UK Amazon Kindle Forum discussion
Past group quizzes/comps
>
Writing Contest #2 - Entries
1940I woke. I immediately noticed.
I stood. Tired. Unsure where I was. I stretched. I listened. Silence.
Silence that was of the time.
I stepped out from the rubble. Silence.
Everyone was hiding. The likes of me weren’t welcome under St Pauls Station. We took our chance.
I stepped from the shell of the house I called home. A normal street. Normal folk. A street with kindness that seeped into the shattered bricks over one hundred years.
I walked. Looking to my left, an old man scrabbled at the rubble for memories.
I continued. My hearing started to return after the shattering of bombs that destroyed all I knew.
My home. My things. My babies. All gone.
In the desolation of human madness I heard the crying of a young girl. Alone. Not quite so silent. Dying.
I sneezed. The dust of war cleared. The smell. The smell of fear.
The smell of human fear entered my nasal passages and invaded my brain.
Death, all around.
I continued.
An old lady stood in her doorway.
She called.
I went over.
She bent.
I took cool, clean, precious milk, from a cracked saucer.
She smiled.
7th September 1940.
On the DunesGentle air surrounds me as I lie supine on warm sand. The scent of seaweed sifts upon the breeze and catches at my memory. My mind floats on images of joy as the soft susurration of the stirring dune grasses elevates my spirit. I close my eyes and drift in memory to times when we gently explored that which is now familiar. Summer days of golden light, sandy hands clutched in eagerness opened our friendship like a flower bud seeking the light. Hot days and gentle nights brought us together. We stayed awake, our eyes prickling, until the morning’s misty advent lapped against our souls. We talked the cool moon through, waiting for that false dawn that told us the night was over and our hands must be unclasped.
Days long ago tickle the edges of memory and days still to come sharpen my anticipation. How hard it is, how very hard, to let my thoughts drift on the setting sun and to enjoy the now. The past sweetens the present which scatters the balm of recollection upon the latent future. Soar, my soul; carry me from ecstasy to benevolent peace.
To and FroTo and fro, the tide flows gently across the beach, caressing the shimmering sand and leaving a lacy pattern to mark the end of its reach.
Lightly the warm breeze stirs the feathery tufted grasses that march across the sandy dunes. Overhead a lone seagull sours, drifting lazily on the thermals, a small movement against the clear blue sky.
Glittering and sparkling the sun is lighting the tiny wavelets like twinkling stars in a velvet night.
Suddenly a small disturbance across the bay! Gone almost before registering on the senses, peace returns once more.
Slowly the sun leaves its dominance of the sky and slips down, down ever closer to the edge of the sea. A flush of salmon turns slowly to violet, and fingers of dove grey come creeping across the sky. Colours are fading and dusk is entering the stage, all is half asleep.
HopeThe cannon were silent now. For days they had been pounding, pounding, without end. Even now their faint echoes, like sweet music, were ringing in my ears as I picked my way carefully through the mangled mess of barbed wire, craters, mud, and flesh. Once this had been pleasant fields and woodlands, green grass waving in the breeze, and tall, strong trees. That was until the war came through and turned it to blood and tears and mud.
Nothing moved. I peered into a crater, hoping for a cheery “hello”, but it was empty and so I moved on to the next. There were bodies, or parts of bodies. I couldn’t tell whether they were ours or theirs, it was all the same at the end, covered in the grey, gloopy mud. I said a silent prayer and kept moving on, hoping for signs of life, but finding none. I looked around, a pall of smoke hung over the ground, still and unmoving, grey smoke over grey mud, under a grey sky.
At last a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds illuminating a single poppy, brilliant red against the sea of grey. My ray of hope.
The Beautiful ViolinistAs a mark of respect to the beautiful violinist, I write this in Chinese...
“神圣的音乐，”她说，她与她的朋友观看YouTube视频。
“很棒”。她的朋友说。 “虽然我可以哭。”
“我知道，它很感人。”
“这不是，这是YouTube上那些关于仇恨和大规模谋杀，伴随着音乐的书面意见的白痴。他们为什么要这么做？”
“这是因为，如你所说，他们是白痴。”
“我从来没有书面评论前，但我搬到自己写的东西。”
“不要让他们赢得有关的音乐，使您的评论。”
，这就是她的所作所为，或多或少。
“我会追捕你所有的，”她写道，“用我的弓。”
As a mark of respect to your readers, I translate...
"What divine music," she said as she watched the YouTube video with her friend.
"Fabulous." said her friend. "Although I could cry."
"I know, it's very moving."
"It's not that, it's the idiots on YouTube who have written comments about hate and mass murder to accompany the music. Why would they do that?”
“Because, as you say, they are idiots.”
“I've never written a comment before, but I'm moved to write something myself."
"Don't let them win... make your comment about the music."
And that's what she did, more or less.
“I will hunt you all down,” she wrote, “with my bow.”
Saint ThaisThe clipper raced across the careless sea as the ebbing rays of the sun turned the water into an amber fire punctuated only by the white mark of the vessel’s own wake. From high up on the wind-battered cliff Edward had watched the Saint Thais leave the small port, looking on unmoving as the square-rigged sails took wind and carried the precious cargo farther and farther from him.
The ship was but a speck now, yet still he stood there with the wind buffeting his long black coat as moist grey eyes stared out from the strong face buried in the high collar. He had fancied he had seen them on the stern at one point, mother and daughter standing together taking one last look at the land they had called home for the past ten years. Still, Martha and Anna would be safe now, now they had left this place. Left him. He clenched his fist, tormented by his deceit. It was better this way, he told himself. He would find them again, when he was sure his pursuers no longer hunted him. Until then, it was best everyone kept on believing he was dead.
… and Fade.They say that smell is the strongest of the senses; the memory of a certain scent can remain perfect for ever. Yet, I can hear the last concert we went to note for blissful note. As the soloist took us with her into the heavens I can still feel your hand clenching mine as though afraid to let go. As the music slowly died you turned to me and I still see the tears of joy on your beautiful face and I can taste their saltiness now, as then, when I kissed them away.
You always wore the same perfume: “Thais”, but I cannot remember how it smelled on you. I have a bottle now; I can spray it in the room; it’s not the same. The odour of death and decay blots out every smell, even those in the memory it seems.
Calls Me OnI'm just waking to the day in this pasture I call my own. Stretching and clicking and yawning and breathing. There is a depth to my breath and a wonder in my eyes that makes me want to cry tears of jumping joy. I move slow, feeling the wet grass on my bare arm and on the side of my face, the coldness of it, the very nature of it, this grass that bursts forth from my earth in a way that I can hardly fathom. And I roll now from my side and onto my back. My arms are by my side and my legs are slightly splayed as I behold the bluest sky I ever saw in all my languorous days. I could stay like this forever even as clouds form and rain falls, as winds whip and time
calls
me
on.
But I have learned that all is abstract and reality is but base physicality. So as much as I am spread upon the grass so am I pasted across the skies like the birds whom I admire so much. And if you look closely you can see me in the fiery night amongst the bang-a-lang stars…
The RoomAs he entered the room, he realised that he had stepped back to an earlier time, a simpler time, before technology intruded into our lives. The curtains were drawn, but there was a small gap, through which light illuminated dust motes in its beam. But even with the curtains pulled back; this would still be a dark room.
Looking across to the fireplace, he observed the mantel clock. He stepped over and opened the glass front, as he had seen it done so many times before. He reached behind it and felt for the key. He lifted it, placing the end of the key into the winding mechanism and began to wind it up. He was immediately rewarded with the reassuring sound of ticking. A temporary return to the daily ritual, something that was now ended forever.
He picked up the picture next to the clock and looked carefully, in the semi-darkness, at the people framed there. Faces looked back at him, faces long gone, a distant memory now. The final face in the picture now departed, like the others.
Tomorrow, everything will change. All will be gone and all that will remain is his memories, this place, these people.
Oh Simon you're a doll. I just pm'ed Patti the titles but she is a bit swamped :o)
My vote is cast. Goodluck everyone. Nice selection to choose from.
Might be an interesting side competition to have a list of entrants and try and guess who wrote what??
Just bumping this so people remember to read them and then vote :o)Thank you
I really like this comp but it doesn't seem to get much enthusiasm. Perhaps we need a porn theme for number three.
Any suggestions for improving it from anybody? How can we entice more people to join in? I really enjoyed reading the entries, it's amazing how different they all are.
Porn!!Yes!!!
Or humour.
Or funny porn.
The theme and exercise will be set by the winner ;)I think the "prize" could be made more visible?
"Win our free-to-enter twice-monthly writing contest and get tweeted by all our participating authors and readers!"
That sort of thing. Or maybe the two winners every month could go through to a second vote and the winner get some bigger prize? Tweets etc. again, but also a review or a badge?
The prize was a bit of an afterthought. In previous competitions we have discoverd the prize is not a huge incentive. We gave a £50 token out once and had a hand full of people entered. We just can't give money away.
Come on it is raining. Listen to the music, read the nine descriptions and vote here :http://www.goodreads.com/poll/list/51...
Voted!By the way, it says the vote will remain hidden until the 24th June, which suggests the poll will end tomorrow morning - whenever the GR US time zone changes to the 24th.
I have voted. And it isn't even raining here. Really good entries I thought...
I will add one day to the deadline is wish the whole world was forced to use gmt :-)
I will add one day to the deadline, I wish the whole world was forced to use gmt :-)
Simon, are you on the beer again?
The forum double posts a lot - happens to me quite a bit.
The vote is supposed to be open until Tuesday so it shouldn't be ending today or tomorrow!
Well it is set to 26th. Exactly when it will end on 26th is anyones guess :)
Pat (Scorpio) wrote: "Is anyone voteing anyway?"I did !
I didn't see anything saying you couldn't vote if you'd entered, so, yes I voted.
You can vote. But not for yourself.
I voted and really enjoyed reading all the entries,it was difficult making a single choice.
I'm back home - but I voted before I went away.If we had too many entries people wouldn't bother to read them. There's always a compromise.
I voted too. I hope that's ok considering I know who wrote them all.
Ignite wrote: "I'm back home - but I voted before I went away.If we had too many entries people wouldn't bother to read them. There's always a compromise."
I was thinking that Ignite. Nine seemd about right.
Any ideas how we can get more people voting?
Erm...........I haven't voted - because when I looked I could see who had voted & what for.
Yes i noticed that too. . . after I voted.
I think it did come up after you have voted. I have switched that off now.....
It didn't come up after I voted. It's not fair! Goes into toddler mode!
I shall be posting the entries for the second writing contest here. Once Patti sets up the poll you will have until Tuesday night (midnight) to vote for your favourite piece. Also, I have given a couple of the compositions a title myself as none was given, if the author prefers another title or I have made an error in copying your stories pm me and I'll change it.
Here is the link that inspired the stories below, feel free to listen as many times as you like http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ajCJF...
[Did nobody notice I had spelt entries wrong?]