music. Because of that, I didn't need to modify "funeral" to match the sentence.

I also hate Hemingway. Why do you ask? I both am flattered and slightly insulted to be compared to him. Unless I'm misunderstanding?
 
I find it interesting that instead of using the titles given, you used their word counts.

As for my actual review, I'm glad that I'm not too similar to others. As for my word choice, I was using "funeral march" not as an adjective describing a noun, but as a genre of music. Because of that, I didn't need to modify "funeral" to match the sentence.

I also hate Hemingway. Why do you ask? I both am flattered and slightly insulted to be compared to him. Unless I'm misunderstanding?
The problem is the phrase goes "A slow, almost funeral march", with "slow" setting up a parallelism between adjectives, "almost" being an adverb that increases such anticipation, and "funeral" being a noun, not an adjective, thus ruining the anticipation and making it look like you had a hiccup. A better way to phrase that would probably be "A slow funeral march", what I earlier noted ("A slow, almost funereal march"), or even just "A funeral march", since funeral marches are (usually) slow.

As for Hemingway, I've read some of his short stories. The first time that came up in my flash reviews was a reference to the anecdote which produced the world's shortest story (TM), "For sale: baby shoes, never worn", whereas the second was a more obscure reference to a particular story of his I really liked, Hills Like White Elephants, which was mostly conversation. Of course, I'm sure there have been other stories before him that focused mostly on conversation, but in this particular instance I wanted to sound clever.
 
Interesting contest and the number of submissions exceeded my expectations.

I've read all of the stories and hope to get a chance to review (my life is chaotic hell right now and I'm not the one driving the chariot). Of course, keeping in mind your instructions that reviews should be: "constructive and civil. Pointing out spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors is fine. However, downright insulting the writing of the author is a no-go."

Cheers!
 
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