So You Think You Can Write... 2!

Syren Song wrote:Can short stories have chapters to them? It states it needs to be short enough to be read in one sitting. For some people, one sitting can be just a page, while for others (like my mother) one sitting can be an entire short novel. It really all depends upon the person. I'm working on my own short story right now, but it has chapters to it. Right now, it has 5 pages single-spaced in Word, and that's chapter one. Would something along these lines be suitable for this contest? I'm not sure how many chapters I plan on writing -- I'll just see how it goes and how it turns out. I just follow the flow of writing, if you will. ;] I'm guess it won't be any longer than 10 chapters, which I suppose would be somewhere around 50 pages types in Word. Is that considered too much for this competition?

Sorry I couldn't get back to this sooner, and I do hope you're still checking in here. Yes, if you can get all that done and want to submit it, I'll take it, so long as it really isn't too much when I see it with my own eyes for the first time, in which case I'll be sure to notify you. But yeah, feel free to submit it, but always remember that sometimes brevity can encapsulate more power than innumerable volumes can.

All these posts, big and small, are so intimidating ._.

Well, I seem to have joined at a very opportune moment... just under the deadline for this contest!

Alright, here's my submission... enjoy.


Final Plight of Those Futureless Few.

She tenuously walked the narrow ledge between the two Pits, Pits stretching endlessly, mile after mile through the flame scarred earth. Balanced on the brink, precipice on either side, she walked, a lithe silhouette delicately parting the smoke, which caressed her with lovers touch, a touch known her entire life. The acrid air was palpable within her lungs, even through the ventilation system weighing heavily on her frame. A dead weight. Comforting weight. Weight she had carried forever within her memory. In her hands was the book, iron-bound, delicate pages so fragile, yet so necessary, though she could not place why. The book of those damned, those forsaken by the gods, those who felt not the luxury of eternal stillness. Stillness. It echoed in her chest, yet denied her final sleep.

This was life, ominous,comdemning. Life of flames, and of the book, though who would remain to read the sacred text was a mystery. At the end of the world, mankind still practiced its scholarly futilities. Records. That was the book, five sections, five languages, five perspectives yet none known to the other.

She passed the final Pit, harsh, flickering. Tongues of flame crawled like lecherous fingers over the edge. Fingers of the dead, acting as the dead would, for the pit was their solace, their prison. Along with the flames that consumed those dead, mile upon mile. She may have felt sadness, but that was a feeling of the past. She may have felt hopelessness, but the world had exceeded the point of hopelessness. So, she felt nothing. Spoke nothing. Heard nothing. Nothing. The sole bliss to be found, aside from eternal stillness. All that she did was observe, all she observed was recorded. She had not a name, had not emotions, had not a home. She was one of them, they being those futureless few. Futureless few left to their misery, here where the world of humans had ceased.

Now, she approached the cave, stepping through the phlegm, through the blood pooling on the floor. Blood. Blood she had now seen, but had not the words to describe. Blood bubbling from the chest of the figure, lying in the ash in the cave. Oozing from the figures scorched lips, trailing down his chin. His chin, for the figure was male, gasping, contorting. Making angels in the ash, angels born of agony. Angels born of flame, flame that consumed. Consumed him which gave birth to angels. She watched the life fade from his eyes, eyes so different from her own. Eyes that sparkled, reveled in the agony, for in agony was release. Eyes that mocked each forlorn survivor present. Sisters in strength. Sisters in survival. Sisters of necessity, but not necessarily sisters. But truly solely sisters, for no males were present. Present, save one, who only had enough life to mock. Jealousy. Not a trait of the present future, an ideal or lack thereof of the past. But if jealousy could be felt, it would have, radiating from the four women within the cave. Heedless. Helpless. Together they watched the last hope for humanity slip away, though none truly saw. None comprehended the import of this single death among the carnage. The carnage that none truly saw. The carnage that was another fact of life, life being recording said carnage, said carnage that none saw.

The gathered women shuddered, simultaneously, single-mindedly, though none recognised the movement. All were focused, focused on the figure, that figure being the world's last man. His final spasm had been abrupt and violent. Abrupt. Abrupt as the time that passed after his passing, before she solemly placed the book in the next womans hands. Before that woman departed, to record the unrecordable, in language unrecognizeable, in landscape unremarkable. Unremarkable. Like the passing of mankinds final hope in this hopeless world of smoke.

Well, I've fully visualized my story and will write it tonight (then hopefully post it on monday). It may be a bit short, but I garuntee you it's going to be powerful, unsettling and (hopefully) thought-provoking.

Ok, here is my entry. Hope you all enjoy it.

Cover-up

The pursuit had been going on for several days, although it almost seemed like months. My escape from the Columbian prison I was had been held in was not something anyone could have anticipated I hoped; but then the people who got me sent down always knew what I was capable of. Ironically it wasn’t me who was “the bad guy”, as most would put it. I worked for the British government, as a deniable operator. My missions were on the dark side of British intelligence, missions that could never be officially sanctioned by the British government. But someone back home, a traitor, had been feeding information to the Drug Lords in Columbia. And they had found out about me. Now, after being tossed into prison for supposedly being part of the huge drug scandal that spreads across the entire world, I was being tracked.

It was never anything much. The team who were following me were obviously good, but it was always possible to pick out the small mistakes that even the most seasoned operator can make. Someone looking at the bus times for too long, using the plastic covering as a mirror to look at me, or perhaps the same Motorbike passing me by for the second time, one of many involved in the surveillance team. I tried to keep on my feet as much as possible, since it would make it harder for those who were tracking me. But whoever they were had either unlimited access to all the CCTV feeds all over Columbia, or they were good. Very good. Neither option appealed to me, nor could I decide which was worse. I just had to keep going.

My destination was a facility that was used by MI6 as a base for overseas operations in the area, one of many buildings. They were named safe houses, and they were; comfort was not something that was looked for in these buildings. Windows that could be screwed shut, and walls three metres thick were much higher on the agenda.

I hailed a cab and quickly stepped from the sidewalk to its side. I leaned down, but did not get in. Using the cab as a screen, I looked through the window, watching for anyone who was paying unusual attention to the cab. Nothing unusual, one man glanced at the cab but apart from that nothing. Even though it was probably nothing, I noted his appearance, approximate height and age. If I saw him again I would be careful to avoid getting close to that particular man. I thanked the Cab driver for the directions I had asked him for as an excuse for getting him to stop, then stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued on my way, walking as quickly as a could without attracting attention. Always remain third party aware, that was the golden rule. The Third Party in this instance was anyone who did not know what was happening.

After a time I headed to the tube station, and quickly boarded and pushed my way into the middle of a crush of bodies, trying to conceal myself. I swiped ten pounds from the pocket of a man whom I was for a few seconds pressed against, I did not have any money and would need the cash to pay my fare. I quickly did so when the train came to a halt and briskly headed away from the area, trying to move as swiftly as possible before anyone could see me and trigger a surveillance operation.

Soon I headed into the countryside; in the direction I knew the safe house was. Everyone there would know that I had been a deniable operator, and would not stop me entering the safe house. I heard a crack behind me, the sound of silenced gunfire. I flung myself to the ground, moments before a bullet passed through the area I had been standing in moments before. I began to run, weaving around, trying to keep the trees between my pursuers and me.

I staggered and clutched my arm as I felt a bullet hit home, but when I glanced at the injury I saw that the bullet had merely grazed my arm and had not done any large amount of damage. I still clutched my arm, making sure the blood loss was minimal. After a time I could see the lights of the safe house in the distance, only two hundred metres or so away. Soon I could see the small red light that marked the keypad that would unlock the door to the safe house.

Only ten metres from the door I fell to the ground as someone tumbled on top of me. I acted swiftly, aiming brutal punches at the man’s head and stomach. I felt him trying to push a gun in my direction and immediately turned my focus to his hands, smashing the hand in which he held the gun repeatedly against the ground until he was forced to let go, several of his fingers broken. After that I knocked him unconscious with a swift blow to the head, but did not kill him. He would not know what the man who had sent him knew, that he was innocent. That the man that sent him was in fact the traitor.

I ran up to the door, and punched in the password. I had been informed of the sequence in my briefing before the mission began, as was standard protocol. I pushed the door shut behind me, and leaned against the wall, relieved. I was safe, at least for the time being.

Soon I was escorted to the head of covert operations in Columbia, named John O’Neil. That was his name, but almost no one called him that. Only his equals, and the very few that were his superiors. “Tell me everything” was all he said. His face was blank, as it always was. The man had never cared to show any emotion. I quickly and efficiently explained everything, as I had been taught. He nodded at the end of it, and then pulled out his mobile phone. “The desk operator in charge of the original anti drugs movement has been found to have some interesting contacts. I expect you to have taken him into custody by the time I and the operator who has uncovered this get back to Britain.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

I sighed with relief. After the many months I had spent in prison, I had thought it would perhaps never end. But now it had, and not in the way I would expect it to. “I should be ready to leave in three hours. You have until then to rest” John O’Neil said shortly. “Oh, and well done. I know things couldn’t have been easy for you” He added, awkwardly. I hardly heard him. All I cared about was the fact that I was finally safe. And that the person who had put me through my ordeal was soon to be locked up for his crimes. With that last, thought I finally felt content. My mission was complete at last.

Just a note before I start. The song that she sings is called Sweets Time that was originally sung in Japanese, a remix of 'U.N. Owen was her?'. The song is translated through this site: http://touhou.wikia.com/wiki/Lyrics:_Sweets_Time

The character I used as a template was Flandre Scarlet from the Touhou Project as well as the original song. (The non-remixed version.) All I was given a song and a face, so I made my character based off those concepts. So the personality, memory, and structure of the character are all on me.

The character Ami was used in an RP on this forum as a two part opening post. Has been slightly edited from the original, but can be found: awakened-t13130.html

Now that I have cover the basics, here I go with the post. Also, hooray for last minute posts! Hope you enjoy. ^_^

***



A little girl singing a song of tranquility to a barren room. The dolls remain motionless, they do not dance, they do not sing back. A white painted in a dried red. She entrances herself to the melody, watching the honey slip through her hands.

She was bored of this room, bored of this place, bored of the same song everyday. She used to be terrified of the outside room. The undiscovered areas, the unexplored terrain outside these white walls. What could be out there? What could be waiting for her? Was it full of dolls and red tea?

Ami stood up. Her ragged and blood soak dress hung damp, still fresh from her play. Her eyes were bright red, still active from drinking her tea. Her clothes stuck to her skin, a sticky kind of wetness. They dripped a crimson flow, echoing through the closed space. She thought she heard a familiar sound.

Clank, tiiiiiiiiitttttch, clack! Metal rubbing and hitting more metal.

She always heard it before a doll came to her. Dolls for her entertainment. For her enjoyment. Her play. But not today. Not now. She wanted out. She wanted to run free. She wanted to see it all.

Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat! Drrrrrrraaaaaaagggggggggg! Footsteps followed by the rubbing of the doll to the floor.

Never once had she tried to escape. Never had she been so eager and anxious of the creak of that door. It would be her starting mark. Her opening to the race. The crowd was ready. Cheering for her victory.

Her blood! Her blood raced, it grew so hot! This feeling was so addicting, just like before she made her dolls sing. The song of their oncoming silence. She couldn't hold still. Her feet pranced in the excitement. They made sticky patting as she hopped to and fro, a beat to the song of freedom. She could not control the adrenaline.

D-d-d-d-d-click! B-errrrnnnn...!

That was it! The moment she was waiting for!

A burst of speed she slammed into the dolls, sending the standing black bird into the wall. It collapsed singing a song, red tea smeared on the wall. So bright, it was true! This world outside her walls! A smile of white ivory. She couldn't help it. She couldn't help it at all. She just laughed. A twisted screaming laugh. Her breath trying to keep up with her lungs pushing the air out.

Noises and voices. They sung similar tunes. More black birds. She ran at them, pushing through them, ripping, biting. Her laughter still going. Walls, doors, tea, honey, teaspoons! They were everywhere!

The outside, it enthralled her senses! New smells, new sights, new songs! How could she choose? She ran through corridors. Past birds and dolls. She kept running, leaving smears of tea with her feet and drippings of her red dress. These creatures were nothing to her, moving like slow little things. She just ran right through them.

Eventually she stopped. Her laughing done. Only sounds blaring in her ears. Lights flickering the halls, in a gold yellow. Where was she? Nothing was here. Everything caught up with her. The air was so crisp! It burned her lungs as they breathed in and out. She started feeling tired, the adrenaline slowing down. She looked herself over, red tea everywhere. Dripping... dripping.

She was lost. It all looked the same, corridors of extended rooms. She became frightened. The outside world... it... it was so big. Where could she go? What could she do? She huddled herself, like someone who was cold and wet. She started to shiver. She... she missed her room already. She did not want to go back. No too late. She... she was just lost now. And scared. She only started to walk. Moving slowly down the endless tunnels and tubes.

Ami walked solo down the hallways. Her arms clenched in shivering. The environment was not cold, no, it could be said being warmer than her room. But she was having a bad reaction to the open space. Her feet dragged on the floor, an annoyance by itself. Was the floor sticky? Or were her feet?

Scllicth,
scllicth,
scllicth.

Was this the outside world? The world outside her white room? More open white rooms? And orange lights flashing and spilling across the background? Why? Their songs... their songs were all wrong...

She got angry, jumping up to the siren and light. She smashed the device with one mighty swing. But even after she did, the lights did not stop. Their song did not go silent. Too many. They stretch into infinity.

She held her head, pushing her hands into her forehead. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Please! Shut up!

Her eyes began to water from sorrow. This place... scared her.

But then a familiar sound.

A song! A song she knew! One of the songs she had heard before. It was the song of a bird. They all had their only melody, their own chorus. But they all had one perfect song. The song before they became dolls...

Everything drowned out of her head. The lights, the imperfect song. The sticking of her feet. All she could think of was the sound of a bird. A huge grin on her face. She walked hastily in the direction that she heard it from. She no longer felt cold, her right hand was extending. She was clawing the wall as she walked, dragging the screech it made with her. Nails on a chalkboard.

Birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy! Birds birds, birds, little fluttering birds! They sing! Sing! Sing! Sing so beautifully! I... I want to rip off their wings!

She couldn't hold it in anymore. She began cackling aloud. The joyous little laugh of hers.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"

Her breath increased, her body readying for... for what she would do to the bird. She turned the corner seeing what she wanted. A little red bird, standing there near a door.

"Hello little cardinal. Will you sing for me?" She said happily.

She edged closer and closer. Savoring the moment.

(This isn't quite as good (read: Complete) as I intended it to be (You'll notice a few mentions of the rat, I had a whole other set of paragraphs intended for him, but alas, that won't be), but I needed to wrap this up in time so here it is.
This is intentionally disturbing for the record, and most of it is also symbolic, try to guess what it all means.)

And so the rat, he tells me of beautiful things, he tells me. Of a brilliant meadow with a golden sun and rich green grass that lazily sways in the breeze, he tells me. In the meadow live children, naked but not bare, he tells me, alone but not lonely. And they are just so happy these children, just so happy, living in Eden, where the sun shines bright, he tells me. There are golden birds that sing of the most beautiful songs, and golden bees that hum stories of days long past. They are so happy, these children, he tells me, and these is nothing that can go wrong. They know this because they have been told this, told this in the songs of the birds and the stories of the bees. They are SO happy, he tells me.

These children have a very special friend, he tells me, a friend who is always with them but never visits them. They love him oh so very much, and he loves them even more dearly, he tells them. He loves them so much, so very, very much, that he just can’t bare to see them so happy, he tells them. From his flesh he slides a beautiful, shiny knife, and because he lobes them so very much, he gives them all beautiful, shiny knives. ‘See how beautiful they are,’ he tells them, ‘see how they shine as they cut, cut through these birds and these bees and this earth?’ He smiles, and they all smile, because he loves them so very much, and with his beautiful shiny knives, he tells them, they will soon be freed of their bliss. And laughing and giggling, they all play with their beautiful knives, slicing up the birds and the bees until the earth is covered with their beautiful golden bodies.

‘Like a golden carpet,’ the rat whispers with a chuckle.

‘Do not fret, my children’ he tells them, ‘there are still more agents of happiness to slice with your beautiful, bloody knives. Gaze upon thy neighbor and note his smiling face and rosy cheeks, he is the enemy. And once you have finished with them, gaze upon yourselves, for you are your enemies.’ And so, they turn upon themselves and others with their rusty, bloody knives, and slice. And their blood becomes their clothes and their clothes become their prisons, which bind them to their deeds. And they scream and they scream, and their friend just laughs, for now he is happy.

Well, I'm certainly pleased with the number of submissions, but it's about time to lock this topic to prevent any more. I look forward to reading all of these, and congratulations to everyone who got theirs in on time. Have a nice Thanksgiving, and hopefully within two weeks the results will be up here in this same thread (I would love to do it sooner, but there's so much work to be done aside from this).

Until then!

I apologize profoundly to all of the applicants who submitted stories to this contest and have not yet received a judgment. It is my solemn promise, then, to have this contest decided by the end of next week, as I just got back from school today for the summer! Thanks to all of you for being so patient, and keep on eye on this topic for the conclusion long in the making! ^^

And now, at last, months in the making, I have for you the results of the second So You Think You Can Write? short story contest! I appreciate the patience you have all shown, and would like to say that ALL of the entries had something special. As usual in contests like these, it was rather hard to choose just a few winners out of the bunch, and for those who did not win (and those who did), I encourage you to enter into the future contests.

Then without further delay, here are the results:

For third place we have NightyKnight's story, "In Twenty Four Hours".
In second place, ShadowWake's untitled story.

And finally... the first place winner is...

CharmedLife's story, "You Can Not Save Me This Time"! Congratulations to all of you!

I'd also like to give an honorable mention to VryWolf's story "The Test" which I also thoroughly enjoyed.

And there you have it! Until the next contest... adieu.