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[Xion]

uhhh...Yeah I think I'll cap it at 3.
Sorry, Bood, you'll have to narrow down your...broadness.

Up to 3 entries are allowed from each entrant, as long as the submissions are not connected to one another.

Any entry may be withdrawn by the submitter at any time should they so decide. Withdrawn entries will not count towards the 3 entry maximum.

[Morre]

I'm in! That is, if I can find the time...

Why the 1000 word limit? I don't think it's necessary.

[Blademasterbobo]

It's necessary damnit.

[Blademasterbobo]

He ran after the shadows, but they constantly evaded him – always dancing away from his grasp, sometimes just out of reach, sometimes so far away he could barely see them. This damn chain held him back from them! If only he could be freed from its tight hold around his chest. Each movement was made progressively more difficult by the heavy weight that constantly pulled him backwards. This battle between catching up with the shades and pulling his load caused him to lose hope sometimes, but never for very long. The shadows rarely waited for very long, which gave him little time for despondency.    He stopped to catch his breath. After spending a little while regaining his energy, he noticed that the shadows were becoming increasingly restless. With a heavy sigh, he shrugged his shoulders and began to push forward once more. The chain cut into his chest, and the weight continuously sapped his strength, but he ignored his discomfort and focused solely on his quarry. Most of the day passed him by in this manner: a small stop for breath, a  determined shrug of the shoulders, and then the chase would continue until he was once again halted by fatigue.    As the sun began to set, they came upon a large stream. The now elongated shades quickly crossed the waters. Keeping his gaze firmly set on his prey, he hefted the weight up onto his shoulders and began to cross. As he entered the stream, the water pulled at his legs, threatening to topple him over. While the stream wasn't especially deep, he knew that if the water forced him to drop the weight, the combination of the strong currents and slippery metal would cause him to lose the small amount of ground he had gained on the shadows, or, even worse, force him to look away from them.    The shades were waiting just ahead of him, taunting him with their endless motion and seemingly boundless energy. Even in stillness they exuded a restless aura that sometimes deceived him into hoping they would soon tire. He knew they would not wait for him for very long.    Suddenly, his concentration was broken by a loud splash. Something slammed into his back, causing him to drop the weight as he flailed about, trying to keep from toppling over. He almost turned his head to look at what hit him, but quickly caught himself and shifted his energy into getting the weight back up out of the water before the shadows left him behind. He pulled at the chain, slowly lifting the weight back up out of the water. Another splashing sound came from the stream, this time from his right. With a final pull on the chain, he lifted the weight out of the water and steeled himself for the next blow. The object smashed into his side this time, but he managed to keep from dropping the weight again.    He struggled forward, coming up to the edge of the stream. A smaller splash came from behind. He felt a sharp pain as something stabbed into in the small of his back, almost causing him to yell out in pain. Shifting the weight to one arm, he reached towards his back and began to move forward again. Yanking what felt like a barbed, slimy hook from his back, he finally trudged out of the stream. He tossed the object behind him without bothering to look at it, dropped the weight onto the sand, and after stopping to breathe for a moment, once more began to chase after the now distant shadows.    For a long time it seemed as if the shadows might leave him behind, but they never quite escaped his sight. He would sometimes have to stop his pursuit in order to pull the weight out of some entangling roots or a soft patch of sand, but he never paused for more than a second. Any amount of time wasted would cause the shadows to leave him behind. The chains were beginning to cut into his skin, small wells of blood forming around each link as they bit into his flesh. Sometimes he would carry the weight, but it took nearly all of his energy to carry it for any longer than a few minutes at a time. Finally, the distance between him and the shades began to lessen.    Shortly after he began to catch up, the sun began to set. The shadows took on an increasingly evanescent quality as the darkness advanced, until they finally disappeared from his vision completely. He sat down, using the weight as a small stool. After a few moments of waiting, a rustling sound came from behind. He closed his eyes for the first time that day, and when he reopened them, a small amount of bread and water sat next to him. After eating, he found a clear patch of ground and slept.    A shrill scream awoke him to the advancing dawn. There she was, frantically beckoning for him to come towards her. He merely looked on, not bothering to waste any energy in an attempt to save her; rescue was something he had long ago found to be an impossible task. He stood up, stretching and preparing for the new day ahead of him. She cried out once more as the shadows grew up around her, eventually blocking her form from his vision. He waited, seemingly apathetic to her plight. Finally, the shadows engulfed her completely.    He began to move forward, breaking into a slightly faster pace as the shadows began to separate, causing the chains to dig into old scabs and callouses. The shades started to gain a more frantic movement, finally separating and shifting away from him. Time had brought forth a new day, but time was misleading: as he pushed forward, he could sometimes swear that this was the same moment he had always lived in – running forward, with the shadows just out of reach. Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[Xion]

It's necessary damnit.

Word.


This is all great stuff so far guys. I'm going to try and work on mine tomorrow.

[Melly]

You guys shouldn't worry. As long as your entries have AROUND 1000 words it's cool. Nobody will be counting nazis and disqualify you cause you couldn't use less than 1001.

[Morre]

Well, we used plenty more. Close to 2000, in fact. But I decided to cheat a bit and post it anyway. It's less than 1000 words per author

This is also posted in the collabotale thread for reference. Included in that post are a colored image version of the text and some random nonsense that's not really part of the story (and as such was left out here).

Here we go:

--- By PaleFox, Jrsquee, Dragonene and Xion. ---                                The Fox Hunts                                There is a town in West Virginia where they still hold the fox hunts every year. Brutal things, my father always said, but it's historic and it gives you something to do in post-apocalyptic USA other than write memoirs or rebuild society. So, anyway, as I was saying, there's this fox hunt every year... The fox hunts.  I remember the fox hunts when I was a child.  I could hear them, in the night.  They're not foxes, it's impossible to call them foxes anymore.  I don't know what they are - Everything's changed.  I hear stories, tales about the past.  They're like legends:  the food, the heroes, the battles.  Nations, warring.  Bellicose.  There's no reason to fight: why bother?  Nothing worth fighting over.  What's the use of oil when there's nothing to power?  We still have the fox hunts. Well, I could've managed a while longer in that world. Today, our future seems just a little less bright, a touch of darkness finding its way into our souls. They have found it. They've found a cause. It'll be the ruin of us all. War is coming to my village. The great Machines dug up and risen to fight once more. And I'll be right in the middle of it. I thought I'd left all that behind long ago. Shepard, Charles and the others are all on their way here. I'm not looking forward to seeing them again. Five in the morning and the glowing green horizon has hardly begun to shine, but the entire fort is up and about. Some of the children are polishing the cannons to a dull shine - the best they'll ever manage - and others are all preparing for Shepard and the gang. Just as the sun begins to filter through the eternal neon clouds, they're spotted. One of the young watchers bangs furiously on the alarm bell and all the people gather around the fort's entrance. A hush comes over the crowd as the rusted steel gate goes up. God, Ma used to tell us stories about the Revolution, back when there was still hope. The banners flying over head and the people standing together and the promise of a future - not a bright one, but at least there might BE one... then they trampled hope underfoot like a Machine would a man. Johann was executed, Voltaire was found hidin in India under an assumed name, Da's buried up in the cemetary. But that is just... history. Worst, worst of all, little Sean was killed in a fox hunt -- that's still what they call them, you know. But it's a lie. Foxes?  They used to be foxes. They're sneaky, sly, cunning creatures.  The tricksters of the animal kingdom. Crafty, beautiful, solitary.  Sean.  He was a fox, a sly one.  Hiding.  He didn't say much, he was quiet.  No one really knew what he was thinking.  He was... he was strange, different from the rest.  They didn't understand the way he thought.  When someone comes along who doesn't fit the mold -- what then?  People are afraid of the unknown. He had seen them:  he told me. The iron arms, raising.  Glass eyes glowing green-yellow as metal-on-metal screams rise above the noise of the engine.  Hot white steam, burning hot, hotter than the sand (the air!) envelopes the Machine - its breath expunged with an unfeeling steel cry. I knew it to be true. Nobody who'd seen a Machine would ever walk as straight again. But Sean... he never quite recovered. I think he came too close. I don't know what they wanted from him. Nor do I care much. All I know is that they sent the hunters after him, and he never came back. I'd do anything to hold him again - my little brother. I know I never will. I'm startled by a loud, crunching noise as the gate finally reaches its topmost position. I scan the caravan. I know none of the faces in the first van. And then there they are. The old squad. I see a glimmer of excitement in Charlie's eyes, and I fight to repress a shudder. And I walk up to them, with an uncertain smile on my face. "Sarge! There you are!" Charles leaps from the second van and, much to my discomfort, stretches his titanic arms to embrace me, lifting me clear off the ground as he does. He's the same as ever. 6' 7", 312 lbs, composed of solid muscle and frothing with excitement. The smile on his face makes me grimace. Shepard is more reserved with his salutations, letting a quiet nod suffice. He's the only one that ever knew how much I hated what we did back then. He knows his presence does not excite me. As he climbs out of the driver's seat I can tell that the years have not been kind to him. His eyes, bright as they may be, cannot hide the tiredness that comes from ages of a fruitless search, and his face is creased and dark from the raging storms that frequent the desolation outside our fort. Shepard approaches me and extends a hand in greeting. "I hear you've come into possession of...of a Machine...Sarge." He spits the last word. "And just how did you come by such intel, Shepard?" I say, spitefully. "Did your traitor friends in the M.A.R.C. tell you, while you were hunting my brother to his death?" Shepard doesn't say a word, but he doesn't seem surprised I know. He just silently pulls a gun and puts it to my head; the rest of the troops do the same -     except Charles, who is lying dead on the hard-packed ground. His head seems to have taken a savage blow.     "What's the point, Shepard?  Why bother?  You've got your fox hunts, isn't that enough?" "The fox hunts are a game, played by children.  There's no meaning, no emotion: they've become... we've all become too passive." There is something in his tone. His all too familiar voice is cracking with emotion, and when he tells me we're too passive, I know what he's trying to say. I'm out of practice, but as I pull my gun and spin around, I surprise myself. Pulling the trigger is easy. Too easy. The man lying dead behind me used to be our captain. We never liked him much. I can only stare down at him as Shepard and the others move back toward the vans, dragging Charlie by his vest. "We have to move, Sarge! NOW!", Shepard is screaming at me. I slowly turn around, and then begin jogging up to the caravan. As we pull out, machine gun fire is smattering around us. I glance back and see children manning the turrets. As we drive into the desert, Shepard starts talking. "The Captain arranged the fox hunts, Sergeant. Me 'n' Charles, we found out a while back. We've been trying to find you ever since. The truth, Sarge. That's what we're after." I hear coughing from the back of the car. It's Charles. Not dead after all. I glance at Shepard. He shrugs, "Had to convince the Cap'n we were on his side." "Christ, Shepard," I gasp. The van slowly rocks while I ponder the situation. It's been so long since I've had to lead - to truly lead. I peer into the back and find Charles and five unfamiliar faces all staring at me, looking for some kind of guidance. I take a deep breath. "Okay," I bark, "here's what we're going to do: There's no way this shoddy caravan can stand a chance against an organization like the M.A.R.C. so-" "Sarge, do you think I'm a damn fool?" Shepard laughs. "We've got about a few hundred more waiting for us back at base." "Base?" Shepard nods. "That's where we're heading now." "Fine then, but it still won't be enough. The M.A.R.C. has Mechs. They may not be as refined as the Great old Machines, but they'll sure as hell tear us to bits without much of a chance." "Right." "So what we need is..." "That Machine of yours." "Exactly." Shepard smiles. "This is gonna be one hell of a ride."     "There's no time to go to meet the others, then, we have to move on this NOW. Head for Richmond - at least, where it used to be. And fast, Shepard. I still don't trust you."     The caravan shudders along the broken landscape of my childhood, but most of the landmarks I recall are long gone. Has it really been that long since I was here? Since the day Sean came up to me with his tales - we thought they were just stories - of an iron giant underground; the giant we are heading towards right this minute. And it strikes me: in a way, that event set this all in motion.     Hours pass, and at last the vans come to a stop, and I make them let me out first. Just to make sure nothing goes wrong. Veins of some metal glow ominously, like the last glow of a lantern, about to go out and strand us all in darkness. The lights glow brighter as we reach the core, the pedestal at the center of the cave. There, upon the pedestal rests one of the Machines. An original. The beast is a large, egg-shaped contraption of iron and steel, arms and legs shackled in place. I shudder. This is what Sean was killed over. This...hulking piece of scrap! It's green-yellow eyes glow - I can almost feel its gaze as it sputters syllables of clanging metal.         "Come on, boy's! We've got to get those shackles off that thing if we're gonna ride outta here!" Shepard and his crew produce a variety of cutting and melting instruments and set to work on the thick iron rings holding the Machine. At times it lurches and thrashes, as if struggling, but the cutting goes quickly enough. A few minutes of work, and it is done. We all prepare to climb in the thing's hull but no sooner does the final chain fall to the ground than a siren screeches through the darkness and fifty armed M.A.R.C. units burst into the room wielding assault rifles. There's no hesitation, not a single moment of doubt. They open fire straight away. Shepard is among the first to fall. I sit down and whisper to him as life leaves him. "You're a good man, Shepard. A good man." The ghost of a smile touches his face. Charles yanks me up and pulls me towards the machine. All around us, men are lying dead and dying on the ground. The senseless slaughter numbs me, but Charles helps me reach the machine. A stabbing pain in my left leg announces the entry of a bullet, but as I crawl into the machine, I know I'm safe. It rises slowly, deliberately. Gunfire is ricochetting off its hull. The giant floodlights on the front of the machine sweeps over the M.A.R.C. soldiers. They fall faster than would reeds in a waterfall. We leave the cave. Charles's face is haunted by something like remorse. I don't think I'm looking much better. Charles indicates the direction of the base and we set off. We go to gather our army.

Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[Bood_war]

Damnit, a word limit?
There goes my epic 9-page post apocalyptic story.

[Corpus]

It may be constructive to focus on quality over quantity, Bood_War.

[Bood_war]

But it IS quality, htere is absolutely no filler. It all helps to develop the story...

[Musenik]

Low Speed Chase
by Keith Nemitz


Just when I thought I'd found God a dump truck squashed my Honda Civic into scrap and squished me into its flattened crevices. Hell.

"Right this way." The greeter stood my height. His skin was somewhat darker than mine, and he had extra arms. His hair was long and black, perfect for a classic Asian beauty.

Only recently a religious type, I honestly didn't have expectations for the afterlife. Sure, I'd seen The Devil in Miss Jones, Afterlife, Defend Your Life, and Heaven Can Wait. This was more boring.

I stood in an intersection, in the middle of New York. The greeter's green uniform was vertically punctuated by brass buttons polished golden. His short cap fit snugly around the downpour of dense black hair. Trimmings shined as if locks of his hair had been melted into plastic and formed into belt and shoes. His nameplate read, "Yama".

He aimed me down Madison Avenue with a sturdy flashlight sporting an orange filter cone. He eyes never met mine. He simply stood and waved his light. "Right this way."

A one man parade, I strolled towards my final destiny. Not another soul strolled with me. A few cars slipped by graciously. Some parked at the curb. Nobody got out.

The only noises were birds and wind in the occasional sidewalk tree. I suddenly longed to hear the cry of a souvlaki vendor. I wasn't hungry, but the smell issued from my memory like sizzling, spiced steak vigorously stirred. They were good times, ordering souvlaki, eating souvlaki.

I tried to recall more of my life. It had not passed before me earlier. Abusive parents, few friends, none close, repulsive peers, education by tedium, job stress stretched out like the dashed lines behind me. Work. Struggle to find work. Repeat. Die.

Was married, briefly. We had a girl. Wife took her. I paid to raise her. Seemed fair at the time. Still seems fair.

So far, I was really enjoying solitude in the city. People had never been Souvlaki to me. I kept hoping I'd run across an unmanned pushcart steaming with frying meat and onions and peppers.

Then I was worrying. Why didn't I have as strong of desire for Canadian bacon and mushroom pizza, or Mu Shu Vegetables? I liked them even better, sometimes.

There had been bad pizza. I'd burned one of the 'just add a few fixings' frozen kind. Tried to eat it. Yelled at my daughter for not eating it.

Carla told me she wanted a divorce while dining at a high class Chinese restaurant. Damn her! The broccoli had been slightly undercooked so it was perfect by the time you tasted it. She ruined it.

I walked block after block, in contemplation, alone, wondering if my destiny awaited ahead or within. My thoughts still longed for souvlaki. My legs did not tire. My belly did not ache. The buildings grew shorter. I thought I was traveling north but wasn't sure. I had only visited Long Island a couple times.

Perhaps the occasional passing car was my punishment for not investing time with other people. It is the perfect promise of company, the car. None stopped to let anyone out.

It made a Kafka as Solomon kind of sense, punishment to fit the crime. I accepted it. Hours or weeks later I welcomed it. I was merely as alone as usual. This time no one was around to pester me about it. Solitude and loneliness are different directions on the same street.

I got use to the cars with their lack of passengers and pilots. I was just to the point of accepting dreams of souvlaki were all I needed in the afterlife when a siren whispered far behind. Every car obediently pulled over.

I stopped and looked back. The tremulous wailing took its time growing closer and louder! For a second I couldn't decide which side of the street to take, but there was no need to hurry. I stepped to the side sporting a healthy sycamore and leaned against it. This was the most exciting thing to happen since my death. I didn't want to miss it.

Sure enough the police cruiser slowed down and stopped in the middle of the street right before me. It was my Honda Civic in blue and white cop drag. God opened the door and eased out of the driver's seat. He drew His gun and trained It on me.

"Sorry about the confusion. The metaverse dismissed afterlife for humans ages ago." He fired into my skull, through the temple. "Guess there's a hitch in the celestial spheres."

Black.

[Seth]

Hyperlinks, coloured text, oversized text and other foolishness will void your story's qualification and it will not appear in the vote. Formatting such as indentations and alignment are permitted.

Isn't this a little overzealous?  Same with the cautions on italics or whatever.  Some neat things could be done with these sorts of formatting.  If it really is too annoying or whatever, I think we should let the voting decide.

[Alec S.]

Pursuit had ended
But the chaser only found
His tail in his mouth

[William Broom]

OK, this is mine. Bobo, I hope you don't mind me stealing your table-script thingy, it really makes stuff nicer to read.

Dear mum, Just writing to tell you I am safe and sound having met Mr. Waitrose’s troop in town just as expected with no delays. We have set out on the nth. road following rumours brought by tinkers and other vagabonds travelling sth. for winter. Hope to find some good tracks soon. Tell Susie Mitch Jake and all the others I miss them already but not too much!! Love Jimmy --- Dear mum, Good news and bad news, we found some tracks in a forest near the road but they were several months old and marked by other hunters before us. Mr. Waitrose said there would be no proffit in following such old tracks, instead we are continuing north in the hope that the mark has doubled back since then, apparently some rumours say this is so. I am bunked in a tent with a man named Sebastian who is our cartographer and knows a great deal about the World. It is very big much more than I had imagined. Love Jimmy --- Dear mum, We are now in the mountains a place called Vandle, it is beyond all places you or I ever heard of, it is north-east of Tubblewick which you even told me you werent sure if it was real!! The mark has “gone to ground” in these mountains and there are a great many troops of hunters marching all around trying to find it. Mr. Waitrose says the mark wants to find a cave for winter and it is a great chance to catch him off-guard. You know how I always was about hunting so you must know how excited I am. Also Sebastian has turned out to be a rather crude fellow, last night he offered me rum and I dont know what else!! I asked Mr. Waitrose could I move tents but he said I would have to swop with someone else and I was too afraid to ask any of them, you would say they were giving me the Evil Eye. Love Jimmy --- Dear mum, A terrible thing has happened since I last wrote and now three of our troop are dead. It began when we broke bread with another troop coming around the bend of a mountainside and discussed the trade (Mr. Waitrose says when we break bread we must try to learn more than they do from us). Mr. Coulus who is our historian said we had good chances because the mark has not been here in five hundred years and the other troops historian said he was wrong. This was how the fight began and then Sebastian and the others joined in for Mr. Coulus so did I because I wanted Sebastian to be my friend again. Then there was a great fight I do not want to describe since Susie is to read this. In the end we won and drove the enemy troop away and took their supplies but three men are dead including Mr. Coulus and Sebastians arm is in a cast. There is some good news though in that Sebastian has asked me to take notes for him while he is Incapacitated and I hope this means he thinks well of me once more. Love Jimmy --- Dear mum, We are still in these confounded mountains and there are many tracks for us to follow but most of them are old or have something else wrong with them that Mr. Waitrose cannot be bothered to explain. Mr. Waitrose is often angry at present but Sebastian says not to worry about it he always gets that way when we are close to the mark. I am friends with Sebastian now for certain but it didnt come without a price, Im sorry but I did drink rum but it wasnt as bad as you would think. Sebastian said James if you dont drink this now then I cant give you no more chances you got to be a part of the troop like everyone else. I think now most of the troop is my friends as well which is a nice comfort. It is very cold and wet and we do not have much rations left, nor do I know for sure if you will receive this. Love Jimmy --- Dear mum. Cannot write much, got no time anymore. Ambushed an enemy troop by dropping rocks on their heads from above, dont know how many killed but we got their food. Feeling very low. No tracks anywhere. Jimmy --- Dear mum, Im sorry you have to read this please dont let Susie or Jake see it right away if you can help it. I gave up my profession that you sorted for me and I left Mr. Waitroses troop. I hope you will think I did the right thing since you raised me to have proper morals and Mr. Waitrose doesnt have morals at all neither does Sebastian or any of the others. Like I wrote to you last time (which must have alarmed you so much) Mr. Waitroses troop is happy to kill other hunters if it helps them get close to the mark. I didnt dare tell them I was leaving so I sneaked away in the dead of night and now I am all alone in these mountains and have not much food. I dont know how I will send you this letter but I will do it first chance I get. Love Jimmy --- Dear mum, I dont expect you shall read this letter nor the last one neither since I still have it with me. Im in a cave right now it is warm enough but I dont have much food. More importantly there is something else in the cave with me it is very big and breathes like its asleep. I think its the mark. I know this is what I dreamed about my whole life since dad died but now I am here I cant bring myself to kill it. Please tell Susie Mitch and Jake I love them very much. Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[genericuser]

The Pursuit of Happiness

----------------------

> OH MAH GAWD.

S1nth3 and all the other guild members couldn't help but stare. Some might say that they were only staring at some colored spots on their computer screens. However, in the world of QuestLand, they were looking at the mightiest weapon in existence; the Sword of Ultimate Doomslaying.

> OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG-
> W00t guyz, we did it!
> That boss was hard, thx for healing me

There was only one problem; only one player could own the Sword of Ultimate Doomslaying. While the QuestLand designers could easily make the weapon available to everybody, they chose not to; they made sure that there would be an ultimate goal, all the time. A goal they could pursue for almost forever.

S1nth3 and his guild had just reached that goal.

> Congrats.
> Hold on; who's gonna take the sword?
> MEMEMEMEME~

The discussion channel was flooded with "ME!ME!ME!"-messages, until the leader of the guild finally spoke up.

T3K1LL4H> SHUT UP EVERYBODY!
T3K1LL4H> OK, we can do this
T3K1LL4H> Everybody roll the dice
T3K1LL4H> First person to get 13 gets the sword
> Oh shit, the dice?!

The dice were almost never used; the guilds usually had a system in order to deal with conflicts. However, sometimes things just got really bad, and the group leader would have to use the dice. Because of this, "The Dice" became the inofficial way of saying there was a huge disagreement somewhere.

lolz133> !dice
* lolz133 has rolled a 4
slayer95> !dice
* slayer95 has rolled a 12
slayer95> shit, almost
s1nth3> !dice
* s1nth3 has rolled a 13
lolz133> holy shit!

S1nth3 had gotten the sword. The mightiest weapon in the game, that would bring death to everybody and everything in QuestLand. Suddenly, it struck him; what was he supposed to do, now that he had essentially finished QuestLand?

He decided to go to sleep. It was pretty late, after all.

---

The next day, he checked his e-mail.

"[email protected] - 4563 new messages

From:                         Subject:
[email protected]    Failed login attempt
[email protected]    Failed login attempt
[email protected]    Failed login attempt
[email protected]    Failed login attempt
[email protected]    Failed login attempt"

Word had gotten out fast. People were trying to guess his password to get their hands on the Sword. S1nth3 just smirked; with the password he used, that wasn't going to happen. At least, not for the next 54256 years.

At the same time, he checked the QuestLand message board.

"I'M GONNA KILL U S1NHT3"

He saw hundreds of death threats, all directed at him. The other guild members were also being threatened.

That's when he saw him. Outside his house. He was carrying a baseball bat, he was wearing QuestLand clothes, and he was looking for him. "Ah, the wonders of the Internet," S1nth3 thought, "it's so easy to track people down."

A small window popped up on his computer screen.

"Are you sure that you want to delete your character? All your items and equipment will be destroyed, and your character can't be recovered."

He hesitated for a moment, but he knew what he was going to do. What he had to do. He started typing into the discussion channel.

"s1nth3> You ******* HAVE NO LIFE. YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT HAVING A LIFE. YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT FRIENDS. THE ONLY THING YOU CARE ABOUT IS THAT ******** SWORD.

S1nth3 has logged off (Character deleted.)"

He locked the door to his house. His real house. The police arrived soon afterwards, and the man with the QuestLand-shirt quickly ran away.

The next day, S1nth3 was talking on the phone. "A little melodramatic, yeah.  But you've got to keep them playing; and what better way to do that than giving them a new goal?"

He hanged up, and went to work, along with the other QuestLand developers.
------------------

[Blademasterbobo]

OK, this is mine. Bobo, I hope you don't mind me stealing your table-script thingy, it really makes stuff nicer to read.

I think someone in IRC suggested doing that for the Collabotale thing, so it's not really "mine" in the first place. 

[Xion]

Hyperlinks, coloured text, oversized text and other foolishness will void your story's qualification and it will not appear in the vote. Formatting such as indentations and alignment are permitted.

Isn't this a little overzealous?  Same with the cautions on italics or whatever.  Some neat things could be done with these sorts of formatting.  If it really is too annoying or whatever, I think we should let the voting decide.

Hm, I just had it because the first compo had it, which I was sort of using as a template for the guidelines. If anyone really has that much a problem with it though, then I'd be fine with loosening up those details.

On second thought having such things like lots of color and links and size changes might sort of difficultify things for both posting on the forums and if another site is set up with all the entries like in the first one. Formatting inconsistencies and whatnot. I'm actually not sure if this is true but someone tell me if it is. If it's not a problem then like I said, no biggie with the reallowance.



Also, I really like this one.

Pursuit had ended
But the chaser only found
His tail in his mouth

Made me laugh

[GregWS]

Right, here's my short, and very fragmented, entry.  I'm pretty good at non-fiction, but yeah, fiction/creative writing isn't something I'd call a strong point.  Figured I may as well give it a try anyway though. 


Suffering Shouts

The stench is strong, though that's true of most places.
Why?  Why not.  Running is lucrative now.

If you loiter, walk, you shatter.  An eye sees, an ear hears; you don't run anymore.
So I keep running, to free my person from its temporary stain.

My act satiates.
My act allows release.
My act FREES.
Though it has never freed me.

When I run, my cage expands, enveloping the cells of others.
The interstitial becomes infinite, however defined by its bounds.

When I run, suffering shouts...accuses...pleads...
I do not stop, but I am not of pain.

I will not be chained.

[skaldicpoet9]

Man, this is awesome. I really don't know why I didn't participate in the last one. I think I am going to have to brew something up....

[Smithy]

standing dead
smithy
973 words.

   There are places without perspective. Where experience and memory becomes null and void, past life is stolen. Live too long in such a place and you're left a tangled and disoriented pile of nerves. Everything starts to look the same. Every overturned tree, knoll, every kettle, every puddle of muck. When you enter the forest, you enter a world of twilight and shade, you become part of the forest. Surroundings stay the same with every step. You can't move in the forest. Need a point of reference. You're blind in the forest without it. Have to pick a direction and move.

   A short and whispering voice in the back of my mind somewhere told me I was off course, said I should have struck home or a trail a long time ago, but I blocked it out. “Forward!”

   The forest floor had stopped stabbing the sore callouses of my feet as I pressed Forward. Mossy ground is one of the small mercies that people with shoes rarely notice.

   I stopped to rest near a small pocket of water and took a drink. 

I needed to count my resources. There was a handful of berries in my pocket. I thought about them, imagined them bursting as I moved, as I walked and sat down, their juices leaking, staining the inner lining of my pants. The image made me cringe. I pulled them out and consumed them. 

I needed to count my resources. There was nothing in my pocket. Nothing except for little bits of crumbled, dried leaves and hay dust which had collected over the past several months and served no purpose to me, and a few matches buried somewhere. 

I needed to count my resources. There were trees. And potentially beautiful naked women in trees. The broken glimpse of her had evolved in my mind. Became less obscure, more defined, more bare. I glanced around at the canopy above but was disappointed to see nothing of interest. I had four gallons of mixed gas and a poorly maintained chainsaw beneath the trailer. Useless to me now; I had failed to find my trailer in the unyielding woods.

   I continued until a rusty stretch of barbed wire was caught on my loose pant leg. A sign of humanity from many generations ago. Farmers used to set wiring around stretches of forest and released their cows within them. The wolves knew to stay away back then. Cattle could transform the forest; gnarled and thick patches turned into paths, babbling brooks began emerging from swamps. It was all grown in now, though. I had missed the transformation by a few decades. 

I wondered about the wire. It was part of a farm, once, and the story behind all the farms in the region were the same. They all begin with some immigrant full of hopes and dreams a few hundred years ago; a man, probably from Finland named Eino who spoke broken English, came here and took a job in the iron mines. He saved money for years until he could afford to buy farmland and bring the rest of his family to America. 

They put their hearts and backs into the land, cutting down trees and piling all the rocks in the land into piles. Ripped the stumps out with draft horses. For a while everything was peachy for them. They built a new barn, purchased various livestock and state-of-the-art equipment. But time passed, Eino passed, his children passed, their children split off to seek successful lives in cities and the farm becomes a place for them to gather at and pretend they're rustic for the summers. Or maybe one of them remains living at the farmhouse, but he has no kids of his own, wears the same ragged clothes every day, lacks the knowledge to maintain or produce anything, lacks the will to get up in the mornings, and cheats on his taxes. The paint chips, the glass in the windows break, stones crop up in the hayfields, trees start to grow, and eventually the dream is reduced to a thin, broken strand of barbed wire cutting through a forest, as dead as Eino himself. If you asked me what the point of it was, I couldn't tell you. That's entropy.

   Maybe the farm existed and thrived long ago solely so I would have a rusty line of wire to follow back home.



   I was on the fringe of somebody's land. All I had to do was follow the wiring and I'd be at a road by the end of the day at the latest. It was simple. Just couldn't allow myself to become distracted. At points it disappeared beneath the moss but I always found it again a few feet out. Didn't know what I'd do when I got home, but that wasn't the point. Had to work towards one goal at a time; fixing the truck, felling a tree, moving from point A to point B; and right now my goal was to get on the road again.

   The further I went, the more relics of past lives I found. Broken toilets, rusty kettles peppered with bullet holes, antique ovens, sinks, discarded piles of doorknobs; the rusted out shell of an old 1950s buggy with a tree growing through the empty hood.

   I thought might have heard something behind me and turned around to see what it was. 

I dropped and lost track of the wire almost instantly. Looking back over my shoulder I kept walking. One thing at a time. And then I stopped. There she was.

   She froze when I saw her. Her body half obscured behind the trees. She was a dozen yards away but I could see the other half of her clearly. She was young and naked and covered partially in what looked to be mud.