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message 1: by Audrey, Author of Wings of Deception (new)

Audrey ~AudgPaudg~ (audgpaudg) | 40 comments Mod
Christmas Story time! I know you all won't be able write much during the holidays, but see what you can do!

CONTEST ENDS JANUARY 1ST
YOUR CHALLENGE IS THIS:
CHRISTMAS
500-1500 WORDS ONLY PLEASE. IF IT EXCEEDS OR ISN'T ENOUGH WORDS, YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED.



message 2: by Audrey, Author of Wings of Deception (new)

Audrey ~AudgPaudg~ (audgpaudg) | 40 comments Mod
Basically the winner gets a virtual hug and cookies. I'd appreciate if you don't rub it in people's face if you win. We all vote on the best story at the end of the month. It may not always be a theme, it might be writing a story about a picture or something. I hope to see all of your stories and work soon! :)


message 3: by Audrey, Author of Wings of Deception (new)

Audrey ~AudgPaudg~ (audgpaudg) | 40 comments Mod
Any questions please put in the About Topic in the Contest folder. Thanks!


♠ Tabi⁷ ♠ (tabi_card) The Best Present Ever

Christmas this year is looking to be horrible. It’s not because we’re not having it, no. Actually, it’s probably going to be our best Christmas yet.
The house practical gleams with holiday spirit; from the brightly colored lights shining onto the snowdrifts outside, the evergreen wreath that smells like fresh pine on the front door, to the large tree in the living room.
The tree is always my favorite, with its sparkling tinsel, warm lights that almost look magical as they glow deep in the branches of the tree, the shimmering ornaments, and above it all, the golden angel blowing his trumpet. Sometimes, if I sit very, very quietly on the couch, I can almost hear the sound of that trumpet, heralding the dawn of Christmas morning.
It’s Christmas Eve now. The logs burn merrily in the fireplace, the little table next to it all ready for Santa. I made the cookies myself, sprinkled the red and green sugar crystals on top of the golden-brown sweet rounds. Mom poured the milk and wrote the note, since she has steadier hands and better handwriting. I still signed my name though.
And while Mom wrote the note, I sent up a Christmas wish along with it to Santa. I know it probably won’t come true, but I can still ask and hope that maybe…maybe…
I sigh and tuck my legs up further under my red and green and gold plaid nightgown as I sit on the window seat, looking out into the night. It’s another one of my Christmas traditions to wear this nightgown tonight and then tomorrow while presents are opened. I know I’m way past the age of nightgowns, since I’m now fourteen, but I don’t care. I love my Christmas nightgown.
It makes me feel, when I sit in the dark room with only the Christmas tree lights shining on me, casting a truly magical light over everything, that anything can come true. That wishes are magic, that Santa is real and maybe if I stay up late enough I might see him come down the chimney with his red sack and round cherry of nose just like the poem describes.
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.
It is the night before Christmas. And hardly anyone is stirring; they’re all asleep. Mom, Grandma and Grandpa, the cousins and aunts and uncles. I’m the only one awake.
The street outside is dark, the neighbor’s lights sending their own cheery glow of Christmas cheer onto the snow-dusted street. Little white flakes sprinkle down from the sky, catching the red and gold and blue and green and orange of the lights as they fall.
I’m just about to go back to bed when I see a lone pair of headlights come down the street. My heart begins to race, even though I know that it’s probably just some random person making their way home from a party or traveling through town. I press my nose against the window, feeling the chill of the glass against my skin, and against my palms as I press my hands against the window as well.
But then the car comes to a stop in front of our house and I see the tall-framed man stepping out, dressed in the fatigues of a soldier. And the next thing I know I’m running to the door, screaming at the top of my lungs. I hear people stirring in their rooms behind me, but I don’t care.
I’m the first one to open the door, see the man’s warm smile when he sees me…the first to be scooped into his arms.
“Daddy!”
I scream his name, and I hear answering screams and shouts of joy behind me as my relatives realize who has just arrived. But I hardly hear them as I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight.
It may have nearly been one of the most horrible Christmas’s ever, but now I know it is going to be the best. And that my other presents will never be as good as my dad able to come home for Christmas.
He is the best Christmas present ever.


message 5: by FantasyFan J (new)

FantasyFan J (ff101spch) | 8 comments Ummm, when's it gonna close? I think we have our winner.


message 6: by FantasyFan J (new)

FantasyFan J (ff101spch) | 8 comments There's only one post.


message 7: by Ruth (new)

Ruth | 15 comments oh sorry! I forgot to put my story on here!!!! is it too late?????


message 8: by Audrey, Author of Wings of Deception (new)

Audrey ~AudgPaudg~ (audgpaudg) | 40 comments Mod
No not at all!


message 9: by Ruth (new)

Ruth | 15 comments ok


message 10: by Ruth (last edited Jan 22, 2014 08:35AM) (new)

Ruth | 15 comments The Wolf's Head by Ruth Erskine

"You can say I'm mad, you can say I'm crazy, but I'm only as bad as the maker who made me." ~ Passenger, Wicked Man's Rest

Henry was not surprised when the judge ruled the verdict ‘guilty.’
The officers lead him out past the hateful looks of those who had been in attendance.
Death was the sentence, and three years later Henry waited for it to be carried out.
On his last day a priest came to meet with him.
“Is there anything you would like to talk about?” The priest asked.
Henry responded, “I guess you expect me to say I’m sorry for what I did and to beg your forgiveness, right?”
“Not if you don’t mean it,” the priest said calmly.
“Good. Because the truth is, I don’t know how I feel about it. I did what I did, and that’s all.” Henry looked down at his handcuffed hands.
“Will you let me pray for you?” the priest requested.
“We’ll see,” Henry said. “First I have two stories I want to tell you. I haven’t ever told these to anyone, but I’ve only got what, three hours left to live? So there’s no need keeping any more secrets. That is, if you don’t mind.”
The priest gave his consent, so He began.

“Henry winded through the Paris streets all lit up with Christmas lights and alive with carolers. It was all too bright and happy for the task he had to perform.
Fletcher had already been waiting a while when he arrived. A light snow had just begun to fall.
“Sorry,” Henry shoved his hands down deep in his pockets, trying to stay warm. “Is it time yet?”
Fletcher lit a cigarette, taking his time with the answer. “He’ll go upstairs and tuck in the kid. Then he’ll go back down to the study. That’s when you make your move.”
Henry nodded and blamed his shaking on the cold.
From the alley where they stood Henry saw the upstairs light go out. “Now?” he asked.
Fletcher held up his hand. “Wait.” A few minutes passed before he gave the ‘OK’.
Henry pulled out his pistol and screwed the silencer on the end. Hiding it under his coat, he crept up to the house.
The first thing Henry saw when he opened the door was the Christmas tree, under which were piled presents. He could see the study down the hall. His target had his back to the door and was poring over stacks of papers.
Henry moved closer. One shot to the head was all it took. He didn't allow himself to hesitate.
“Daddy?” a voice called behind him.
Henry panicked. He turned and shot again, without even thinking.
The girl was only two. Her doll slid from her hand.
All Henry could do was watch in horror as her lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
She never even knew what happened.
In shock, Henry scrambled to get out. He kept thinking of all the Christmas presents that would never be opened.
The carolers had begun to sing ‘Joy to the World’ when Henry half ran, half fell back to where Fletcher waited. None of them knew of the horrors that had just occurred.
“Is it done?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes,” Fletcher managed to get out.
“And?”
“The kid. I killed the little kid!” Henry punched the brick wall, breaking his hand. He bit down on it to suppress his cry of pain.
Fletcher laid a reassuring hand on Henry’s shoulder. “The only thing that matters is that the target’s been eliminated. You’ll get over it soon.”
Henry nodded numbly. Down inside he knew he had crossed the line, and there was no coming back.

Ayden had been trained well, or so Henry had thought. This was his final test.
They hid underneath an old bridge behind the house. “You ready?” Henry asked.
The boy seemed nervous, but he nodded.
Henry peered out at the house. “Go.”
Ayden checked his pistol and went forward. Henry watched as he disappeared into the house. A few minutes later he reemerged and came shakily back to Henry.
“Well?” Henry asked.
Ayden looked down at the ground. “I-I can’t do it,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine, I’ll deal with it. You’ll get another chance,” Henry encouraged him. “Go back to the car and wait for me.”
Ayden’s face brightened. “Really? Thanks.”
Henry watched him go before pulling out his own pistol and going up to the house. Before long he returned. The task was done.
Ayden waited for him in the car.
“Hey, get out a second. I want to talk to you.” Henry said.
Without question, he got out and followed him into an alley.
It took Ayden a matter of seconds to realize what Henry was doing.
“Wait! I thought you said I’d get a second chance!” The boy panicked.
“I lied.” Henry calmly pulled his pistol out and removed the silencer, so it would look like just another mugging.
“Please, Henry, don’t do this!” Ayden pleaded. He slowly backed away.
“I’m sorry.”
The boy turned to run, but Henry was faster.
Taking Ayden’s wallet, Henry got back in the car and drove off.”

“They didn't pin those two on me, Father.” Henry said when his stories were over. “They charged me for the other ten but not those. I don’t feel bad about them, and I hate myself for it. You can pray if you want, but it won’t do any good. I’m too far gone.”
“No one is too far gone,” the priest objected kindly. “There’s hope for everyone.
“Time’s up,” one of the guards interjected.
Henry stood. “I’m glad you believe that, Father. Maybe it’ll do you some good in the future. Do one thing for me, will you? Let the mama of that little girl know it was me. Her name’s Flavi Baptiste.
He was taken out before the priest could respond.
Henry wasn't afraid as they lead him back. His time was over, and he was getting what he deserved. The last thing he saw on this earth was the hatred in the eyes of the loved ones of those he’d killed.


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