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Old 11-21-2008, 05:58 PM   #131
Call me Mooney! =D
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

My entry will be in tomorrow.

~H. S.
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Old 11-21-2008, 06:07 PM   #132
I See Dead
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Writing Name: Madison wineper

WW Username: smallfry120
Finished Stories Written (if any): All short stories for school.
Stories in Progress (if any): Dust (chaptered), Crocodile Tears(chaptered)
Favorite Genre: Realistic Fiction, Fantasy Fiction, unique stories
Easiest Genre to Write: my faves. mostly realistic fiction, though dust is fantasy
Anything Else I Should Know?:I cannot be on much, because of all the scxhoolwork I get. and I don't have much spare time. and depending, I can write a lot, or a little.

For the freestyle, does it have to be a whole story? Or can I post some of my works that I am doing now? I also have a sci fi story I wrote for school that I had to condense. not my best tho.
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Old 11-28-2008, 09:41 PM   #133
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

When is the voting gonna happen?
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Old 11-29-2008, 11:50 AM   #134
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Moving

February 27
Dear Diary,
This is my first entry onto your pages. Diaries are supposed to begin on a high note, venture into a person’s life at their fullest. This is not the case.
If you had been here 3 months ago things would be fine, then at least. I’m quite sure your appearance, while fortunately timed could have saved anything. Made it more bearable, yes, but saved anything, I doubt. About three months ago I turned 9. What does that matter when your sister Vanessa is 18 and your brothers Trevor and David are 14 and 16? In my own household I’m used to being ignored, I assure you. The worst part of moving is your have to leave behind your progress and take your memories. I wish I could truthfully say this is a fair trade. Trading the blue, cloudless skies, steamy lakes, stretching fields and vibrant colors of Arkansas for overgrown, frosty Minnesota isn’t a wise deal. Trading your single friend, Laurie, who could relate to you in every way, for nothing, was a loss. As for why we are moving, all I can say is that my Dad lost his job.
March 3
Dear Diary,
The moving truck just drove away with our possessions packed up in the back. Ha, I had to fish you out of my pillow before they took off. The sky is dreary, as if it mourns our departure. While the moving men stacked our boxes I dreaded departing Laurie. I had to say something! But what do you tell a person who you will probably never see again?
March 4
Dear Diary,
Laurie’s heart burst when finally told her farewell. The dimples on her usually plump rosy cheeks faded and smile that constantly teased her lips broke. Her luscious, curly chocolate hair seemed to sag. We had a last hug. She suggested I try to contact her, but we our computer had slow Internet access and my siblings hogged the phone. I didn’t think I’d have words to say.
March 7
Dear Diary,
Our minivan is cruising down the roads, landscape flashing by my backseat window. Vanessa is staying behind with our aunt in Arkansas since she is older and finishing high school. Preoccupied Mom is driving with snoring Dad and she in the front, Trevor is messing around with David in the middle seats and I’m crammed in the backseat as if I was luggage in the rest of our stuff. The fluffy clouds stretched across the lively horizon is transforming into a blinding white sheet of “sky”. Trees enclose on us from every side, gnarled, sickly limbs hugging the ground and blocking out any warming rays that escape through the hopeless cloud cover. Just by looking I can almost feel the icy breezes whipping past the van. The bumpy, gravel roads lead through a couple of desolated towns.
March 8
Dear Diary,
The van pulled into the driveway of a two-story house with faded daisy yellow paint and a shaggy roof missing shingles. In front a mangled rope hung from a barren tree with rough bark, about as tall as the house. My tired eyes scanned across the worn siding, making me jump when I saw the upstairs window. A face? Before I could decide the image was gone, but it flickered in my mind. Behind the home was an expanse of field covered in dead corn stalks, bordered by the forest. Trevor and David slid the door open and hopped out, stretching. Mom shook Dad awake, snapping “Mark, we’re here!” He groaned “Huh? What?” Cautiously, I stepped onto the snow coated lawn, observing the last traces of invisible Arkansas air, preserved into the van, whoosh past and float away. I breathed in the new air. It stung my nostrils with its chilly bite. The atmosphere was so parched, unlike humid Arkansas days I was used to. Our family hauled the luggage in from the van. We had beaten the moving truck there.
I climbed onto the sheltered porch and clicked the rattling, brass handle. When the door opened I peered into the dark room. Hidden in shadows I saw a cheery old-fashioned couch accompanied by an oak side table, a china cabinet, coffee table and stacks of boxes. Mom yanked a chain dangling down from the ceiling and a light bulb clicked on, illuminating the rest of the room. To the right I made out steep, uncarpeted stairs leading into the unknown. To the left wall aged newspaper clippings surrounded a curtained window. A desk sat, cluttered with papers. A partial wall intersected here, forming the perfect nook for a computer.
Next there was a hallway that split the house in half. It ran parallel to the road outside. In here a piano made of brown wood pressed against the left wall by another window. Books were neatly assembled on a dusty bookcase. On a table, beside an empty vase, a lavender phone rested. The opposite end of the hallway narrowed, doors lining each side.
Ahead I passed through a set of sand-colored double doors. They matched the creamy light in the kitchen. Coupled, the checkered black and white tiles and chestnut dining tables it made the whole room seem like a cinnamon bun sprinkled with raisins. Near the back door there was a sink, cabinets, cupboards, and a stove.
March 9
Dear Diary,
After unpacking I learned my room is upstairs. Mom and Dad have a master bedroom downstairs. So does Trevor and David, but they will be sharing theirs. Mine however is upstairs. I hauled my boxes up the steep staircase, being careful not to trip. At the top there are two doors. One was locked, so I inferred it wasn’t mine. The other room had a plain Jane look. The moving truck is outside and they will bring in my furniture soon.
March 11,
Dear Diary,
Uh, time to go to school. Today I rose and got dressed, and then walked about 400 feet till I reached the intersection (bus stop). Alone, I gazed at the single car that passed by. Trevor and David were already at school. I’d found out our neighbors were a stingy, old, and childless when I brought them some store bought cookies. Hey, I know what you are thinking, but come on, we haven’t stocked up on ingredients yet.
The bus came. The bus driver appeared rather bored. I didn’t feel quite so enthusiastic. The heater revved in an attempt to warm the air. I had the second stop and this bossy, snobby girl dressed in a pink winter coat and blond pigtails had the first stop. My first impulse was we weren’t going to be the best of friends. I happened to be right. A few kids pried, asking “Are you new?” Slowly the bus filled with elementary school kids. No music played like it had in my old bus. I am the kind of person who makes few best friends. Actually I would never make many due to my social awkwardness at first, which ruined my chances at some friends. We finally made it to the school. As we trudged into the brick building I grew more self-conscious of the fact I hadn’t an idea of where to go.
Turns out I survived the day. Teachers guided me from class to class. Kids used my ignorance to intimidate me. Kids were curious. And kids didn’t care. I did meet this girl who reminded me of Laurie. Emily had a talkative, friendly personality, and although she was younger I couldn’t mind. Her eyes glowed with the same brightness.
I rode the bus home. Mom bustled around lighting incense, arranging furniture and transforming the house. I went to my room, exploring. I ventured to the basement. The things I found were kettles, tractor parts, tin cans, etc. Who lived here before? I think, based on my findings, apparently an old farmer. The mysterious door upstairs I saved for last. Dad showed me the keys on the keychain he’d received when he purchased the house. Eventually I discovered the unlabelled copper key that worked. The heavy door swung open. I stepped into the attic. Around the storage I saw a comfortable sitting chair. Problem is, someone currently sat in it. I froze, too shocked to move. The intruder seemed oblivious to my actions: she didn’t even look. I relaxed slightly and found my voice. “Who are you?” It sounded interrogative. Her eyes placed delicately on her polite, lonely face were greener than than Arkansas spring grass and sweeter than honey. “Hello, I am Jennifer Elaine Wilkinson. May I ask who you are?” I didn’t know quite what to say. Should I shout to my parents? Run downstairs to call the cops? These options I decided against out of curiosity. “I’m Marcy. Marcy Louchen.” I stated hesitantly. “It is nice to meet you, Marcy Louchen." Jennifer is about as old as Vanessa. Her red hair was tied in a tight bun. She wore a neat blouse and a blue skirt adorned by stitched flowers We sat there and talked for hours. I left when Mom called to tell me dinner was ready. I seriously considered going back or bringing her some of our food. Instead I waited till the next day.
After school I raced home to Jennifer. She still resided in her usual place. This time I felt more comfortable, like I was having a conversation with a new friend. Jennifer asked me questions. I, in turn, asked her some. Mainly she asked about my past, friends, and family. Jennifer seemed so confident and intelligent. She listened intently. She had lived in this house. The piano downstairs belonged to her, and I wondered if she could play me a song.
March 28,
Dear Diary,
Things stay the same. Each day I return to Jenny. Sometimes we play board games. Speaking of playing, I convinced her to come downstairs and play me a tune. As we passed by Mom didn’t even notice. I’m starting to think only I can see Jenny. Jenny is amazing! Her fingers skip across the keys without effort. Now she is tutoring me on how to play. We have to be careful while playing though because Jenny is so much better. My parents hear her playing and become suspicious. They are concerned I spend so much time upstairs alone. I have plenty of playmates with Emily. One day I showed Jenny to Emily. I convinced Emily Jenny had to be our secret.
April 16,
Dear Diary,
Emily is trustworthy. She hasn’t told a soul. We explore new places together. Jenny might accompany us as long as we stay inside. Outside is a different story. Mom and Dad HAVE noticed how happy I am. Trevor and David miss me since I do not hang around them anymore. I will be happy with my new friends Emily and Jenny.

Last edited by kinzdreamer; 11-30-2008 at 12:38 PM..
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Old 11-30-2008, 10:59 AM   #135
Lions and Tigers and
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Wow. That was great! Hey, Cheryl? What's the, like, status of this contest?
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Old 11-30-2008, 11:31 AM   #136
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Actually, Elsie . . . . Wow, we're a week off schedule. xD I'm debating whether I should end up getting rid of, like, five contestants and go to voting now, or let people have an extra week and give them a second chance to stay in the game.
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Old 11-30-2008, 12:03 PM   #137
Lions and Tigers and
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

In my opinion, I want to make this contest go faster. I think that a deadline is a deadline, and whoever still hasn't met it should just be eliminated. Anyone who hasn't posted, that is. But that's just me.
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Old 11-30-2008, 12:33 PM   #138
Call me Padfoot
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Hey guys, I know this is like a week late but here's my entry!


Prologue

The land of Larzu for many years was peaceful. But later was foregoing times of war and hostility. Only a few among the many dared to fight for what was right. The two important of the few were a dragon named FireStone and a wizard named Morgan. Times were getting harder, Morgan and FireStone knew, soon they’d need to bring the Child of Light to Larzu.
“Times are getting dangerous, FireStone.”
“You think I don’t know. The child is old enough. I think it’s time we brought her here.” FireStone said, flapping her massive wings as they flew to a refuge.
“We need to ask the Fairy Counsel where she is.”
“You know that as well as I do, Morgan. She’s only a couple years younger than you.” she said as she began to change course.
“I know,” he smiled broadly. When Larzu was in her peace years, Morgan used to play with the child. He had fallen in love with her, but they had to give her to people outside in a place called Earth. There, he couldn’t visit her and all memory of Larzu was removed from her for all of their sakes.
“You still remember her?”
“Remember? How can I forget?” Morgan asked, his mind drifted back to times of fields of moases and lilies they had played in, “Where are you going?”
“To the Fairy Counsel, it’s time to bring her home….”


Chapter 1

Lauren Montgomery was a simple sophomore at Linenburg High School in Linenburg, Utah; at least, she seemed like that. At her school, she had no friends and no parents. This didn’t boost her popularity, if not lowered it. Her aunt, uncle, and cousins despised her because she wasn’t the perfect student as her cousins all were. She ate very little though and was more interested in literature and the arts, than sports and school work like her cousins. Though, on top of that, she had fine beauty.
Everyday it was: go to school, come home, do homework, eat dinner, and cur-few at 9 o’clock. But, when her parents were asleep, she’d read stories of lands far away, with dragons, a maiden who saved herself with the help of the charming thick-skulled knight, and with the magical ending. She longed for a day like a storybook ******e to be a witch and to find her own prince.

..::~:~::..

“Get up you lazy good-for-nothing child.” A voice called, yanking Lauren out of bed. Her alarm went off rite then. Lauren groaned.
“My alarm just went off!”
“So what? Maxi, Lizzie, and Maggie are already downstairs down with breakfast!”
“I eat a like a bird, so I guessed I wouldn’t have to ge-“
“And be selfish and make my sweet angels do the chores you could be doing while your not eating?” she yelled.
“What am I, the slave?”
“You better be thanking me, you were dropped on our door-step and we felt sorry enough that we took you in, hoping to raise you better than your freak parents, you little piece of ungrateful sludge!” she yelled, Lauren’s attic walls shook, a couple rats scurried across her aunt’s feet. She screamed and a couple of Lauren’s books fell off the shelves. Lauren was angry, no doubt about that, “Don’t you ever, talk about my parents like that! My mom was twice the woman you’ll ever be!” Lauren roared.
“That is your mistake, Lauren, how would you like to stay locked in your room for the week that ought to change your mind!” she yelled slamming and locking Lauren’s door.
Lauren smiled as she locked the door. She grabbed a shirt she had found put in her locker. A pops girl had put it in there because she knew she had bad style. It was a tighter green polo. It was a lot tighter than the four sizes too big shirts she had to wear. She grabbed a pair of beaded jeans and got dressed. She brushed though her coal black waist length hair and climbed onto the top of her bed. It wasn’t hard considering that it was no higher than her ankles. She jumped and grabbed an over head pipe. She pulled up and grabbed another pipe. She climbed to the top when the door handle jiggled. She hid herself in the pipes.
The door flung open and Lizzie stood there, “Lauren! My mom wants you down stairs now. She got your report card!” Lizzie yelled, snickering as well. Lauren held onto the pipes as Lizzie left. Lauren kept climbing. She had everything; maybe she’d runaway and never come back it’d be a good solution for all of them. She reached the top and there was a small window she could just barely squeeze through. She through her bag onto the house’s satellite and crawled out. She caught her grip on the roof and grabbed her bag. She carefully closed the window then started walking toward the electric pole. She threw her bag onto a hook then climbed down on the hooks. When she reached the bottom, she grabbed her bag and ran to school. The kids were still inside watching television. She was as happy as a little lark, if not happier.
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Old 11-30-2008, 12:57 PM   #139
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

Nice one, B2S! Nice ones from everyone!

So, Elsie, does that mean we're giving DL a chance to get back in, and that being it, or . . . ?
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Old 12-01-2008, 07:58 AM   #140
Call me Mooney! =D
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Default Re: ○ The Author's Criterion • Think You're a Good Writer? • Put Your Skills to the Test Here for PSFs! • All Spots are Filled, But You Can Read Along! ○

An excerpt from my story, The Book.


I was walking home from Grandfather’s shop. It was dark, late at night, my pace was swift. I clutched a book to my chest—a book bound in old leather, heavy in my arms. Suddenly, I heard a rustling in the bushes. Without a second thought I called out. “Hello?”


“Hello, Anlya.” A voice cackled—four figures in dark red cloaks jumped from the bushes. I stumbled back, wide-eyed in confusion. Two things really stuck out to me about theses people—one, they were wearing cloaks. Cloaks! Who wears cloaks? Two; they seemed to be children. Not adults, but mere children.

And then I gasped. “Luke!”


Luke let his hood fall down, his eyes were gleaming. Near him stood Paolo, Adair, and Ben; their hoods also now rested on their shoulders. “It is I. Give me The Book, Anlya!” He stuck out his hands. His voice was kind, gentle and pleading, yet his face was contorted into an evil grin.

I took another step back, swallowing as I found I was now in the middle of the road. “What book?” I whispered, unable to make myself sound brave. I glanced down at the book in my arms. “Oh. That book…” I held it out to him—

But it was just then that headlights, bright, bright headlights, were coming up the road. I looked over and to my horror realized they were coming right for me. I’d have no time to run, no time to move, I screamed—

“ANLYA!” I heard some one shout my name from the opposite side of the road—the one I wasn’t facing. Something hard hit me and sent me flying to the curb, to the feet of the Clan. It was Haig—and he’d spoken! His voice was soft and not too deep, yet not the voice of your average twelve-year-old’s. He, too, wore a crimson cloak; his arms were around me protectively as we hit the pavement. I gasped in pain for a moment, before I realized that I was fine—I looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Anlya!” He whispered in my ear as the car zoomed by.


“HAIG!” Luke roared, “What are you--!?”

“Run, Anlya,” Haig whispered again in my ear. “Run! Take the book! Don’t look back. Run!”

“But I don’t know where to go--!”

“Just run!”


And that’s when I woke up on the couch, where I’d been last night. I took a breath and ran my hand over my face; my heart was pounding like a drum, I was covered in a cold sweat. I shook my head and closed my eyes for a moment.

Suddenly I was standing in front of the bathroom sink, bent low over it and splashing water over my face. I straightened and grabbed a towel, rubbing my face dry. For a moment I stood there, towel pressed to my face, breathing in the scent of the fabric softener that lingered on it. “Why did I dream about the Clan?”

I pulled the towel from my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was frizzy and knotted; my eyes once again had bags under them. “I…no, I don’t. In my dream, he was part of the clan, I think…right?” I was talking to myself, and I didn’t care.

“In my dream he, too, wore a crimson cloak, now that I think about it…” I paused and bit my lip. Then I picked up my tooth brush and toothpaste—I squeezed a glob of toothpaste onto the brush and stuck it into my mouth. “Why would the bad-guy help the good-guy?”

I stood for a few minuets, brushing in silence. I was sure that in that dream that Haig was the bad-guy—and so was Luke, Paolo, Adair, Ben…But I couldn’t figure out why, then, would Haig save me?! I tipped my head forward and spat. Picking up a cup, I filled it with water and took swig. As I swished the water in my mouth, I came to a final conclusion.

It was just a dream. It would always be just a dream. And it really didn’t matter in real life—no one would ever even give a thought above saving my life if they had to. Though I repeated those things over and over again in my head as I dressed a few minuets later, and though I repeated them throughout the entire day, one part of me disagreed.

‘You’re special, Anlya.’
The part would say, ‘You’re very special, Anlya. You’ll see…you’ll see soon enough…’


(757 words)

(Sorry it's soo late--the holiday really threw me off. I'll be better with getting my entries in;

sorry again.)

Last edited by Dolphin Lover12; 12-01-2008 at 08:03 AM.. Reason: Automerged Doublepost
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