Oriphiel

It's kind of a double edged sword. On the one hand, making it a competition can cause some people to take it a bit too seriously (and maybe mentally punish themselves for losing). On the other, the knowledge that their work will be scrutinized can inspire writers to make the extra effort to really bring out the best in their work.

I have another idea for how to go about this, though. I could post a theme/genre, and interested authors would then write a story with it in mind. Then the entries are all posted, with the names of the authors either displayed or kept anonymous, at the discretion of each author. There wouldn't be any voting on which is the "best", and the stories would be submitted and displayed purely for the fun of it. That way, instead of it being a contest, it ends up just being a place where writers can have a bit of fun and get some practice in.

But, even though nobody votes on the stories, there could still be voting involved in the process. Before the event begins, people could all make suggestions as to what the next theme should be. After that, everyone votes for the suggestion that they like the most, and it becomes the next theme.

__________________
----------------------
|---Mic's Albums---|
----------------------
-----------------------------
|---Deafbox Industries---|
-----------------------------

The Batlord

I think a feedback system might be good as well. If the person lists their name, then you can PM them with feedback -- I guess it should be assumed that someone posting anonymously probably isn't ready for criticism. As for myself, I'm perfectly happy to have my stuff torn apart, line by line. Nothing helps developing writers more than brutally honest criticism.

__________________

Oriphiel

Agreed. And if someone posts something anonymously, but still wants to hear audience responses, I can always ask them if they would like me to forward feedback to them. That way, people can send me the PM critiques, and I can either pass the messages along or inform the people critiquing that the author isn't receiving any. Or, if the author isn't comfortable with me handling their PM reviews, they can always leave a note at the end of their story naming someone who has agreed to forward PMs to them.

__________________
----------------------
|---Mic's Albums---|
----------------------
-----------------------------
|---Deafbox Industries---|
-----------------------------

The Batlord

I've actually taken to writing the odd Batman fanfiction, and I was thinking of posting some in my comic journal, but what the hey, might as well kick things off here. Anyone who wants to PM me with criticism should feel free, but if you want to post them in the thread then I'm fine with that too. I've developed somewhat of a thick skin by this point.

All you need to know is that this is the first installment of a multi-chapter story featuring Poison Ivy, and only Poison Ivy. So no actual Batman. And yes, I realize that this is unacceptably nerdy.



I was thirteen-years-old when the forest changed.

It didn't happen all at once. At first, plants that nobody had ever seen before began growing in the woods that surrounded our forgotten little town, nestled in the middle of nowhere. Flowers bloomed that appeared unnaturally beautiful, yet inexplicably sinister. Trails old as the settlement itself suddenly became densely overgrown by fledgling undergrowth that was somehow primeval in a way that could only be described as unnatural. Soon, the forest itself was an impenetrable fortress which no man could, or would, venture into.

Then, the trees around our fields and in our yards began to whisper. They rustled during the day, whether or not there was any breeze to stir them, and scratch at our windows at night, as if to steal us away from our beds as we slept. Mr. Granger, the owner of the general store which squatted at intersection of the only two roads worth mentioning running through the town, attempted to trim the great oak tree looming over his house, but soon gave up when his shears rusted shut after no more than ten minutes. Leaving his house the next morning, he turned white as a ghost to discover that strangely colored vines had crept up almost to the roof of his two story home. Wisely, he left them alone.

But not all of the plants plotted against us. In the spring, the apple trees sprouted fruit twice as large as any seen before, even by the eldest of our residents. Their taste was indescribably sweet, and they remained deliciously ripe twice as long as the year before. It almost seemed that the orchards granted us this bounty as a gesture of goodwill, to quiet our suspicions towards their less hospitable cousins.

Some of the townsfolk took their fears to the mayor, but he and the sheriff assured us that nothing was amiss, and that we should heed the warnings and count the blessings. Many were confused at their words, but our leaders' insistence eventually calmed us. It was not natural we knew, but so long as we abided by the unspoken laws of our new neighbors, there was peace.

Occasionally, however, some mysterious fate befell those who ignored the new status quo.

Tom Strauss, a man known for his drunken disregard for even the laws of man, cut down a cherry tree on his property - claiming that it was plotting against him - and did not go to work for two days afterward. Worried, his coworkers went to his home, and discovered him dead of an allergic reaction, the walls coated with a noxious mold that drove his friends outside with uncontrollable coughing fits. His body had to be recovered by men wearing beekeeping suits. His house was left as it stood, without so much as a "For Sale" sign on the lawn. No one even spoke of tearing it down.

Sarah Chesterfield, a girl of no more than nine, bragged to her friends that she wasn't afraid of any trees, and laughing all the while, hurled the lush apples which fell from the orchards back at them, splattering their trunks with juices. When she went to take a bite from one of the fruits, she collapsed into a seizure from which she never recovered. After the funeral, her grief-stricken mother screamed her hatred at the trees, but would not come near them.

Paul Chandler, a strange man who had studied the classics of Greek philosophy and mythology - though he was no more educated than any farmhand - declared with wide-eyed intensity the second coming of Demeter, goddess of the harvest. Throughout his life he had been dismissed as an eccentric at best, and a madman at worst, and so at first his proclamations were met with the same scorn, but as time passed some began to flock to his ideas, and a queer cult sprouted around this old-become-new goddess.

The mayor and sheriff were among the first converts, and soon the old church on the hill overlooking the town fell into disuse, replaced by a hastily erected temple on the outskirts bordering the forest to which seemingly all of the town crowded into on Sundays. There were practiced strange, pagan rites, the likes of which astounded all at first, but soon became wild, ecstatic festivals in praise of this Demeter who few of the townsfolk had even heard of till Paul Chandler's sermons.

The spring and summer equinoxes were celebrations of especial bizarreness. Maidens and matrons alike stripped themselves of their clothing and danced in the fields near the forest, drunk on wine and a nameless potion derived from the exotic plants surrounding the town. Without shame or restraint, they coupled freely on the ground with the men, feverishly crying in drugged ecstasy their worship of the goddess.

The flora all around responded with clouds of sparkling, sweet-smelling pollen that only seemed to inflame their newfound love.

It was around this time that my friends and I entered the forest.

To Be Continued...

__________________

Trollheart

Already hooked. Have you sold the movie rights? You have a way of getting the attention from the first sentence, you have a great gift for description and characterisation, and I can already envisage this strange town/village ending up as a sort of Brigadoon, cut off from the rest of the world as who knows what goes on. Then of course, surely, someone carries seeds to the next town and....

__________________
Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

The Batlord

This is actually the first time I've really written anything that wasn't a comedy. I don't think it's going too badly so far. And I assure you, if you think you know what's going to happen, then you're wrong.

__________________

Trollheart

I certainly hope so. Count me as a fan though. Great stuff.

__________________
Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

RoxyRollah

Ftfy.

__________________

Guybrush

I might write some fiction for fun - short, neat and hopefully entertaining.

__________________
Something Completely Different

Exo

I like writing short stories so I'd be in.

__________________
LastFM

SUPREME POO BAH MODERATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE