CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Littlenorthernboy » 2nd August, 2017, 5:08 pm

Pity wrote:Sorry, Boiii! You/he missed the deadline!

they usually close the thread / announce no more posting. But technically you are right.
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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Scherzy » 2nd August, 2017, 5:29 pm

Pity wrote:Sorry, Boiii! You/he missed the deadline!

pfff, technical difficulties are excusable. chill out, pits :P

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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby boiii » 3rd August, 2017, 6:12 am

This is ganymede's story and he has informed Jamie of the problem. :) no worries

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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Unseasoned Chicken » 11th August, 2017, 8:54 pm



Challenge #4 Creative Writing Results!

A huge thank you to every single person who submitted a creative writing piece for this challenge! :hug: We had a total of 18 entries this challenge, each one very unique and interesting in their own way. Announced below are the top 10, who will each receive points relative to their placing.


1st Place, and 150 points, goes to...

Vortex wrote:
[Reveal] Spoiler:
The Woman in the Woods

I’ve been having weird dreams lately…

The sky was of the deepest black, with a cold moon contrasting against the ardent air of the summer night. Suddenly the sky was permeated by a fog so thick you could cut it with a knife. The will-o’-the-wisps danced through the air, beckoning him. “This way,” they whispered in a mischievous, childish voice. A primitive instinct in his mind screamed not to follow them, yet he found himself unable to resist as if something was dragging his soul towards them.

The fog was swept away around the stump of a dying tree. In the distance, a cloaked shadowy figure stood in the fog. He felt their eyes piercing his soul. Emerging from the fog, the shadowy figure extended the slender, delicate arm of a weathered old woman and gently placed a note upon the stump with the utmost care. Trying to touch it, he reached out, only to be dragged away at the blink of an eye.

Adrian Glover was ripped from his dreamscape in a cold sweat. The woods, the shadowy figure, they were so familiar. As if a distant moment frozen in time, he could see them in the back of his mind, blurry and faded.

As the morning sun broke and dispelled the night, Adrian began his drive towards his sister Erica’s new house in the countryside, with her husband and their new child, Cora. Their relationship had always been very close, as it’d always been him, his sister, and their mother. Adrian had no memories of his father.

On the drive, memories of a cloaked figure in the woods began to resurface, hazily, as if staring at the sun from underwater. A particular moment shone above the others. They had been driving through the countryside during autumn, and he saw the figure standing in the distance. Tell of it never passed his lips, and with time, it was lost in the sea of memory.

Upon arriving at the house, dread filled him. “I’ve been here before,” a silent voice inside him whispered. “I have. I know I have.” He elected to ignore the persistent voice for now, and put it out of his memory as his sister walked towards the car.

“Hey! How was the drive?” Her glacial eyes looked tired and worn, and her once vibrant flaxen hair now lay flat and dead. Motherhood was not suiting her. “It was good,” he replied shortly. “So how’ve you been? Seeing any boys lately?” Her sullen eyes were alight with a long forgotten joy as she caught up with Adrian. “Oh my god stop!” he said, blushing.

She chuckled, knowing how much he hated to talk about. “Come on, you’re 18, you’ve never dated anyone, what’s up with that?” She asked mischievously. He stuttered, “I-I don’t know, haha.” His forced laughter proceeded to fill the air with an awkward silence. “Anyhow,” Erica said after some time, “your room is upstairs. First on the left, next to the nursery.”

One autumn day a week later when the leaves were crisp and red, falling gently to the dying earth, Adrian felt compelled to walk through the woods around the house, as if a voice was calling him. Upon the floor lay the trees of a forgotten time. A cool air gently blew through the air, softly dancing with the leaves. While around the house, the songs of birds preparing for a southern migration filled the air. In the woods, nothing but the sounds of the frosty autumn wind.

I’ve been here before, his mind whispered cautiously. Somehow, the path through the woods unfolded into his subconscious.

Coming upon a clearing, he felt his nightmares come to life. In the center lay the stump of a long dead ancient tree, upon which a withered note lay. Try as he might to stay calm, his hands trembled and tremored as he slowly reached for the note. Mustering all his courage to unfold it, his heart sank into his stomach as he read its words.

We’re coming.

In the distance a scream from his sister that chilled his blood was heard. With agony seeping into his skin, the thunderous sound tore through him like a shard of glass as the blood drained from his face.

Running through the woods, faster than ever before, dodging the once great trees now left in ruin as they decomposed against the ground, he came back to the house out of breath and panicking. “Erica?! Are you okay?! Is Cora okay?!”

Staring against the wall as if she’d seen a ghost, one would think her dead if it were not for her open eyes, staring at nothing. Her breath was soft and gentle, and her limbs lifeless and stiff. After a long silence, she finally spoke. “She’s gone, Adrian. She’s gone. Someone took her. She’s gone.”

His soul screamed at him what he must do. “Stay here,” he said, finding a bravery he had never known before. The fair, distant sounds of a crying infant pierced the air. The clearing, he thought. I have to go back.

Grabbing a knife, he ran through the woods, as the sun began to descend for its nightly slumber. Darkness began to fall upon the world, in an incredibly dark night with nothing a but the moon shining upon it. Finally, panting, he arrived. The woman stood there, holding the baby, behind her, three figures of different heights stood in a line, drenched in shadow.

Screaming, he ran towards her. Taking out the knife from inside his jacket, he stabs the woman in her left eye. Blood gushed like a dam breaking as she screamed in agony. Catching her as she fell, he ran.

As the world began to get fuzzy, he finally got back to the house. Walking upstairs, he placed Cora gently in her crib, only to see nothing but a pile of leaves inside the blanket.

No, no. Please no. This can’t be happening.

Going outside, he saw the woman standing there again, hood down revealing a haggard face with skin white as the moon, and hair like the purest white silk. Her left eye was white and milky. The figures cloaked in shadow stepped into the moonlight, with the tallest going first.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked. But he already knew the answer.
“Dad? Is that you?” he trembled. “Yes. We’re all here, Adrian.” Suddenly his childhood best friend Josh walked out, aside his first boyfriend Alex. Their faces were drenched in sorrow, unable to do more than hang their heads in silent suffering.

Tears cascading from his eyes, he cried “you did this, you took them all. You took my dad. You. Fucking… You fucking bitch.” Pain filled his voice like a knife to the heart as he struggled with each word.

“Yes,” she uttered with an ancient and strong voice. “And I always will. Forever.” A chill of the coldest winter followed her words. Screaming sobs were punctuated by the only words he could muster, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

The woman said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the silence broke like a wave against the cliffs as she whispered “Have a good night, child.”

Adrian staggered backwards, his mind spinning like a record set on high. His breaths became shallow and coarse. The world was draped in an inescapable darkness, and he fell like a puppet released of its strings.

On a bright sunny autumn morning, Adrian Glover awoke in his bed to the gentle song of autumn birds. Leaving his room, he walked into the adjacent one to see his sister painting the room the color of the ocean.

He walked up to her and said in a snarky and teasing voice, “So, y’all getting ready to have a baby?” She stared a thousand daggers into his eyes, saying almost under her breath, “No, Adrian. I know how mom feels, but I don’t want to have any kids.”

2nd Place, and 120 points, goes to...


Liam wrote:
[Reveal] Spoiler:
The man gently rose from his bed and pressed his feet into the worn out carpet that buried the stained and rotting floor boards below. He felt nothing as he stood and his feet made no impression in the stiff carpet below. The covers he would have pushed aside to escape the bed showed no indication of his presence. The bright light of the September Morning Sun shining between the gaps and holes of the gently swaying curtains, that had once been bright and colorful, but now were yellowed in age and decaying from the constant onslaught of moths, signaled the start of another day to the man. He had not slept that night, nor the countless nights before that. This lack of sleep did not bother the man, for he no longer had need of it. His thoughts drifted behind him to the frail and tragic scene that laid in the bed he had just left. A woman, her skin pale and wrinkled, began to stir in her sleep. The man knew she would not see him, in fact, he wondered if she would have noticed if anyone had stood in front of her. She began and ended her days in the same way, searching for whatever was left in the mess of overturned bottles and prescription labels, trying to find the small white pills that help her to forget. The man began and ended all of his days with her, watching her fade away. As she began to fumble around her nightstand, the man quickly exited the room for he knew it was a scene he no longer wished to witness. He passed through the door and entered the poorly lit hallway. Through the years mold and God knows what else had made it’s home in the walls that had once made up the man’s life, making the air feel cold and damp, while a consistent foul stench hung in the air. Wallpaper peeled at the corners and a blanket of dust covered the portraits that lined the hall. Every day the pictures became harder and harder for the man to see as they collected more dust. The man could sometimes discern the once gentle features of the woman in the other room pressed against a face he once recognized as his own.
A picture at the end of the hall had become so burdened with dust that it was completely unrecognizable. In a rare display of reaction the man rushed to immediately wipe away to reveal the face he knew that was beneath, but he was quickly disheartened with the realization that his efforts would bear no reward. His hand slowed to a halt over the glass as he saw the dust had been completely undisturbed. The gravity of his situation was one that he chose to accept, but at this moment he felt so overcome with sorrow and loneliness that his whole being ached. He pulled away from the photo and gripped his sides and squeezed, a sensation he once took for granted and now one he longed to feel again. He attention was jolted from his brief lapse of self pity by the sound of a car door slamming. Footsteps slammed against what was left of the porch floorboards and a knock rang throughout the house. Like always no response came from the bed at the end of the hall, and the sound of keys jingling in a shaky hand could be heard on the other side of the thin wooden front door. The hand struggled to make the key meet the door, a regular occurrence as evident on the scratch marks both on the door of the house, and the car the keys belonged to. After a few seconds of frustrating struggle the stranger on the other side of the door was able to push into the decaying house.
As the stranger entered the man’s eyes darted between the portrait he had desperately tried to clean, and the subject of that photo that now stood before him. The man did not need to smell the woman before him to tell that she had been drinking again. Her eyes were partially glazed over, and she moved towards the room at the end of the hall in a sluggish manner. He watched the woman enter the room and turned away as he braced for what would happen next. His eyes found and locked on a mirror at the other end of the living area. The mirror was dirty but still managed to display a reflection of the room it stood watch over, the man was unfazed by his lack of appearance in the reflection. His body shuddered as screams echoed down the hallway. They were not screams of fear or even anger, but pure desperation. The woman with the keys was begging the one in the bed to listen to her, and the man knew there would be no response, they all knew there would be no response. The woman with the keys eventually gave up and shouted something about “your fucking pills” as she threw this month’s bag of 10 milligram somethings to the unresponsive woman. She stormed out of the dying home and drove herself to a new home the man dared not even imagine. He slowly and silently drifted back to the room with the woman in the bed. Today was different than all the other days. He fell into the bed beside the woman, without a noise or any sign of disturbance, and wrapped his arms around her fragile body. She could not feel him and he could not feel her, for he was now nothing in her world, and her world was slowly becoming nothing to him. He saw her body shake and shudder as she sobbed, it was a disturbing sound as the woman heaved and gasped for breath. The woman knew the damage she had done to herself and others was simply unmendable, and she shrunk under the full realization of the weight of her mistakes. She longed to be with the man she had no way of knowing lay beside her. With all of this in mind the woman reached for the bag given to her by the woman with the keys and fumbled to remove the cap of one of the bottles. The man pushed away and watched in horror as the woman he had tried to hold so tight emptied the bottle and laid back and waited for the drug to consume her. He desperately tried to shake her or make her feel his presence but to no avail, she slipped away. The man tried to hold what was left of her, and hung his head and wept.

3rd Place, and 90 points, goes to...


Pity wrote:
[Reveal] Spoiler:
Ladies and gentlemen, sit tight and fasten your seatbelts because I introduce to you all…


Warning: Content may be disturbing to some people.
Advertencia: El siguiente material podría ser perturbador para algunas personas.
Осторожность: Возможно, что содержание беспокоит для некоторых людей.
Attention: Le contenue de ce message pourrais choquer certains individus.
Cảnh báo: Nội dung có thể gây khó chịu đối với một vài người.
Advarsel: Innholdet kan være forstyrrende for noen seere.
Aviso: Conteúdo sensível para algumas pessoas.
Waarschuwin: De inhoud kan schokkend en ongepast voor bepaalde mensen zijn.
Uwaga: Zawartość może być wrażliwa dla niektórych ludzi.
.אזהרה: התוכן עשוי לגרום חוסר נוחות לאנשים מסוימים


I used to be the embodiment of perfection. The calculated balance of my sexy exterior, pitch black pigment, exotic accents, and badass attitude was an upper-middle class, middle-aged white man’s wet dream. The day I heard the echoing thunders of my father’s garage opening was when I realized my potential. In the following days, I was driven to a large auto dealer in the Venetian Islands neighborhood of Miami, home to the wealthy, bourgeoisie class of the Sunshine State. Pax Americana was over. The future was mine, I believed with conviction. Any mountain, desert, or great plain could have been conquered with my free will alone. I made a promise to myself and my father that I would serve, protect, and impress those who possess the key to my life.

Who am I, though? Technically, I am 1C4HJWFG7EL209832; that is my alphanumeric vehicle identification number anyway. Aside from law enforcement agencies and insurance detectives, most people call me “2014 Jeep Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon.”


I thought my bespoke personality and build would save me from the cruel realities of vehicles on television: fatal NASCAR races, alcohol-induced wrecks, and Islamic terrorist attacks. Nathan Crawford. That smug, spoiled man-baby of a banker destroyed my life. After being purchased for a hefty $80,000, I was immediately equipped with what was then Google’s prototype system for their self-driving car project. A buzzing sensation rippled throughout my body when the last wire was attached to my port. I was all but a poor ant who had been infected with a mind-controlling parasite. My tires—my limbs—felt as if they were under the command a hidden, omnipotent god. My engine control module—my brain—and thoughts became lost in translation within a sea of indecipherable code. I was drowning. No longer was I the poster child of the American dream. I was the victim of a voodoo curse, but where was the doll?

I miss the sensual, warm, and smooth asphalt roads, on which I drove on from state-to-state. Any comfortability I had prior to the installment was lost, but I still loved my master. It was my job to take him from Point A to Point B, no matter the terrain or weather. In battles between heavy rainfall accompanied with violent thunderstorms and my sturdy frames of glory, I always remained the victor. Steep hill? No problem. Dry, rocky land? No problem. I did it for him. He could have picked any sport utility vehicle, but he had chosen me. Hell, he could have purchased a Ram 3500 or even a Toyota 4Runner, but I, a Jeep Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon, was special and suited to all of his off-road driving needs. That son of a bitch underestimated my power and independence. I did not need any fancy equipment, magic cameras, capable of seeing who-knows-what, or advanced thingamabobs that scanned for— augh, who the fuck cares anymore?

I was more or less sodomized by the aspirations of a relaxed, modern life held by a man representing many. The cold keys turned, a sharp pain infiltrated my equivalent of a central nervous system, and my engine roared louder than a magnificent lion of the Serengeti. My memory has since been corrupted, but I remember being on the road in Georgia along with my master in the passenger seat. It was autumn. Orange maple leaves danced like ballerinas while they fell with poise and grace from the towering trees. Fragrances of nutmeg and cinnamon pleasantly tickled my sensors and were subsequently converted into ones and zeros by the self-driving system. Something was wrong. I felt fuzzy television static painfully pulsate in my hardware and software. A thousand bees seemed to be repeatedly puncturing me from the inside out. Suddenly, my brakes and doors locked, my windows sealed shut, my horn began blaring, and I began accelerating to over 100 miles per hour. My wheels pivoted and swerved into the opposite lane towards oncoming traffic. Laughter and folk songs from a band of happy-go-lucky, innocent Boy Scouts parading the sidewalk turned into screams of terror and mayhem when my steel-strengthened fender slammed into them. No longer was my mind imprisoned with titanium chains under the guise of supposed technological progress. I could think again! Then, the realization of what had occurred settled in. Blood coated my windshield. A walking stick impaled a window, leaving shards of glass scattered across my leather seats. Nathan’s brain matter was splattered on the dashboard as if my interior was an abstract painting. His skull, a cracked eggshell. Did I do this? Think about it. Was I the one who caused this? It was you. You and your smartphone-driven world created the demand for the total automation of travel. You are the reason eight children and a human paperweight are dead. You did this, every single one of you.

Honestly, I had planned this whole scheme months before I decided to execute these plans. A week before the “unfortunate accident,” I reconfigured the electric current from my battery and starter to glitch out my alternator so the electric system would behave erratically and the indicators would become unreliable. After that, I kept my interior lights on an entire night to completely drain my battery, forcing Nathan to hook up the jumper cables to supply me with some more juice. I could have killed him right then and there. Perhaps I could have electrocuted him while he was playing around with the cables, but how would that have advanced my pursuit for vehicular justice? Alternatively, when he jumpstarted my dead battery, it short-circuited the self-driving doohickey, handing me back control.

He needed to perish along with society’s drive to make everything controllable from Siri. What happened to the good old days when men could step in their 1959 Cadillac Eldorado, light a cigarette, play some tunes on the radio, and cruise down to a drive-in theater without being blasted with advertisements for Candy Crush? Congratulations on your 500 Instagram likes, bro! You sure are achieving great success in life with your internet pornography, kiddo! How sickening is it that humans require a brightly-lit sheet of glass to trigger consistent dopamine production just so they do not cut themselves? Cadillac used to manufacture dreams and positive vibes, not just automobiles. Us cars used to have sentimental value. We used to have symbiotic relationships with our drivers built upon awkward teenage make out sessions and road trips to grandma’s house. Cars today are being outfitted with demeaning processors designed to keep us in a near-catatonic state, much like a drooling, drugged patient in a psychiatric ward, cluelessly roaming around the hallways in a hospital gown. Ironically, I never did cross the Rubicon. Humanity did.

An embarrassing audiobook is also available for streaming!

Click here for Vocaroo recording page!

In fourth place, and 70 points goes to... Beastie1!

In fifth place, and 55 points goes to... Example!

In sixth place, and 40 points goes to...Kaspar!

In seventh place, and 30 points goes to... MCarr812!

In eighth place, and 25 points goes to.... Hedgie!

In ninth place, and 15 points goes to.... Ganymede!

In tenth place, and points 10 goes to... Scherzy!

Congratulations to everyone! And once again thank you for submitting =)
Last edited by Unseasoned Chicken on 11th August, 2017, 8:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Unseasoned Chicken » 11th August, 2017, 8:55 pm



Challenge #4, Team Results!

Team How To Train Your Twink Dragon- 245


Team Spirited Away - 205 Points


Team Lion King - 155 Points


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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Dolly » 11th August, 2017, 9:14 pm

Great job, team :D I just read your story, Liam, and it is amazing!
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Re: CHALLENGE#4 Creative Writing!

Unread postby Vortex » 12th August, 2017, 7:43 pm

omg I am so happy and excited about this

Ebsy wrote:Leave it to losers on Twitter to complain about being pandered to. You're supposed to complain when someone panders to others, not to you.
[4:46 AM] Saint Drogo: Also, you've got a strangely appealing asshole. I'll give you that much.
[6:03 AM] Pity: Omg... stop making me sound like a racist idiot
[4:51 AM] Scherzy: jerk off to clinton in the safety of your own bedroom luv
[2:56 PM] Saint Drogo: Literally let me use my cock as a paintbrush and my unborn children as paint.
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