I have not yet thought about timing, maybe a month hence as a deadline (March 15 ?).
So far the guidelines are that it should be between 750 and 1000 words and include the following words in some capacity:
Rose
Exhibition
Ebony
Thoughts?
Short Story Challenge
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
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Short Story Challenge
Inspired by another forum I visit, I thought it would be cool to have a short story competition here at SYM.
I have not yet thought about timing, maybe a month hence as a deadline (March 15 ?).
So far the guidelines are that it should be between 750 and 1000 words and include the following words in some capacity:
Rose
Exhibition
Ebony
Thoughts?
I have not yet thought about timing, maybe a month hence as a deadline (March 15 ?).
So far the guidelines are that it should be between 750 and 1000 words and include the following words in some capacity:
Rose
Exhibition
Ebony
Thoughts?
Spoiler
testingtest12
Spoiler
testingtest12
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Originally posted by Chanak
You're on.
Umm....this word limit...is it, ah, flexible?
Well.... see if you can keep it to a 1000 words or less and we'll talk more, closer to the time
I honestly find that having a word limit when writing can be quite rewarding at times because it really forces you to make every word count, lol! Spoiler
testingtest12
Spoiler
testingtest12
Originally posted by dragon wench
Well.... see if you can keep it to a 1000 words or less and we'll talk more, closer to the time
Oy vay.
Okay, okay. 1000 words it is.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Say, now that I'm thinking about it...would parenthetical paragraphs count towards the word limit? Sometimes some additional background imformation is necessary, you know.
(After all, sometimes it is necessary to offer additional background information on a topic in order to keep the reader informed as the main body of the story flows along from point to point, idea to idea, concept to concept, and scene to scene, so they can avoid having to back up and read various portions in order to fully understand and appreciate what the writer is attempting to convey to them... ad inifinitum...)
(After all, sometimes it is necessary to offer additional background information on a topic in order to keep the reader informed as the main body of the story flows along from point to point, idea to idea, concept to concept, and scene to scene, so they can avoid having to back up and read various portions in order to fully understand and appreciate what the writer is attempting to convey to them... ad inifinitum...)
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
-
dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Originally posted by dragon wench
*grin*
A 1000 words total my friend
Oy vay.
Fine. I'll whip something out in short order.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Originally posted by Georgi
Heh, sometimes writing requires discipline you know... Is that a whip I hear in the background?
Oy Vay!
Of course not...I was simply cracking my knuckles.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
The Room
Okay, here is my entry...in 814 words.
The room sighed.
The shag of it's once glorious carpeting groaned beneath the oppressive weight of walnut-stained behemoths of the Victorian era, their massive wooden feet boring ruts into a tired and care-worn plush. The floral print on its walls, which once gleefully greeted the sunshine of many a carefree summer afternoon, now served as a yellowed, faded, nicotine-stained blanket covering a fitful slumber with no apparent end upon the horizon.
Atop the careworn mantle, suspended above a fireplace caked with soot and dressed with cobwebs, an ancient timepiece marked the passage of time with a monotonous tick...tock. Above it mounted upon the wall, a cuckoo clock, long since retired from time-keeping, bore silent testimony that time, too, will eventually come to an end. The cheery little bluebird which once nestled snugly within its Bavarian lodgings now stood a lonesome vigil upon its perch high above the mantle, forever frozen in place. The Gasthaus would never open its doors again.
The room sighed. It’s weary picture window, reminiscing of the days when little boys’ baseballs would come crashing through it’s serene glassy pane, indifferently allowed beams of sunlight in from the world outside, which was busily awash in a brilliant exhibition of the hues of Summer. It recalled those days with a wistful sorrow now, regretting that it did not savor those fleeting moments of juvenile vandalism like the shining jewels in the rough that they truly were. The drapes which dressed the grand window pane seemed to mutely agree, drooping limply as dust choked its gaudy stitched patterns and gold-fringed trim.
The room sighed…
In the rays of the afternoon sun, resting upon a coffee table hoary with age and pockmarked with careless use, sat a single, solitary rose in a vase of crystal. Suddenly it smiled at the room, which startled the room into actually noticing that it was there. It had not been a part of the room before, and the room, accustomed as it was to the inexorable march of dreariness over the decades, had simply failed to notice the bloom of summer in the mindless monotony of its neglect.
The walls creaked, and the rafters in the vaulted ceiling groaned. The drapes rustled as a draught of wind caressed its catatonic folds, releasing a flurry of dust motes to frolic and play in the beams of sunshine flooding through the stately picture window. The door to the hallway beyond stood ajar, and suddenly the room realized that Something was About to Happen.
How long had it been since Something Happened? The room could not say, for although the timepiece atop the mantle had dutifully persevered in the keeping of time – outlasting the dour, taciturn cuckoo clock by a long shot - meaning had been lost as the days, weeks, months and years rolled incessantly by. Weariness was all it had known, and weariness had lulled the timber of its construction to settle into the twilight of forgetfulness, a place where dreams, memories, and reality all blurred together as one, teetering on the brink of oblivion.
The rose winked at the room. Something was indeed About to Happen, and the room could feel it in its framework of pine and fir. Holding its breath, the room stilled the drapes, calmed the rafters, and chided the walls. Whatever it was that was About to Happen, the room did not wish to miss a moment of it.
The clock tick-tocked. The dust motes settled quietly into the shag of the old-fashioned carpet. The Victorian furniture continued to symbolize the glory of a day and age now gone by, a time when the room was young…and the cuckoo clock continued along stolidly in its retirement. At the precise moment the stalwart chronometer atop the mantelpiece dutifully chimed the arrival of a quarter past eleven, It Happened.
Plop.
A drop of dew had fallen free from a delicate rose petal. The rose snickered.
Before the second-hand of the old clock was able to sound off another tick, the silvery drop had plummeted towards the earth, splattering noisily as it encountered the scuffed, ebony surface of the coffee table. The window looked on, quite amazed. Something indeed had Happened.
Undaunted by the turn of events, the dewdrop collected itself amongst the dust which lounged lazily on the tabletop, and promptly found a resting place in a gouge inflicted by a careless gentleman’s boot-heel long ago. The rose looked on approvingly.
Somewhere beyond the glass of the window and walnut paneling of the room’s four walls, a car door slammed. Twittering birds argued over the rights to a choice earthworm laying on the sidewalk outside. The old clock tick-tocked as it had all along, never missing a moment in time. And the door to the hallway, pulled by a back draught gusting out of the room, closed with the click of finality.
The room sighed.
Okay, here is my entry...in 814 words.
The room sighed.
The shag of it's once glorious carpeting groaned beneath the oppressive weight of walnut-stained behemoths of the Victorian era, their massive wooden feet boring ruts into a tired and care-worn plush. The floral print on its walls, which once gleefully greeted the sunshine of many a carefree summer afternoon, now served as a yellowed, faded, nicotine-stained blanket covering a fitful slumber with no apparent end upon the horizon.
Atop the careworn mantle, suspended above a fireplace caked with soot and dressed with cobwebs, an ancient timepiece marked the passage of time with a monotonous tick...tock. Above it mounted upon the wall, a cuckoo clock, long since retired from time-keeping, bore silent testimony that time, too, will eventually come to an end. The cheery little bluebird which once nestled snugly within its Bavarian lodgings now stood a lonesome vigil upon its perch high above the mantle, forever frozen in place. The Gasthaus would never open its doors again.
The room sighed. It’s weary picture window, reminiscing of the days when little boys’ baseballs would come crashing through it’s serene glassy pane, indifferently allowed beams of sunlight in from the world outside, which was busily awash in a brilliant exhibition of the hues of Summer. It recalled those days with a wistful sorrow now, regretting that it did not savor those fleeting moments of juvenile vandalism like the shining jewels in the rough that they truly were. The drapes which dressed the grand window pane seemed to mutely agree, drooping limply as dust choked its gaudy stitched patterns and gold-fringed trim.
The room sighed…
In the rays of the afternoon sun, resting upon a coffee table hoary with age and pockmarked with careless use, sat a single, solitary rose in a vase of crystal. Suddenly it smiled at the room, which startled the room into actually noticing that it was there. It had not been a part of the room before, and the room, accustomed as it was to the inexorable march of dreariness over the decades, had simply failed to notice the bloom of summer in the mindless monotony of its neglect.
The walls creaked, and the rafters in the vaulted ceiling groaned. The drapes rustled as a draught of wind caressed its catatonic folds, releasing a flurry of dust motes to frolic and play in the beams of sunshine flooding through the stately picture window. The door to the hallway beyond stood ajar, and suddenly the room realized that Something was About to Happen.
How long had it been since Something Happened? The room could not say, for although the timepiece atop the mantle had dutifully persevered in the keeping of time – outlasting the dour, taciturn cuckoo clock by a long shot - meaning had been lost as the days, weeks, months and years rolled incessantly by. Weariness was all it had known, and weariness had lulled the timber of its construction to settle into the twilight of forgetfulness, a place where dreams, memories, and reality all blurred together as one, teetering on the brink of oblivion.
The rose winked at the room. Something was indeed About to Happen, and the room could feel it in its framework of pine and fir. Holding its breath, the room stilled the drapes, calmed the rafters, and chided the walls. Whatever it was that was About to Happen, the room did not wish to miss a moment of it.
The clock tick-tocked. The dust motes settled quietly into the shag of the old-fashioned carpet. The Victorian furniture continued to symbolize the glory of a day and age now gone by, a time when the room was young…and the cuckoo clock continued along stolidly in its retirement. At the precise moment the stalwart chronometer atop the mantelpiece dutifully chimed the arrival of a quarter past eleven, It Happened.
Plop.
A drop of dew had fallen free from a delicate rose petal. The rose snickered.
Before the second-hand of the old clock was able to sound off another tick, the silvery drop had plummeted towards the earth, splattering noisily as it encountered the scuffed, ebony surface of the coffee table. The window looked on, quite amazed. Something indeed had Happened.
Undaunted by the turn of events, the dewdrop collected itself amongst the dust which lounged lazily on the tabletop, and promptly found a resting place in a gouge inflicted by a careless gentleman’s boot-heel long ago. The rose looked on approvingly.
Somewhere beyond the glass of the window and walnut paneling of the room’s four walls, a car door slammed. Twittering birds argued over the rights to a choice earthworm laying on the sidewalk outside. The old clock tick-tocked as it had all along, never missing a moment in time. And the door to the hallway, pulled by a back draught gusting out of the room, closed with the click of finality.
The room sighed.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Pop goes the Weasel
Jack hid his head in his hands and wished to be on another planet, at the very least. It had all started so well. His treacherous face was smooth, he had just enough courage to speak with out his voice trembling and his horoscope (Scorpio - Woman's Weekly) said that his dream date was assured of success. Not only that, but he had a secret weapon: The fluffy toy! Yes after a matinee at the Lambton Savoy, Vicky Murdoch, would be in his bedroom with a big fluffy pink bunny. First Kiss! and a certain next date and then going steady! and then a small church wedding with a light buffet, roses, two point three kids. Oh Bliss!
The car ride with his Mum to Vicky's house, while crucially uncool, could be endured as a sort of penance on the way to paradise. And even his Mum's bubbly enthusiasm and totally unwarranted advice (like she'd know anything about romance) could not wipe the smile from his face. He had a deadly look done to the max and a hopeful dose of his Dad's aftershave (stolen and only used per directions, after a shave, in the very most technical definition of the word). He stifled a chuckle at the cunning nature of his plan. His Mother was only a pawn, the Savoy was just around the corner from his house and bedroom. Her role in the supporting cast was fast coming to an end. Her dialogue a mere distraction.
Vicky's house! Jack was actually outside Vicky's house! There was Vicky! A Goddess in a pair of not too slouchy jeans and a pink midriff top! A tiny pink explosion went of in Jack's head and he regained the power of speech only slowly. 'G'day Vicky', said Jack. 'Hello Jack'. said Vicky. Jack Thought, 'She spoke to me, on an actual date, with me, she smiled and spoke to me' and said 'Ah, I hope you like Disney films'. She did!
Right, both in the car. Mum keeping quiet, Vicky looking gorgeous. Vicky smelling clean and sweet. Conversation light and easy. Theatre pulling along side. Bye Mum. Suavely opens theatre door in highly chivalrous fashion. Politely but firmly refuses suggestion of part payment on ticket purchase. Requests sundry purchase requirements negotiates supper bopper pack deal like high flying commodities futures trader, enters theatre. Decides to stop thinking in Fifty's cable journalist style as going mad currently not option. Stop.
The theatre empties with no unfortunate incident. There are a few useful sightings of Jack and Vicky's jealous rivals. Then up Curzon Street to Jack's house to await the inevitable parental transport arrangement. The perfect Valentines day. No parents lurking to embarrass and intrude due to a cunning they both 'thought the other one was doing it' strategy. Little brother bribed into delinquency at some distance. Jack dances up the stairs to the front door for a further exhibition of chivalrous opening. Jack dances to his bedroom door for the great fluffy toy kiss bonanza and with Vicky waiting by the door.
Tad da! Two Hundred racing pigeons fly out of the bedroom in a confused and incontinent chunk. Vicky's pink top and midriff is not so pink anymore. The sweet aroma and smile appear to have unaccountably disappeared. 'Belinda said you'd do something like this you psycho!', Shrieks Vicky as she blindly staggers back out of the house. His Dads racing pigeons must have chewed through the weatherboards by his bedroom. Vicky isn't his only problem, the pigeons are his Dad's pride and joy. Grabbing a towel Jack begins the job of catching the pigeons. Vicky's wailing is getting fainter, and Jack doesn't think she would feel like helping just at the moment.
And at that moment Jack's Dad bursts into the house frantically trying to recapture the errant birds. At some stage in the recapture he returns from Jack's bedroom, ebony rod in hand, carrying something limp and pink, shouting 'Got the bloomin' Weasel that put them in such a state!'
Jack hid his head in his hands and wished to be on another planet, at the very least. It had all started so well. His treacherous face was smooth, he had just enough courage to speak with out his voice trembling and his horoscope (Scorpio - Woman's Weekly) said that his dream date was assured of success. Not only that, but he had a secret weapon: The fluffy toy! Yes after a matinee at the Lambton Savoy, Vicky Murdoch, would be in his bedroom with a big fluffy pink bunny. First Kiss! and a certain next date and then going steady! and then a small church wedding with a light buffet, roses, two point three kids. Oh Bliss!
The car ride with his Mum to Vicky's house, while crucially uncool, could be endured as a sort of penance on the way to paradise. And even his Mum's bubbly enthusiasm and totally unwarranted advice (like she'd know anything about romance) could not wipe the smile from his face. He had a deadly look done to the max and a hopeful dose of his Dad's aftershave (stolen and only used per directions, after a shave, in the very most technical definition of the word). He stifled a chuckle at the cunning nature of his plan. His Mother was only a pawn, the Savoy was just around the corner from his house and bedroom. Her role in the supporting cast was fast coming to an end. Her dialogue a mere distraction.
Vicky's house! Jack was actually outside Vicky's house! There was Vicky! A Goddess in a pair of not too slouchy jeans and a pink midriff top! A tiny pink explosion went of in Jack's head and he regained the power of speech only slowly. 'G'day Vicky', said Jack. 'Hello Jack'. said Vicky. Jack Thought, 'She spoke to me, on an actual date, with me, she smiled and spoke to me' and said 'Ah, I hope you like Disney films'. She did!
Right, both in the car. Mum keeping quiet, Vicky looking gorgeous. Vicky smelling clean and sweet. Conversation light and easy. Theatre pulling along side. Bye Mum. Suavely opens theatre door in highly chivalrous fashion. Politely but firmly refuses suggestion of part payment on ticket purchase. Requests sundry purchase requirements negotiates supper bopper pack deal like high flying commodities futures trader, enters theatre. Decides to stop thinking in Fifty's cable journalist style as going mad currently not option. Stop.
The theatre empties with no unfortunate incident. There are a few useful sightings of Jack and Vicky's jealous rivals. Then up Curzon Street to Jack's house to await the inevitable parental transport arrangement. The perfect Valentines day. No parents lurking to embarrass and intrude due to a cunning they both 'thought the other one was doing it' strategy. Little brother bribed into delinquency at some distance. Jack dances up the stairs to the front door for a further exhibition of chivalrous opening. Jack dances to his bedroom door for the great fluffy toy kiss bonanza and with Vicky waiting by the door.
Tad da! Two Hundred racing pigeons fly out of the bedroom in a confused and incontinent chunk. Vicky's pink top and midriff is not so pink anymore. The sweet aroma and smile appear to have unaccountably disappeared. 'Belinda said you'd do something like this you psycho!', Shrieks Vicky as she blindly staggers back out of the house. His Dads racing pigeons must have chewed through the weatherboards by his bedroom. Vicky isn't his only problem, the pigeons are his Dad's pride and joy. Grabbing a towel Jack begins the job of catching the pigeons. Vicky's wailing is getting fainter, and Jack doesn't think she would feel like helping just at the moment.
And at that moment Jack's Dad bursts into the house frantically trying to recapture the errant birds. At some stage in the recapture he returns from Jack's bedroom, ebony rod in hand, carrying something limp and pink, shouting 'Got the bloomin' Weasel that put them in such a state!'
The warlord sig of 's' - word
Making a reappearance for those who have a sig even longer
[quote="Dilbert]That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard[/quote]
[quote=Waverly]You all suck donkeys[/quote]
[quote={deleted after legal threats}]I am so not a drama queen![/quote"]
:mischief:
:devil:
Repent
For
Making a reappearance for those who have a sig even longer
[quote="Dilbert]That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard[/quote]
[quote=Waverly]You all suck donkeys[/quote]
[quote={deleted after legal threats}]I am so not a drama queen![/quote"]
:mischief:
:devil:
Repent
For
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Originally posted by Georgi
@DW Will bonus points be awarded for correct spelling, punctuation and grammar?
Come to think of it, who exactly is judging this contest?
lol! Well I figured we could just put them to a SYM poll vote, if everyone is okay with that? Though we may need to ask the mods to allow us to extend the number of poll slots we can use..
And while I can't speak for everyone else, I know I'll be taking at least some note of spelling and grammar
*cough Aegis *cough*
Spoiler
testingtest12
Spoiler
testingtest12
-
dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
@Georgi, lmao
hey, I was tired and in the process of trying to convince my obstreporous 9-year-old that it was his bedtime
hey, I was tired and in the process of trying to convince my obstreporous 9-year-old that it was his bedtime
Spoiler
testingtest12
Spoiler
testingtest12