The February 2009 Writing Contest!

[mr_pikachu]

That's right, everybody. It's time for another Fanfic Writing Contest!

For those of you who are new here, the Fanfic Writing Contest is a themed short story writing competition across the forum, held once every few months. The writing contest is a fantastic way to test your writing skills as well as a great source of constructive criticism, as all entries are given full reviews by two experienced judges. Anyone may enter the contest -- the more the merrier!

We'll maintain the previous word limit of 4,000 words maximum. Without further ado, here are the judges and theme for Fanfiction's February 2009 Writing Contest....

JUDGES
Lady Vulpix
MeLoVeGhOsTs

THEME
Nobody's Home

Please post your entry in this topic by February 28th, 2009 at 11:59:59 p.m. Central Standard Time.

Have fun, and good luck!

[mr_pikachu]

I suppose I'll be the first person to post an entry this month. It's been awhile since the last time I competed... if you think you can do better, take your best shot!

My entry is below.

Mozzarella

[Lune the Guardian]

Haha... You are my hero for posting that.

I've been wanting to enter something, but I've been swamped by projects and some other stuff this month. What happens if nobody else enters this month? Will the deadline be extended?

[PancaKe]

I didn't even know there was a writing contest happening! Perhaps this should be in the main forum, not writers lounge?

P.S. I will write something tonight then!

[Lady Vulpix]

By popular(?) demand, it's on the main forum now.

No excuses from now on. Sharpen your minds, get your fingers ready and start writing! Because 'Mozzarella' doesn't even fit the theme.

Thanks for trying anyway, Brian.

[mario72486]

I feel so bad right now...

I have a terrific idea for this particular contest, but I haven't had the time nor the enthusiasm to work on it. Unless the higher-ups decide to extend the contest, it looks like I'll be bowing out.

But I still intend to write the piece regardless. If it happens to be after the contest is over, that will just mean I'll be free to do with it as I please in terms of length.

Sorry people. Apparently the writing gods weren't with me this month...

[mistysakura]

Human Nature

Spring

Although he did not know it at the time, the day the Lord Ignatius turned ninety-nine, he arranged his own requiem. The idea came to him as he was walking on his lands, in a forest which stretched for acres. It was a brilliant day, the sun radiating from an azure sky. The cherry trees cast dappled shadows, providing shelter. A robin’s chirp interwove with a lyrebird’s melody. The old lord, too, joined in, his gravel voice scraping out a hunting tune. But the effort brought up phlegm from his throat, and he soon stopped singing, not from coughing but from dissatisfaction at his own voice, which had seen better years.

What a morning, the old man marvelled, raising his eyes to the sky. He could spend the day walking these woods, watching the cherry blossoms unfurl their petals, the breeze scattering them onto the soft earth, and never grow weary. Why, he thought, he could spend the rest of his life singing praises to nature without finding sufficient words to describe the delicate scent of pine needles wafting in his nostrils or the scampering gait of squirrels. The glory of the music of the skies could only be expressed by… by music itself, the old lord realised.

A plan generated itself in his mind as he hurried back to the house. He rushed through the rooms as fast as his knobbly knees would allow, finding his housekeeper in the laundry. The old lord hired only two servants: the woodcutter, who was to cut down only as much firewood as was needed for the fireplace, for the old lord delighted in a lush forest; and the housekeeper, who had been with him for forty years. He didn’t need more servants, as he liked to tend his own garden, and the house was small. The lord preferred to spend his days strolling the woods, observing birds or hunting the occasional game. He remarked to the scarce visitors that the house was merely a shelter, the outdoors being his true home. So it was a surprise for the housekeeper to find the old lord rushing into the house at midday, but she quickly composed herself, wiping sweat from her brow, for the old lord held his servants to the highest standards.

“I have decided,” the lord announced, “that for my hundredth birthday, I will commission an orchestra for a special performance in the gardens. The piece to be performed will be ‘The Four Seasons’.” The old lord paused to clear his throat, watching to make sure the housekeeper understood his instructions. Exhausted from the rush, he leaned on his cane as he continued. “The orchestra will be handpicked from the town’s musicians. See that each presents himself for an audition. I shall conduct the orchestra myself.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, my lord. And would you like me to take that?” The lord glared at her, caught unaware. The housekeeper saw his confusion. “On your shoulder, my lord.”

The lord glanced at his shoulder. There, on his crisply-ironed velvet jacket, was the splattering of a bird’s faeces.

The old lord glared at his housekeeper again. Her eyes were lowered to the floor and she was biting her chapped lip to force back a smile. “The insolence,” he growled as he swiftly took off the offending article, taking care not to let any part of his skin touch the spatter. He threw the jacket at his housekeeper’s feet. “See to that as well.” As the housekeeper hastily bent to pick up after her lord, he walked off, muttering “Birds…”


Summer

“Stop!” The old lord barked, beating the music stand with his baton. The musicians, startled, looked up. The old lord was shaking in rage, holding onto the edge of the music stand to steady himself. His grey eyes narrowed.

“Look at me! All of you! Do you not understand that I am your conductor?” Silence ensued. The musicians assembled before him knew not whether to meet his gaze or look down in deference. One of them, a violinist, dropped his bow and scrambled under another’s seat to retrieve it. The old lord impatiently rapped his baton again.

“I have never heard a bigger mess! The horns are a whole beat behind, and the flutes racing forward!” Despite the old lord’s slight stature, his voice flooded the room. It was growing hoarse from the lord’s shouting over the past weeks, but that never stopped him. “Why do they call you the town’s finest musicians if you won’t even follow a conductor’s beat?” He flung his hands in the air, the pent-up exasperation of the previous weeks exploding.

“Why do you people insist on being so self-absorbed? Why don’t you pay attention to anything around you? How can you possibly pay tribute to summer, to birdsong, to falling leaves, when all you are is a cacophony?” One of the musicians opened his mouth to speak, but a warning glance from his peers sealed his lips. The lord continued his monologue. “It is as if you all insist on being soloists, when in an orchestra, the best thing you can be is nobody! Do you hear me? A perfect nobody!”

The old lord stopped, wheezing. No one dared move while he regained his breath. “From the top now,” he commanded, calming down slightly. The musicians relaxed their shoulders and began to play.

Outside the window, the lawns and forest of the lord’s grounds could be seen clearly. The summer rays scorched grass blades to a dull yellow. Lavender was in bloom, with bees drifting lazily around as if contemplating whether to suck its nectar or take a nap on its stalks. A butterfly danced. A sparrow returned to its nest, calling for its young. The heat trapped in the house made eyelids droop, and a violin solo rose into the air…

“You!” the old lord shouted, thrusting his conductor’s baton at the young violinist’s chest. “Can’t you see it’s all in unison? What you’re playing is nowhere near what is on the paper!”

The young man lowered his violin and blushed. “Well… it’s just that it’s such a beautiful day outside…” The old lord’s eye began to twitch. “And the birds… Can’t you hear what they’re singing? I just got a bit carried away, started to join in with them… that’s all…”

Enough was enough. The old lord banged his cane on the floor. “Get out! Now!” The young violinist stood frozen in place, unsure if the lord was serious, eyes darting, searching for advice from his peers. None came. The old lord pointed a gnarled finger at the oak double doors. “Go on, go home! All of you!” This time, most of the musicians did not hesitate to pick up their instruments and head for the door. Once those who stayed saw the mass evacuation, they, too, dragged their cellos and double basses across the wooden floor, not wanting to be left in the presence of the old lord’s ire.

The old lord looked across at the abandoned music stands, the empty chairs, and heard only silence. It was time to initiate another plan.


Autumn

The maples in the forest shed their dead leaves, which crumbled underfoot, creating a carpet of red and gold. Every other day, the old lord ordered his woodcutter to cut down a maple tree, and on each of those mornings, he heard the thump of the severed trunk as it fell. Every time that thump sounded, nothing remained of yet another tree except for a dead stump and scattered young branches, but that was not on the old lord’s mind. The wood was all he needed.

Once the woodcutter had sawn up the tree and carted it to the old lord’s door, the lord would take the largest piece and carve out a torso. Each torso was identical and wore a wooden shirt, complete with collar. Then he would hollow out the torso and attach arms and legs, also hollow. Each shoulder and arm had flexible joints which replicated exactly those in the human body; the joints at the hips and legs could not be moved, but were moulded in a sitting or standing position. If one walked into the old lord’s living room at night, one could be forgiven for thinking he had walked into a revolutionaries’ secret meeting. Every figure had thirty ball joints in their wrists and fingers, which ended in smooth, rounded fingernails. The head, though immobile, took the old lord the longest to carve, for he insisted on every detail – short, straight-cut hair, symmetrical ears, and pupilless, staring eyes.

Every second night, as the old lord left the living room, a new figure had taken its place. A perfect man. And twenty perfect men would form a perfect orchestra of puppets.


The house never received visitors, for the town musicians dared not enter the house any more. The old lord preferred it that way. The motley crowd was too flawed to deserve the beauty of music. Too unskilled to reflect the coolness of autumn, too distracted to evoke the snow of winter, the old lord thought. To err was human, and nature’s divine hand put humanity to shame.

In this age, where apprentices shirked their duties and young men left town to roam the hills, there was no unity. And without unity, music could not be.

Forty days and his puppets were assembled; another forty went by before instruments were found for all of them. He acquired the best instruments money could buy, made from the finest spruce and ebony. To be sure, he tested out each instrument himself, checking for inconsistencies. He spent days adjusting bridges, replacing strings, tuning them to perfect concert pitch.

When each instrument was placed in its puppet owner’s hands, the old lord thought he had never seen a smarter-looking orchestra. Every figure sat or stood up straight, as if an invisible puppeteer pulled it upright. Every shirt was smooth, every pair of trousers crisp. Most importantly, when the old lord stood behind the conductor’s stand, he could see every pair of blind, wooden eyes staring straight back at him.

But although appearances had to be flawless, they were secondary. The most difficult part was yet to come.


For the first time in weeks, the old lord stepped outside his house. The outside world, which he had once regarded as his true home, was drastically changed. The maple trees, the closest out of all the trees in the forest, had once circled the house, their leaves like a burnished halo. Now, twenty dead stumps were the forest’s new graves. The old lord barely glanced at them as he went into the forest, seeking out the woodcutter.

He found the woodcutter sitting at the base of a bare cherry tree, holding out breadcrumbs in his hand for sparrows, which hopped onto his hand and chirped as if chatting with an old friend. Upon seeing his lord, the woodcutter lifted himself to his feet, dusting soil off the seat of his trousers. “Good morning, m’lord,” he said gruffly.

The old lord pointed to an oak tree which towered above the canopy as if it were the king of the forest. “Cut it down,” the lord commanded.

The woodcutter hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers, fidgeting. “I don’t know, m’lord, that tree’s been there since my great-grandfather was a woodcutter’s boy, maybe even before that, m’lord,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I said, cut it down.”

“But, m’lord, it’s too tall. Even if I cut it down, I couldn’t get the trunk out, there are too many other trees,” the woodcutter said. The old lord saw that the oak tree was surrounded by a cluster of cedars and pines, forming a natural shield around its girth.

The old lord nodded. “Just cut it down. Cut them all down.”

“But m’lord…” The woodcutter was tongue-tied, lacking the words to express the doubts that shone earnestly in his eyes.

“How many more times do I have to tell you?” the lord spitted. “Cut it down and leave! I don’t want to see your face again!” He stomped off, stabbing his cane into the soft earth.

As the old lord locked his house door behind him, he heard a thud that shook the house’s foundations. He looked out the window. A black flock of birds took to the air, cawing.


Winter

It was months before the old lord took the conductor’s stand again. The puppet orchestra was again aligned before him, but they weren’t empty shells any more. Instead, they were filled with tiny cogs and levers made from the sturdiest oak. The old lord had crafted each and every one of them himself, for the system was too intricate for any part to be entrusted to outsiders. Once the cogs and levers were in order, the old lord drilled tiny holes in the front of each puppet’s torso, where its shirt buttons would be, and threaded strings through each one. Each string was connected to a lever within the figure’s body at one end, and to a ring the size of a cup’s rim at the other. Each type of instrument – violins, violas, cellos, double basses – had its own ring. The old lord held these rings in his hands. The mass of strings snaking from puppets to conductor was visually unappealing, but he could not come up with a better solution. It niggled at his pride.

The figures were all wound up, and another string connected each figure to a common ring, the most important ring of all. When this ring was pulled, springs would simultaneously be released in all twenty figures. Then, the performance would begin.

The old lord took a deep breath, almost sputtering on his own saliva. Then he pulled the starting ring.

At once, all twenty figures sprang to life – or rather, a replication of life which exceeded the original. For a moment, even the old lord stood in shock, not daring to move lest he disturb the mechanical beauty of the scene. As the figures wound down, their fingers pressed down rapidly on the strings. From these twenty puppets of wood, a rendition of ‘The Four Seasons’ sounded, stirring the old lord’s soul as much as, no, more than any world-renowned orchestra. Every figure kept perfect time, operated by identical swaying pendulums. Every bow bowed at the same angle.

And the music that emanated from these puppets! It was as if the dots on the music score had been directly transcribed into frequencies and amplitudes. Every part could be heard distinctly. Vibratos resonated clearly, imitating the bird trills the old lord had not heard for months – for so long that he had forgotten what they had sounded like. The cellos never missed a beat; the violins played their fast runs with mechanical precision. The old lord could almost see the flowers springing forth in their ode.

Suddenly, the old lord realised he had forgotten that the rings were still in his hands. It was now that the lord could pay his own tribute to nature, pouring his praise into the performance. He tugged the violins’ ring upwards, accentuating the high notes soaring over the soundscape. Then he gently tapped the cellos’ ring, hushing their notes down to wisps of cotton wool. The double basses’ ring he then alternately pulled and relaxed, coaxing deep swells and ebbs of sound. The dynamics he played were the vitality of spring, the waves of summer, the delicacy of winter snow.

But as the performance went on, things grew awry. When he tried to build the violins up to a climax, the volume only got halfway up before it fell back abruptly, exposing the too-quiet cellos and basses. The trills began to waver. The violas suddenly swamped the entire orchestra. The old lord panicked. What could possibly be happening? His mind went blank, and he could think of no answers. Sweat accumulated on his brow. Finally, the old man stomped his foot and yanked the starting ring again. The puppet orchestra halted mid-phrase as if frozen in time.

The old man collapsed into a chair, knees trembling. He looked out the window, where the dead maple stumps were dusted over with snow. If the old man had looked out more often, he would have noticed that this winter was quieter than usual. Perhaps it was the felling, for even the non-migratory birds had disappeared, taking their songs with them. Even the foxes seemed to hide away; perhaps they knew that their prey had been scared off. But spring was approaching soon; the snow was already beginning to melt. And with spring would come the old lord’s hundredth birthday. He wanted the piece to be perfect for the occasion. But how could he fix the problem when he didn’t know what it was? His hands shook, tense with varicose veins.

And then it hit him. He looked down at his trembling hands, at his stiff joints, at the sweat that glistened on his palms and made his grip on the puppeteer’s rings slip. He realised then what the fundamental problem was: himself.


Spring

The night before he turned one hundred, the old lord transported all twenty wooden figures into his garden. Most of the garden had dried up by now, and the little that remained was choked by weeds. The clover patch that had once read ‘HOME OF LORD IGNATIUS’, tended (along with everything else in the garden) by the lord himself, had withered away. Illuminated only by moonlight, the old lord could see none of this. It took him until dawn to position all the figures, for they were made of sturdy wood and weighed on his hunched back. However, he insisted on doing it alone. He was too close to his goal now to let anyone wreck his creation. By the time the sky lightened, his knees were close to collapsing.

He carried out the last figure, a new one, at the crack of dawn. He was glad about that, because the sun, glowing vermillion on the horizon, provided light to see by. The orchestra was set up, instruments in wooden hands. They were all angled to face the conductor stand, all spaced perfectly. Then, it was time to slot in the last piece of the puzzle.

The new figure was the old lord’s wooden twin. It had his narrow, steely eyes and square jaw. However, it lacked the old lord’s stooped stature and the calluses on his fingers. Instead, it stood straight, like an army commander. It was the conductor.

The old lord placed the conductor figure behind his stand – it was no longer his stand, but its. He placed the controlling rings in the figure’s hands. He looked into the figure’s eyes, and pupilless, blank eyes stared back at him. He nodded and let go. Sitting down some feet away, he pulled the starting ring.

What happened next was the most eerie moment of the old lord’s life. The orchestra was activated again, and the strains of its ode to spring emanated. And as the conductor figure wound down, it acted out a routine that the old lord had rehearsed to perfection, and spent weeks embedding into the figure’s maze of gears and levers. The conductor figure performed the lord’s emotions. His love of the lyrebird’s mating call. His yearning for the sea. His hunger for autumn fruits, bursting ripe. His soft tread in virgin snow. All those half-recalled memories were the wooden puppet’s now.

It was the most technically precise rendition of ‘The Four Seasons’ the old lord had ever heard. It was perfect. And as nobody played for nobody in the centre of a wilted garden, in a circle of dead maple stumps, the old lord closed his eyes for the last time, knowing he had done nature justice.

3318 words

(Inspired by Metallica and by my all-too-human choir.)

[Pichu Luver]

Leftovers

Have you ever looked at concrete?

It's used in apartments, garages, sidewalks, patios, schools, skate parks, stadiums... basically any structure made by humankind. Great under compression but rather horrid tensile strength. It's become almost mainstay to have it as the foundation for a house. Made correctly it will withstand the rigors of time and sometimes the house itself.

So perhaps my question should be if you have ever seen a slab of concrete.

A house can be destroyed by any number of disasters; or a determined wrecking crew. The slab however is a fair bit harder to remove. Embedded in the ground it often remains there, too costly to get rid of. The new house may be built right over top. Or the block remains sitting there until the owner figures out what they want to do with the property.

Think now and remember those lonely slabs of concrete you have seen in abandoned lots. I know you have seen at least one, perhaps more.

Ever wonder what happened?

Or perhaps you know what happened and just don't think about it. Corporate conglomerates buying the land to make something new. Cheaper to remove the old while waiting for approval to build. Storms pass through and obliterate a town. Some families choose to move on. Fire destroys a house and no one is left to rebuild. Or the march of time itself makes it safer just to take it down.

It was a home but no one's there now.

What stories they could tell. Families grown and gone. Businesses risen, moved on or closed down. Whole towns that went bust and all that's left is the slabs; maybe some ramshackle buildings. Trees grow up around them, grass starts to nibble on the edges, other buildings edge ever closer. Playgrounds built and children wonder why there's a great square of it beside the sandbox. Why there is a block of it in the middle of meadow. Why it sits beside the road forgotten and passed by.

History is there. Perhaps a life or series of them passed by on that slab and no one would know.

Does it matter? Perhaps not. Will it matter? Maybe.

A fairly long time ago there was the Black Plague. It didn't happen just once it happened in waves. By the time it started to taper off it had killed thirty to sixty percent of the European population. For obvious reasons that would have serious effects on towns, cities and farmsteads.

Travel almost any part of Europe and you will see where the land seems oddly flat, or partitioned. Maybe there is even a whole meadow full of strange divots. They could from wars past, or they could remains of what once was a thriving town decimated by the plague. The history is hidden in the ground. People routinely dig it up to find out. Lives were lived there, but nobody's home now.

We cherish the old buildings we have left. Preserve them, honour them with plaques. What stories have we missed because those towns and villages went to ruin?

We cannot know, but for those forlorn bits of concrete hanging around your town you can certainly investigate. Sometimes the house just had to be taken down for safety reasons. But sometimes... sometimes you may get a tale about a old man that used to scare the daylights out of kids in the neighborhood. About a old dark house that burnt to the ground and no one escaped. All that's left is a concrete slab beside a favorite playground. Leaving no one left to call it home.

[Lady Vulpix]

Mario: don't worry. The contest is an excuse for people to write something, but in my experience stories tend to come out better without the length and time limits. I'm sure I will enjoy reading your story whenever you post it.

Ada and River: thanks for posting! I would have felt bad to judge a contest with no entries. I'll read and rate yours as soon as I can.

And Brian: sorry, but I'm afraid your entry doesn't match the theme of the contest.

[mr_pikachu]

And Brian: sorry, but I'm afraid your entry doesn't match the theme of the contest.

Gabi: It's a metaphor. The title of a piece is like its frame. It's the context in which it is written - in a sense, the title is like a house. The text itself, then, fills that context, that space, like the residents of a home. In this case, there is the title (the "home") with no further text ("residents"). Therefore, nobody's home.

I demand to receive my zero!

[Lune the Guardian]

Wow. I just read the pieces, and there's a lot I want to say, but I'll reserve it for after the judges have made their own impressions. ^_^

Oh, and mr_pikachu, I wish I could steal your witty humor.

[Lady Vulpix]

OK, I'm sending Shonta my ratings now. *Sighs.* That was hard!

[MeLoVeGhOsTs]

I'm in the clear. 'twas a small contest, but the stories were great. I enjoyed reading them; and most of all ponder on them. Hmm..

[classy_cat18]

Sorry I'm late with this. But without further stalling for time:

Gabi's Reffing:

Comment by Lady Vulpix: first of all, I must tell you this has been really hard, especially since only one of the entries fits the rating system. Maybe some adjustments could be done to the system for future contests in order to make it fairer towards people who post different kinds of works (especially since I've had a similar problem rating essays in the past), but it's not my call to make such changes. MeLoVeGhOsTs should post his own ratings soon... I hope. Oh, and Brian won't get the zero he demanded, he gets something for the effort and the originality.

Before you see my ratings, here's my disclaimer: I enjoyed reading your entries, and I hated having to rate them. I don't like having to dissect stories and fit them into the little slots provided by the rating system, but it's a part of judging that can't be avoided. As a result, I tent to give rather low ratings for stories I actually liked. This has been pointed out in the past, I'm afraid I can't help it. As I've said before, if you got a score above 50, odds are I thought yours was a good story.

Mozzarella by mr_pikachu

Plot: 0/20 No plot that I can see.

Originality: 10/10 Very original, really. It was funny and surprising.

Writing Style: 8/20 Because I think the lack of text, once explained, is an interesting and original style of writing. As long as you don't do it more than once.

Spelling and Grammar: 10/10 No flaws there.

Characters: 0/15 No characters.

Settings: 0/15 You could say the setting is the contest itself - but you didn't, and you haven't provided any background information, so I can't help you there.

Overall appreciation: 3/10 It was funny. It made me laugh and I told my family about it. But it's not really much of a contest entry, is it?

Final result: 31/100

Closing advice: nice work turning the emptyness into art, but next time I hope you write something.

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Human Nature by mistysakura

Plot: 10/20 I think the plot is coherent in that there aren't any major plotholes, but it is also highly predictable. I'm afraid I could tell how the story would end by the time I finished reading the 'spring' part.

Originality: 2/10 I'm sorry, I really don't like giving such low ratings, but I feel like I've read that story many times with different skins. The fact that Lord Ignatius's initial idea was to celebrate nature was original, considering how he ended up destroying it. But the story itself is not very different from, say, "The Nightingale" by Hans Christian Andersen.

Writing Style: 20/20 No complaints here. The writing was smooth and easy to follow, the images were clear, the words were nicely arranged and the division of the story in seasons just like the music around which the story revolved was a nice touch. I particularly enjoyed some phrases, like "slight stature" and the description of the lavender and the bees in the summer.

Spelling and Grammar: 10/10 All's well as far as I can tell.

Characters: 5/15 The main character was clearly described by his actions, but all the others tend to fade into the background. And even about Lord Ignatius there are some things which aren't clear. Why did his attitude suddenly change? He didn't seem to be that way at the beginning of the story, and he used to be respected by his servants and people in general. What drove him to do what he did? The scene with the woodcutter was particularly puzzling. The man was understandably reluctant to follow the order, but why wasn't he surprised? As far as I can tell, he'd never received a similar order before. He'd never had to cut any more than was necessary. If people used to respect Lord Ignatius, why didn't anyone show concern about him after he changed? And why didn't anyone try to warn him? Had you said that he had no friends and the servants had been raised to do what was asked of them without questions, and given some hints that no one really did care for him, then the general attitude towards him would have been more understandable. But that was not what I could gather from what I read.

Settings: 8/15 The setting is common, but very well described. At least the physical aspect of it. We don't get to know much of the outside world, but that may be due to the fact that the story follows Lord Ignatius and he's so isolated in his own thoughts that he has no real knowledge of the world beyond his home.

Overall appreciation: 5/10 It could be a rather good children's story. If it had been written two or three hundred years ago, it could have been greatly applauded. But I've read and heard too many similar stories, and I'm afraid I can't shake the feeling that there should be something more to it.

Final result: 60/100

Closing advice: keep writing. Please do keep writing. Don't let this stop you. You've got the language and writing style right, and if you're aiming for a young audience the moralizing strategy can work quite well (even if an ending like this is likely to make children cry). But try to put some more focus on why the characters act the way they do (what their motivation is), and on the aspects of your story which make them different from others already known.

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Leftovers by River

Plot: 5/20 There is no real plot, only several sub-stories vaguely insinuated but never told. This in fact adds to the point of your work, as the focus is on the ignorance of those stories. But I'm afraid it isn't much of a plot. There's only a mini-plot near the end, when you speak about the black plague in Europe. Interesting, but not deeply explored.

Originality: 9/10 It was very original and surprising. Yes, like "Mozzarella", but in a very different way. It was good and I can't say I've read something quite like it before, save for, perhaps, the saying "if walls could talk, what stories would they tell". But this is much deeper and extensive than the saying.

Writing Style: 14/20 Good use of the language, and appealing to the reader at the beginning was an interesting technique. The changes of scene were well handled, and the narration was generally easy to follow. The only thing that I felt was missing were changes of pace. The style of the narration was a bit monotonous.

Spelling and Grammar: 9/10 There was a missing comma in the sentence "It didn't happen just once, it happened in waves." I wouldn't discount a point just for that, but there was also the phrase "They could from wars past, or they could remains of what once was a thriving town decimated by the plague." I can tell at least 2 words are missing there. I just can't figure out which ones they should be. I also believe you've mixed up "seen" (3rd paragraph) and "looked at" (1st paragraph). The text would make more sense if they were interchanged.

Characters: 2/15 Characters were only vaguely mentioned. Just like with the plot, the absence of information supports the main point, but it doesn't leave much room for rating.

Settings: 14/15 Familiar settings are put under a new light and described in an interesting an original way. Well done! If I had also learnt something new from this, I would have given you 15/15.

Overall appreciation: 8/10 I liked this piece a lot. I would have liked to go on reading, you could have explored the possibilities a bit more. But it's nice and coherent as it is. Too bad the rating system doesn't favor it.

Final result: 61/100

Closing advice: I'm afraid I've wasted the last of my mental energy for the day trying to rate this story (and that was after I spent the last 2 weeks thinking about how to do it). I can't come up with advice right now, but rest assured that you've done a good job. I'd like to see what else you're capable of writing.

MeLoVeGhOsTs' Reffing:

Sorry for the delay, apparently I’m really busy this time of year. I read them, rated them and I hope it’s any good, since I’m new with this whole rating thing. If there is any kind of problem just let me know!

Mistysakura:

-Plot (16/20 points):

It kind of surprised me. I didn’t know where the whole thing was going. I find it to be a more ‘philosophical’ theme, which makes you ponder on things like nature, age, what to do with your life when you’re old, and most importantly on respect. Respect for the people who help you (or serve in this case), for nature, etc. It all fits together in the end which is a nice finish. There’s not much plot twist in this story, but it didn’t have to. Although it wasn’t a really ‘exciting’ piece of work, it did kept me guessing all the time on what is yet to come, what the next will step be.

-Plot Originality (7/10 points):

It is original, with four seasons, each adding something to the story. Each season that passes marks a phase in his orchestra, and in his view towards nature. After four seasons, the work is done and his view has changed.

-Writing Style (18/20 points):

I really adore your writing style. The words seemed to paint the story on my eyes. The descriptions are of high quality and seem very real. Dialogue was taken back to a minimum, but that didn’t hurt the story as it fit the old man’s ‘me alone in the world’ attitude. The story is solid and doesn’t stop-start all the time, despite the interruptions by the seasons.

-Spelling and Grammar (8/10 points):

I won’t give you any scores on that seeing as I really suck in that aspect. So I’ll just give you a fair eight, as I saw no things that really bothered me.

-Characters (11/15 points):

I found the Lord to be very realistic, full of contradictions like a real human being. Although he loves nature, he keeps on destroying it, bit by bit. His thoughts seem noble and realistic, but all comes out in a bit of a ‘mad-mans-scheme’. The other characters filled their roles of secondary characters well, but there’s nothing more I’d like to say on them.

-Settings (12/15 points): The setting was described well, but limited. We only get to see a part of his estate, but that didn’t seem to bother me much as it wasn’t needed.

-Overall Appreciation (8/10 points): It’s written in a professional, deep atmosphere. Although the characters and setting was limited, that made the Lord and his orchestra stand out much more, which really helped the story. The writing style is what I’m most keen on, but I’m repeating myself.

Final Result: 80/100

Closing advice: Good job, nothing more to add.

***

River

-Plot (14/20 points):

There wasn’t an overly thought-out plot according to me, but I did like the flow of the story. It made me think. History is something that cannot be overlooked and your story really exclaimed that fact. Different people live in different houses; some houses are left to rot and burn, while others get a new layer. It’s not highly original in general I think, but it is something that I would have never thought of writing, so ‘grats on that.

-Plot Originality (8/10 points):

It’s a new concept as far as I know, but then again I’m not up-to-date on these things. It’s not an action-aimed short story, so really shocking and revealing moments are non existent, but that’s not necessary.


-Writing Style (16/20 points):

It was a short piece of work, so very large paragraphs weren’t there. The description was fine, while the dialogue was mostly aimed in a sort of narrator-reader perspective which was cool. The negative comment on this, for me personally, was that it kind of stop-started all the time. It didn’t really flow, but perhaps that’s just me.

-Spelling and Grammar (8/10 points):

I won’t give you any scores on that seeing as I really suck in that aspect. So I’ll just give you a fair eight, as I saw no things that really bothered me.

-Characters (12/15 points):

There aren’t really any characters, but that’s ok. It’s not that kind of story anyway.

-Settings (12/15 points):

Again, it’s not that kind of story. It’s mostly a ‘think’ story to me, so settings and characters and things like that don’t really matter. I’m giving you twelve on both seeing that I can’t give you 0 for not really making them, or 15 because there is nothing to remark on them.

-Overall Appreciation (7/10 points): I really liked it, although it’s totally different than the one mistysakura wrote, which I also like.

Final Result: 77/100

Closing advice: You really know how to make the reader think about certain stuff, which is very good feature for a writer. I’d love to read something else.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now for the totals! *does drumroll on nearby book*

In third place, whose work didn't even get a reffing from MeLoVeGhOsTs (ouch), mr_pikachu with a 31/100!
Second place, with a 69/100, is River!
And the winner with a 70/100...mistysakura!

It was a close race (for two of you anyway)! Congrats, and I look forward to the next contest!

[MeLoVeGhOsTs]

Sorry about that Brain, I totally forgot. I'll give you your demanded zero then I owe you one.

And congratulations mistysakura.

[mistysakura]

Thanks a ton for the reviews, guys. Don't worry, Gabi, I'll keep on writing -- I'm not that easily swayed Thanks for the compliments about the writing style. Funnily, I normally wouldn't read something with a moralising style either. But I felt that the image of the story lent itself to that, and in the past I've been too vague and readers haven't been able to understand the point I'm trying to make. Guess this time I erred on the other side, eh? It's a fine balance...

Plot Originality: I didn't actually realise how close the story was to "The Nightingale" until it was pointed out. Thanks for that. Wasn't going for originality is this one, just wanted to write ye olde fairy tale. And the inconsistencies in character... I tried to hint at the old man's 'issues' before they came obvious -- his tendency to mould nature into something pretty and reject it when it isn't (see the scene with the bird shit). Plus perfectionism. But I admit that his character made little sense. Basially, with this fic I started off with a really strong image in my head -- the puppet orchestra -- and I wrote the fic around the image. As a result, I twisted the plot and characters to fit the image, even though they no longer made sense. It's good that I'll be able to learn from that mistake.

Once again, thanks a ton for reviewing! Your feedback is extremely valuable to me.

Really, I reckon River should've won this one. It's a shame that she lost basically because her fic wasn't FFRO-friendly. A couple of times I've toyed with submitting poems for the contest, but never ended up doing so for that same reason. But creative non-fiction, what River's doing, could actually be reviewed FFRO-style if the criteria were applied more liberally. For exxample, with Plot, we could review how the 'argument' or train of thought was developed, whether our thoughts were directed in unexpected directions, how good the buildup to the climax is, and stuff like that. Characters are still hard though.

River, your fic made me think. I'm pretty sure I've read a piece on a similar topic, about abandoned houses. But that doesn't take away from how good your piece is. I have to admit that I don't recall ever seeing such a concrete slab, which shows that I don't think about these abandoned houses and their history...

[Pichu Luver]

Thanks a bunch for the reviews. ^^ I'm sorry it was so short and I would have liked to expand on it but I only found out about it the last day for submitting. And about three hours before it was due. So... I wrote it in about that span of time. I saw there was only one (well ok 1.25) and said nu! There must be another! *furious typing ensues* So in the future I'll check back here before the end of the month, lol.

There is more to those stories as all three (playground, roadside, middle of a field) I have actually seen around places I frequent. When thinking on the the theme I remembered an abandoned house up in cottage country that has been torn down. The slab is still there though every time we walk by on the road I wonder who lived there. The 'middle of the field' I have no idea, it's just there Oo'''; out in the back part of a property on a farm, surrounded by trees. And *enter spooky music* the playground is a true story too.

As for characters yeah... I realized there were none but I couldn't think of a way to fit that in with the topic I picked. I was worried a tad 'cause it wasn't a 'story' but more a 'think on this if you will' piece. Though my argument is that the concrete's a character .

Thanks for your comments on my writing style. I know I need to work on it, my teachers constantly say that. As I was reading it over I noticed the jarring aspect to it and that is a problem for me I have trouble flowing and kind jump on from one to the next with little connective-ness. As for plot, I didn't have the time to expand like I wished, but you're right in that it wasn't too well thought out. I just connected similar things in my head and didn't think on it too much. Kinda a 'here's a bunch of ideas and you sort em out' deal. I shall most definitely work on that.

I'm very glad you guys liked it and that mistysakura won because she definitely put more time into it then I did. The conductor bit reminded me of a old teacher I used to have when he complained to us about those same things (well minus the strings). Lol so it made me laugh there. ^^ I think Four Seasons is actually a song too by um... Mozart/Beethoven/Bach I really can't remember but of those kind of composers. If that's what you thought of cudos you brought back some old music class memories for me. Congrats on your win. ^^ Thanks again Lady Vulpix and MLG for your reviews and I will try to post more items in around here.

[classy_cat18]

I didn't judge, River. Gabi did.

[Pichu Luver]

¬¬''' Yesh this is what I get for not reading the top closely. Sorry 'bout that. I assumed since you had posted it.

[mistysakura]

I think Four Seasons is actually a song too by um... Mozart/Beethoven/Bach I really can't remember but of those kind of composers.

Indeed, it's by Vivaldi. One of the most overused pieces ever, hehe. For me, the piece was inspired by my choir. My conductor's always annoyed at us for not watching, hehe. Actually, he's the opposite of the old conductor, because he has a great sense of humour and is very narky. But glad to hear it tapped into your music class memories. Thanks for the compliments!