On our third successful round. Here it is the Writing Prompt Contest voting.

Seven total entries were submitted and each is randomly labeled a letter of the alphabet from T - Z.

<b>Prompt:</b> Unrequited Love
Word Limitation: 3,000 words (3,500 max)

Please take the time to read through one by one (just not in one sitting or you might hurt yourself!) through the entries that our fabulous members of the forum entered on the subject of Unrequited Love. Remember to enjoy them and please vote afterwards.

Contestants may not vote until <b>April 15th</b>. Do not vote for yourselves or your vote will not count. Comments on entries is recommended for feedback and constructive criticism. <b>Only</b> constructive criticism is advised.

There are 2 entries in each post.



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Entrant T (652 words)
"You Can't Leave"

Outside her tent, two dark shapes flitted past, only flickering shadows cast by the fading firelight. There was a tall, loping figure, followed by the unmistakable form of a horse. Both horse and man were lithe and graceful, gliding by in less than a moment.

She knew of only one man who could be leaving camp at this time of night, heading towards the mountains. Only one man would leave in the dead of night, avoiding all arguments for him to stay, forsaking all goodbyes.

Slipping out of her pile of furs and sliding into a woolen shawl, she quietly emerged from the tent, searching the campsite to see which way he had gone. Glimpsing the twitch of a horse’s tail as it melted into the forest, she headed that way, keeping her distance but staying close enough to see and follow.

The horse and man wandered through the forest at a steady pace. Twigs and leaves were silent as they passed by, almost as if the forest was trying to assist in their silent departure. The lady, however, was not quite as successful in covering the sounds of her mission to follow.

They traveled in eerie silence, broken only by the occasional snapping of a twig by the lady or the hoot of an owl, for a quarter of an hour before the man and horse suddenly stopped in a moonlit clearing. The lady stayed back in the shadow of dense foliage, keeping herself hidden. The darkness of the forest seemed to press in on the sides of the glade, but never entered. Flowers and grasses sprouted up toward the moon light, like thirsty souls, desperately searching for water. A rotted out stump with tiny white blossoms growing from its hollow sat securely in the middle of the clearing. Here is where the man and his steed stood, waiting.

“Eowyn, fair lady of Rohan, why have you come?” he asked in a deep, solemn voice.

Stepping out from the shelter of the trees, Eowyn knew that he had known of her presence for the whole journey. “You know why I have come, my lord. You cannot expect me to let you go. You simply cannot leave!” she cried in anguish. “The men need you; you are their strength. With you gone, they will assume that the battle has already been lost. Don’t desert us; show yourself as a king!”

“I know that is not the only reason you have for me to stay, maiden. You know that I am not deserting my men, but going to help them. Say what is truly on your heart.”

“Aragorn...” she whispered. “Why do you make me say that which is in such plain sight? I love you, my king. My heart belongs to you.”

“The love which you seek, I cannot give. You know that, Eowyn. I wish that I could give you that which would satisfy you, but my heart belongs to another.”

The moon’s light glistened on a single tear as it fell from the fair lady’s eye. It felt as if her heart was being splintered into tiny fragments that she would never be able to recover. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good bye, maiden of Rohan,” he whispered, leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek, his lips just grazing the skin.

She caught the faint scent of him as he leaned toward her; pine needles, dirt, and sweat, but oh how she longed to embrace herself in that scent! As he mounted his steed and the graceful animal galloped off, heading for the menacing mountains ahead, she allowed the waves of despair come crashing over her. Falling to the ground, thick, hot tears spilled from her lashes as shuddering, silent sobs raked her small frame. She lay there on a bed of wild flowers and pine needles until the first fingers of a blood red dawn touched the sky.





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Entrant U (129 words)
"Lament - A Song for Eowyn"

Lament
A song of Eowyn

Slowly creeping through the halls,
I dread his always spying.
He seems to hear me through the walls,
my ever-present sighing.

My cousin Théodred
Is either dead or dying,
But Gríma’s always by his bed
He is for my hand trying.

Uncle doesn’t care,
But my life is in his hands,
Éomer would have me free
But that’s not in Gríma’s plans.

I loathe his every word,
I fear his awful presence,
And yet he still is there
When dawn draws hence.

Help me, guide me,
Take me away,
I am a prisoner of his heart.

Find me somehow,
This my one plea
Help me away from my enemy.

Help me, guide me,
Take me away,
I am a prisoner of his heart.

_________________
<center>

THE HALLOWFEST 2010
<a href="http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=20958">information here</a>

</center>

Entrant V (1,872 words)
"Sky-Colored Eyes"

He doesn’t see.

He doesn’t see when the moonlight bends into silvery rays around him, or the sunset light splashes crimson and orange over the lines of his motionless form.

When the snow began to melt into the grass – just yesterday - and one brief spring storm crashed in the heavens and ended with moist air aglitter with rainbows that had hidden for years on end, he didn’t see. He didn’t see apple blossoms turn timid white petals to the sun, unsure of their welcome after so many years of winter.

His eyes – once the color of the sky - are sightless stone. They are raised to the ever-changing heavens in entreaty, but they see neither sunrise nor sunset; nor can he feel the cool rain, nor bask in the sun, nor search the heavens for the distant stars.

Why are they still, the eyes of a dead statue?

Because of me.

The first day, I ran. I ran far away, thinking that the further I ran, the further I’d leave all the memories behind.

The second day, I walked back through the still, quiet woods. My kin had hidden themselves; they are wiser than I. It took a long time before I reached the place again.

Today is the third day, and I am sitting at his feet. At first, I wept; and now I have turned to plucking the petals off the small new morning stars, one by one. They flutter to earth with my tears marring their whiteness.

But when the flowers are all gone, and my bare feet are strewn with their petals – like tears themselves – I cannot help but turn to the waiting memories. They play before my eyes, vicious in their vividness. I know I am at fault – irrevocably at fault - but they think that is not enough. They think to parade my foolishness before me, reminding me now and ever that the stone figure at whose feet I sit would not be there, but for me.

I don’t stop them. They’re right.


“Forest-daughter…I had thought to ask you for a dance.”

The moon is full, and in the meadow the fauns and dryads whirl under silvery moonlight. I turn, casting this newcomer a glance.

He is built broader than my people, dressed in green and brown, and his eyes are a strange color – the color of the sky. He is not a dryad, I think, why does he come here?

His voice bears a strange accent when he sees my scrutiny of him, and his words come haltingly. “Forest-daughter, your father bid me join the Midsummer’s dancing. I – I am sorry if I – offend – but you are very beautiful.”

I know I am beautiful. I need no human to tell me that.

“No,” I say, carelessly, and whirl away into the dancing rings.


I rise, shivering in the onset of the evening – for even with spring the nights still chill to the bone, and I will not sleep within my tree – and walk the edge of the clearing. I want to keep my eyes on the ground, but I raise them instead. He is silhouetted against the sunset, wordless defiance in the set of his feet, his outflung arm, and the half-drawn sword in his other hand. I cannot see his expression – it is too dark already – and I am thankful for that, at least. It, too, is a reminder. I do not deserve the fierce protectiveness there. It should be me motionless in a clearing at sunset, vermilion tinting the stone lines of my body.

I should be that statue.


“Serylle?”

I am walking at the edge of the river, my bare feet chilled faintly by the water. As I kneel, lifting a tiny shell from among the rocks of the river bottom, I hear a voice behind me. I turn.

Do I know him? I do. It is that human from Midsummer’s Eve. I look at him evenly, waiting. What reason does he give to seek me out, and how does he know I am called Serylle?

“Your father bids me watch over you,” he says soberly. There are those odd eyes again. I have never seen any that color. “Strange things roam the forests and meadows, now.”

“Why does he not send my brothers?” I ask. I do not want him trailing after me.

“Your brothers are at their own work,” he says softly, “and they know not of the creatures that haunt the shadows.” Do I see something like cloud in those sky-colored eyes? If I do, it makes no different to my words.

“No one will think to bother a dryad,” I say, turning back. Tiny fish weave around my feet in the water. “My father need not worry.”

I hear him draw breath to speak but I am already gone.


The first star twinkles from the heavens. “Star my witness, star my hope…” I murmur out of habit, a little rhyme for sapling children, but the words die on my lips. What would I wish, on that star? My eyes are drawn unwillingly to his statue. I need not think about what I would wish.

Even as the heavens fill with tiny pinpoints of light, I keep my eyes fixed on the ground. The stars would not grant that wish. Nobody would. I deserve it, it and far more.

I wonder if frost will be on the ground. No matter. Let the skies give me snow – I will stay by his feet.


The moon is on the first vestiges of snow. The older of my people have settled into their trees to sleep, but I with my wanderlust hold off still. I flit through glades, meadows, fields; my only limits are those of how far my feet care to take me. I thought of him once or twice, but never more than fleetingly.

I crest a hilltop, the breeze teasing my hair, and stop to look about me. The panorama is breathtaking, all silver in the moonlight. I am lost in it.

Below my feet, a sound punctures the silence. A grating grunt, low and heavy, as if from something large. I peer down into the shadowy forest, hardly frightened, only curious.

Out of the dappled shadows stalks something huge. Now I begin to be afraid, and just as I am backing away from the edge, ready to make my feet fly, beadily glowing red eyes hold mine.

I stand, transfixed.

Then there is a shout and he is in front of me, sword out as the thing clears the top of the hill. I can see it now.

“Minotaur!” he is shouting, making motions to me with his free hand. “Run!”

But I can’t. I stand there and watch as he kills it, even as he wrenches his sword from the body and turns to look at me. Is that anger in his face?

“I told you to run,” he says, an edge to his voice. “Do you not know how dangerous such creatures are?”

“I have roamed the forest longer than you have lived, human,” I say contemptuously. “Tell me not of the dangers.”

He catches my arm, and something meets the anger in his face. “Serylle,” he says, and I recognize it as pleading. “Serylle, promise me you won’t –“

“I’ll promise nothing,” I flash, and turn my back.

He didn’t hold me tightly, but the place where he caught my arm tingles strangely.


Now morning comes, a grey dawn that promises rain like tears from the heavens. The ground by his statue has seen tears before. For the first time, I gain the courage to stand and touch him. I run my hand up his arm, flung out to tell me to flee. That time, alas, I listened.

He wears, as always, a tunic with light leather armor in the fashion of humans. I run my hands up it, but at his face I falter. There are the barest traces of our people in that face. His eyes slant up, tilted fractionally, and his skin was never quite as fair as the other humans I have seen – though in stone that becomes immaterial. His hair, cropped short, used to be nut-brown. Like mine.

When my hand reaches his eyes I flinch away as if burnt. Blue eyes. Like the sky.

My resolve breaks, and the last memory descends as I fight it.


Snow as deep as my knees. Air chilled with winter. Silence. Silence, except for sleigh bells. I do not know why I am awake in the depths of winter, not sleeping like the trees, but I know that he follows me still. Perhaps the reason I am awake is to see if I can evade him. Perhaps, this time, it has worked. I stop to listen to the bells.

Through the trees, I see a sleigh. It is white like frost, and shaped as icicles, and in the sleigh is seated – I step forward to see -

Another human. Tall and cold and beautiful, but like winter, not the springtime beauty that is mine. At her feet hunches a dwarf. In her hand is a wand of metal. As I stand there, she carelessly flourishes it at a drab little wren.

I can’t mistake it. The wren turns to stone.

With a cry of rage in my own tongue, I fly for the sleigh. She hears me coming and turns sharply, wand raised, the angular lines of her face haughtily angry.

The next thing I remember is his body in front of me, moving one moment, and the next –

Stone.


I thought all my tears were shed.

They run over his feet. The rain hasn’t come yet. I kneel in damp earth, wishing with all my heart that I had been in front of that wand. I was so utterly stupid. So vain and thoughtless and careless.

He loved me. In the only way that he knew how. That I am a dryad gives me no excuse for failing to see it.

Tears blind me.

I don’t hear the soft pad of paws, nor see golden mane, nor discover I am not alone; not until I feel warm breath on my face, and the heaviness of a huge paw on my shoulder.

“Don’t weep, forest-daughter,” says a deep, rich voice, and I open my eyes.

The lion has raised his head to breathe long and deep. The sunrise is faded compared to the gold of his mane, and he is larger than even the minotaur. I stare at him, transfixed, but he only meets my eyes steadily, and looks at the statue.

Its edges are flickering strangely. I stumble to my feet and watch color creep through the grey stone. I see green and brown, the flash of a sword, then –

Blue eyes.


It is raining now, but the rain is no longer tears. It is life. Flowers open to the morning. The sun dares to burst through the clouds and hang in the brilliant sky, making shimmering rainbows in the wet air. But the sky isn’t as brilliant as his eyes.


His eyes, that were stone until the lion brought new life.

“Forest-daughter,” he says, and kisses me.

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Entrant W (99 words)
Untitled

Unrequited love,
Nailed upon a tree.
Broken hands,
Holding me.

Unrequited love,
Nailed upon a tree.
Fading lungs,
Giving breath to me.

Unrequited love,
Wrapped up in a sheet.
Arms drawing me,
To dance to a different beat.

Unrequited love,
Sealed into a grave.
Eyes boring into mine,
Daring me to be brave.

Unrequited love,
Bursting forth in glorious day.
I fall down upon my feet,
Without anything to say.

Unrequited love,
Reaches down to me.
He sings of life forever,
All because of a tree.

Unrequited love,
Nailed upon a tree.
Unrequited love,
Paid the price for me.

_________________
<center>

THE HALLOWFEST 2010
<a href="http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=20958">information here</a>

</center>

Entrant X (3,505 words)
"Like a Fire"


“You know what you are to do,” his brother admonished quietly, as he slipped into furry wraps and heavily layered garments. “Keep the fire going, watch for my return, and for the love of all things safe, don’t let that fire nymph escape ”

Calder nodded absently, and propped his feet up on the table. His eyes were dull with reflected words, and his hands trembled with the weight of the book he was devouring.

“Calder Did you hear me?” His brother kicked him sharply in the shin, and Calder reeled back to this world in unpleasant pain, his feet falling from the table, and the book leaping from his hand.

“I was reading,” Calder said with the air of a martyr. “And listening. Now you’ve lost my place, Tomas.”

“Books ” scoffed Tomas, pulling on the last of the scarves around his pale mouth. “You’re to do no reading while I’m away, Calder Lindholm. She’ll just snatch up the opportunity to sneak out and eat away everything in the cabin, and you sitting there all the while, oblivious as a sleeping bear.” He lifted the book from it’s graceless sprawl on the floor, and put it on a shelf. “Now mind the fire, and keep a lantern up for my return. I won’t be long.”

As Tomas opened the door, it was if he was stepping into nothingness. A black expanse, too dark to feel, and the low moaning of a wind that would not stop for months yet. Snow flurries blew in, clinging to his wraps, trying to fight their way to a bit of exposed skin so they could burn him.

“Be careful ” Calder yelled hastily. Under all the wraps and folds, Tomas smiled, and closed the door behind him.

All was still again, the fire jittering about nervously, the small flakes melting on the floor. Calder looked at his book, and sighed.

“You do know that he’s worried to distraction about you,” rasped a voice from the fireplace. An indistinct outline of a face began to form, and a ball of flame gathered within it.

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m so tired of being kept within here,” she said quietly.

Calder snorted. “You and I both. I haven’t left this cabin in several fortnights... what with this prolonged winter. I doubt Tom would let me out for all the promises of snow taffy I’ve made him.”

The fire nymph rested her head in her hands, and stared at him thoughtfully. Her face had become more distinctive now, and her hair flowed behind her like so many little sparks all held together in strands.


Just before the first snow came, their neighbor Ebbe had warned them against keeping her.
“She doesn’t belong here, no more than a camel or a cactus. Unless you can find some way to get her back to the south, with her own kind, you’d be doing everyone a favor to put her out.”

“We can handle her,” Tomas assured him. “Come summer, we’ll send her down with one of the traders. One winter can’t be too much trouble.”

Calder had sat near the fireplace many evenings, not daring to get too close, and fearing every moment that she would leap out and burn him. Sometimes she spoke of the south, her strange homeland where fires burned continuously and there were more colors than one could count on fingers. Sometimes she spoke of the day when she had come to them, encased in a frightful electrical arm. Calder remembered it well, the fire they had all seen in the sky, the way she had crawled out, disoriented and unafraid.

She’d shaken violently, her spirit being wenched out of her being by the hungry mouths of frost spirits. “Fire,” she begged. “Why is there no warmth here?” Tomas took her wrist, going lead her to their shanty, but quickly pulled his fingers back, flinching at the pain. Phaedra stared in wonder.

They could get little out of her about how she had been confined in the arm, or why it had been exiled to the north. “Those nymphs are strange creatures I’ve heard,” said Ebbe, cautioning Tomas to listen well. “They bewitch you and then eat you alive like the fire they play with. You and Calder be careful, all alone with that demon. I wouldn’t turn my back to her unless I had some water very, very close.”

All during that winter Calder felt her gaze on him in quiet moments, sometimes reaching for him when he came close.

“She’s starting to scare me,” Calder confided in his brother. “I get the feeling that she wants me, that someday I won’t jump back soon enough, and her scorching hand will grab me and pull me into the fire with her.”

Within the fireplace, she grasped up the fire in her hands, and stared at it in boredom. But when Tomas head was turned, her gleaming eyes lit upon Calder, hungrily.


“I wouldn’t burn anything. I swear.” She whispered it softly, as she’d done a thousand times this winter, and glanced up entreatingly in Calder’s face.

And for the thousandth time, Calder sighed and turned away.“We just can’t trust you. It’s safer this way.”

She fell silent again, but he felt her gaze on his face like a warm hand. It made him conscious and uncomfortable, and he moved away, making himself some tea.

Her gaze followed him.

“Why do you stare at me like that?” he demanded in frustration.

She extended her hand and uncurled her fingers, as if she was trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. A small caress of heat brushed against Calder’s cheek, and he hastily brushed it off again.

“Stop that,” he commanded, his voice shaking a little. He turned his back to her, fumbling with a mug, and burning himself in the process.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. Her voice was irregular and harsh, and it stung in his ears. She withdrew her hand, and the center of her eyes gleamed a pale blue. “I don’t mean to frighten you. You are so cold... I was going to warm you.”

“This will warm me,” Calder said, pressing his numb hands against the edge of the mug.
But he sat even farther away from her than usual, and shivered into his tea.

“Why do you fear me?”

Calder had to smile slightly at this, craning his neck to look at her. So forthright she was.
“Because,” he said easily, like he was reading from one of his favorite books, “It’s in your nature to consume, devour, burn. Am I right?”

She nodded.

“And we really don’t know for sure that one day you might not be able to control it, you might get too hungry for something and not be able to resist...”

“No. I would always be able to resist.”

He sighed in exasperation, completely turning around in his seat to view her. “No, you wouldn’t. You can’t know for sure.”

“Yes I can,” she said insistently.

“How?”

“I just know...” she faltered, and stared at him again with the look of utter fascination in her eyes. “I feel something deeper than the hunger, something I can’t resist because it would hurt worse than the hunger. It’s fierce.”

“Must be.” He lapsed into a short silence, before wearily turning away from her in boredom, back to his book.

The fire nymph exhaled softly, watching him with his beloved words. He was forever engrossed in a book, other worlds that weren’t so cold and barren.

Minutes passed, and he gazed off, blinking to keep back the sleep. The fire was growing smaller, and she concentrated her energy hard into the bits of kindling left to keep it going. Her fingers tingled with repressed power, her body trembled in desire to consume something quickly, licking it up and leaving merely a powdered dust behind.

Calder’s head nodded, and her eyes darted to where he slouched over, a small trail of drool creeping out of his mouth. It fascinated her, his vulnerability when he slept. At night he curled up in a small knot, knee’s against his chest, his hands covering his face. Sometimes he moaned or laughed, sometimes he mumbled unintelligible things and Tomas would kick him and roll over.

No, there would be no burning tonight, Calder’s very fragility kept him beyond harm. To consume him would be like to consume a desert flower, to burn him would be to burn a chick when it’s just only hatched.

Hours passed. She played with the fire, making it dance up in a rage, and fall down into a calm flicker. Her very being ached with the desire to crawl out, to touch the wooden chairs and let them crumble beneath her fingers, but she looked away. The fire sang it’s seductive song in her ears, and she rested, alive and warm.


Calder awoke with a start, and immediately fumbled to wipe the drool from his face. The fire was dying down, and the nymph had diminished considerably as to conserve the little heat left. Cursing himself for being so careless, he stocked up the logs again, and knelt near the stone fireplace, waiting for her to take over.

She knelt trembling among the ashes, and staring into his face with those unnerving eyes of hers. Like flames that didn’t move, like a glowing ember that never faltered.

“It’s morning,” she observed quietly. His eyes riveted on the window, the snow had stopped and the light glared off it’s whiteness. Silently he nodded, and his pulse quickened with a thought of Tomas. He stood numbly to his feet, the sleep clinging to his eyes.

In the fireplace, her fingers grasped the log, and it caught immediately. Almost maternally she caressed it, all around little sparks danced and fell.

“He should have been here,” he said quietly, turning away from the window with his face full of despair. “He should have been pounding at the door hours ago, berating me for falling asleep and leaving you unguarded.”

Phaedra’s eyes stared downward, but he felt a small caress of warmth touch his face. He stepped back in revulsion.

“Stop it ”

They waited in silence for several more hours, he pacing wearily, focusing on the cruelty of the landscape that lacked a cheerful brother, and she watching his every move with an inner agony. With time, the tension grew, building up in his eyes. He came and knelt by the fire, pretending to warm his hands, but she could see him struggling against some unspoken emotion. Calder blinked rapidly and hung his head.

From his eyes leaked the tension in liquid form, and it hung on his pale, chiseled cheek like a perfect raindrop. The light of her fire reflected in it, and it shone like a fragile yellow star, threatening to fall at any moment.

She couldn’t help herself. The urge that was fiercer than hunger returned to her, and a desire even deeper than that to burn surged through her fingers. Extending a trembling hand, she just barely touched the star on his cheek, and it dissolved into a wisp of pale steam.

Calder pulled back, and rubbed the back of his hand roughly against his face.

“I’m going to look for him. In the woods where he hunts. Perhaps he has fallen.”

His eyes sought her out, and he stared into her, trying to read her like on of his thick tomes. She returned the gaze evenly.

He spoke with confidence, but not with trust. “You must swear to me not to burn anything. You must swear, do you hear me?”

She shook her head. “I’m going with you.”

“Is it your death you want?” He stared at her blankly, and shook his head. “It is freezing out there, and you won’t have even the smallest waft of heat to survive off of. Not to even mention the frost spirits.”

Her gaze was unperturbed, and even without an answer he knew her resolve was unshaken.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “Go starve yourself in a snow bank. But don’t expect me to rescue you. I’m going to look for Tom.”

“Yes,” she answered, “I’ll help you find him.”

Closing her eyes, Phaedra concentrated on the heat swirling around her, inside of her. She called to it silently, urging it to cling to her form and stay with her. The fire flared up in response, and then was sucked by some unseen force into her skin. Calder stared, open mouthed.

She diminished herself in size, hoping the conserve the warmth better in that way. It felt good and pleasant inside her, filling her being completely, and pulsating gently against the sides of her skin. Phaedra smiled, reopened her eyes, and took a tentative step out of the fireplace.

Her feet left scorch marks on the floor, and Calder eyed them, aghast.

“You’re too hot ” he said, staring in shock at the black footprints. “You’ve taken too much fire ”

She shrugged a response, and little trails of smoke rose from her fireproof clothing. As they made their way to the door, she pointed out in that blunt manner of hers, “I am fire.”


Everywhere they went, Phaedra sunk. No snow drift could stay firm beneath her fiery step. She’d flounder up a few steps, and Calder would (in spite of threats to just leave her) extend a twisted scarf for her to grasp.

He could see the suffering in her eyes. Every time the wind twirled about them, her form shrunk even more, closing her eyes and willing little flames into the palm of her hand, a small comfort against the frigid landscape. Several times he ordered her back to the house, but she doggedly trailed him, growing less and less bright with every step.

The tree’s were drowning underneath layers and layers of snow. Calder shivered, overwhelmed by the dark density of it.

Phaedra cried out as she sank in another snow drift, and he made an exasperated noise.

“Couldn’t you have just stayed on the path for once? Better yet... couldn’t you just go home? I’m bothered enough as it is without having to rescue you every other thought.”

Around her, the snow was melting. Steam rose up in fir-scented slivers, and she knelt, trembling on the bare ground. She took the offered scarf gratefully, and sent a tender wave of warmth Calder’s way.

His hair stuck out in little curls beneath his cap, like little swivels that snakes left across a clean sand floor. Phaedra tried not to let it remind her of her home, blocking out the images that were so dear to her. The spastic birds, the polished serpents, the sky such a brilliant blue.

Calder pushed onward, faster with every step. He swatted at an invisible frost spirit that was tugging on him, scowling towards Phaedra. “Call your sisters off, won’t you?”

“These frost spirits are not my sisters.” Her voice was half gone with cold, and what came out was more a desperate, strained hiss than anything. “They suck at life everywhere they find it, relentlessly.”

“And you don’t?” Calder responded icily.

Her orange hair blew around her, as another torturous wind enveloped them. The boy didn’t even know the half of it. In the freezing temperatures, her hunger for heat became like a wild beast inside her, and she sensed the warmth coming from his body like a tantalizing meal to a starving child. It would be so easy to suck it out, just as she had done the flames in the fireplace. He might not even feel it.

But then there was the deeper feeling. It ached every time he tempted her, it throbbed and pulsed like a fire in itself, yet it was different than a fire.

“What is it,” she whispered quietly, “This feeling that is stronger than hunger?”

Calder glanced back at her, his blue eyes framed by eyelashes that sparkled with snowflakes. She wanted to touch them, to gently finger them. He was so fragile. “How should I know? Hunger is probably the strongest feeling in the world, except maybe for freezing to death.”

He rubbed his arms again, and she spared another slight waft. Calder smiled at her.

She shouldn’t waste her energy on him, she needed it if she was to survive. She needed every morsel of heat she could save, because with every step she felt more of it vanishing from her essence.

The smile though, it begged her to throw every last bit of heat towards it. It was that feeling again, the urge that left her dizzy and confused.

“I’d never known this feeling until I came here...”

“Then it’s probably just the cold,” he said.

“No,” she insisted, “It’s stronger. It’s... it’s like a fire that touches another part of me.”

Calder frowned. “I think I read something about that in a book once.”

“I feel it...”

She didn’t finish her sentence. Just as she could feel Calder’s body heat, there was another warm throb that hit her, tickling her spine. It was a slight one, just barely radiating, a very small, lessening source of heat. Just as she felt it, Calder exhaled loudly.

“Tom.”

Tom was lying, white and blue, his foot caught in a bear trap. Calder was at his side instantly, and Phaedra saw the stars come sparkling down his cheek without shame.

“Tom. Tom ” He shook his brothers arm, and wrapped his own pale hands around the white face. Tomas did not move. The stars fell upon his face in mad abandon.

Phaedra flickered, hesitating to come nearer. The frost spirits were gathering about, hungrily grasping at every little wisp of warmth that radiated from his body.

“No, no, no,” Calder cried, rubbing his hands around the cold forehead. “Please god, please no.”

His voice was a tremble now, and Phaedra felt an intense desire go out to warm him.

But warmth would do him no good now. Not when Tomas’ last flicker was drained, and Calder lay there weeping, wanting the life to return.

But he was so frail, so cold.

The urge, it was like a fire that burned more animatedly than any fire she knew. It pushed her forward, driven like a dustwind, and she burned brighter without even realizing it.

“I can give him heat,” she said.

Calder’s eyes met her, bleary and desperate.

It was harder for her to move now, with so little of her own heat left. Her skin was dulled to a very light yellow, her hair had lost it’s vibrancy.

“I can push it out, like I pull it in. If I...” She didn’t finish it. Instead her eyes met Calder’s, and flickered orange and blue.

“I know what the feeling is,” Phaedra whispered, a low crackle against perfect silence. “It’s you.”

The boy didn’t respond, instead he took Tomas cold hand in his, and stared at her, pleading silently.

“If I do this thing, I will be extinguished forever. It will take my very essential heat to warm him alive.”

Nodding, Calder looked up at her again. The pale skin, the mousy hair. Phaedra burned brighter.
A star trembled it’s way downward, slowly, and clung to the bottom of his lip. She stared at it, marveling for the hundredth time how frail he was, and how he, being so frail, could provoke such a forceful feeling in her.

Heat waves radiated from her body as she knelt by Calder’s side, her fiery reflection flickering in his eyes. He wouldn’t ask her, it wasn’t his way. This was to be her choice.

The droplet of water clung to him yet, though his whole being was trembling. Forceful fire, intense, overwhelming desire. It really was not so very different.

Hesitantly, she leaned toward him, her eyes on the star droplet. Her breath was fire on his cheek, so she brushed her lips against his quickly. She could feel him flinch at the pain, but he didn’t cry out, or threaten to extinguish her. His lips were soft like the snow, and warm like the fire.

More tears welled in his eyes. “It’s called love,” he said.

She smiled at him briefly. Love, so like a fire.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the feeling. Like the kiss that still lingered on her lips, Phaedra wanted to do this thing quickly. She gathered the warmth in one place where she could control it, she whispered a goodbye to it as she prepared to expel it from her body.

The heat, it would push it’s way out within a moment, but she would not be left completely alone as the frost spirits congregated around. There would be something much stronger with her, something to accompany her into the realm of death.

With one more glance at Calder, his pale hands wrapped around his brothers fading features, Phaedra released the very essence of her being into Tomas’ frozen body, and was diminished completely into love.



++++++++++++++++++++++




Entrant Y (2,486 words)
"Brightest Sky"

Most stories begin with a name, and they say that the finest of stories are about warriors or royals or philosophers. My name is Wu Ming-tian, but I am not a warrior. I am too poor to be a royal, and I am too unforgiving to be a philosopher. My mother named me Ming-tian, but the name itself is not important. What is important, what I once held so dear to my heart, is the name's meaning. Its life. Its power.

"Ming-tian," my mother said, as I took my first steps onto the streets of Shanghai, the beating heart of China, where city lights drifted like fireflies beyond the veil of Grandmother's cooking fire. "Ming-tian," she said, and pointed at the flames, "because someday you will be like the fire, like the tall smoke that climbs into the brightest sky." And I was Ma's brightest sky, the last blue expanse her eyes drank in before she left this earth three sunsets ago.

"She was watching the sky," they told me, over the phone lines that span oceans and worlds. "She was watching the sky, searching and searching, as if she could find the plane that carried you away. When are you coming home? We're waiting for you. We'll wait for you forever."

Forever.

Forever is how long the aunts and uncles and cousins will wait, because I am not free like tall smoke in the brightest sky. I live in a wooden house in a strange country where no one can understand me for my accent, and my daughter is too far away, and I have no value or status or wealth. Last night, after my husband shoved me to the floor, I opened the drawers, spilling out every chopstick we own, and snapped them in half, one by one.

"Crazy old hag," he shouted from across the kitchen. "What are you doing now, crazy old hag?"

He dares! He dares to call me crazy, but who is to blame for my madness? Who brought me here, to this country where the language they speak sounds like tin and the beauty they appreciate drones on in their televisions? Who took my hand and whispered gilded secrets of the Land of Opportunity?

It was you -- you who slipped a hand into mine when I was young and white as the petals upon the water. It was you who put me on your bicycle so that I could gasp and laugh like a girl half my age, all the way home. Do you remember when we were in college, and you taught me how to dance?

"Don't be afraid," you said. "Just move your body. See?"

But I couldn't do it because my feet were clumsy, and I tripped and we both landed on the floor like a heap of dumplings, all tangled and awkward. How my cheeks went red! But that night, you taught me more than how to dance. You taught me how to laugh, learn, live.

A year later, on the night of our first kiss, it was you who looked into my eyes and stole my heart as easily as the clouds steal the moon. It was for you that I stopped going to my job in the high glass office, because it was you who promised a land called mei guo -- America, a land where chickens become swans and mud hardens to gold with each new sunrise.

I thought of Shanghai. I thought of the currents of people within the rivers of streets within the ocean that was and still is my world. "America," I repeated, tasting the strange syllables on my tongue. "Will it be very different from here, from zhong guo?"

You enfolded me in your arms and buried your face in my hair. "Very different, yes. But don't be afraid. You'll have me, and I'll love you and protect you, my Tian-tian."

It was you. You. You, who are such a liar.

And if I could spit these words in his face, see him flinch from the poison, I would. But I cannot, for I am a coward, and I fear too much. He is more than my husband. He is the father of my daughter -- my only daughter.

"We're in America now," my husband said, when her lungs filled with the first rush of sweet air. "Let us bless her with an American name." Because I still loved him then, I agreed.

We named her Hope. Is it a strange name for a girl with black hair and yellow skin -- Asian skin? I do not know, but just hearing the name -- Hope, Hope, Hope -- brings me joy beyond imagining. Whenever she laughed, her cheeks would swell into soft, blushing balls of dough, and I would clasp her in my arms and kiss each cheek until they turned as pink as spring blossoms. For eighteen years, her laughter made us a family. For eighteen years, I could forget about the unrest, the petty fights, the growing canyon of silence between my husband and me.

Then, one morning in autumn, when my hair hung lifeless with the middle years and my joints ached from the chill, Hope left me. She was young, beautiful, too full of life to be content under an old couple's roof. She was going to college, and I was proud of her dreams -- our dreams. "Wo ai ni, ma ma," had been her final words. I love you, Mommy.

For many days after that, my husband was silent. I didn't wonder why; I accepted it as another phase of his waxing bitterness. Besides, I'd asked him about such matters before, but it had only made him angry. I do not enjoy making him angry. Because I never learned to speak English fluently, I never found a second job. My husband works long hours at his office, and he brings home the dollars that put rice in Hope's bowl.

At last, one evening after he came home, he spoke. "Wo ai ni, ma ma." He set his chopsticks down and lowered his brow at me from across the table. "Why not wo ai ni, ba ba?"

I bit my lip and replied in Shanghainese, "I don't know." This seemed an unfitting response, so I hurriedly added, "Perhaps it's because you're always busy, and she spends more time at home, with me..."

His chair screamed against the floor as he shoved it back and pointed a shaking finger at me. "Always! Always -- she has loved you more than she has loved me. Why did you not teach her to be kind to her father? I work until nightfall, while you sit at home like a queen!"

Flaming words burned my throat. Like a queen! Who cooks your dinner? Who irons your shirts? Who cleans your house? What of my prestigious job in Shanghai, which I quit for you? But I was too stunned to speak.

He continued raging, his accusations pouring forth as though a vein had been sliced. "A queen -- an ungrateful queen! I brought us to the Land of Opportunity, and how do you repay me? Not a day goes by when you don't pine for Shanghai!"

"I never wanted to come!" I cried. "I came because of you. Only you!"

"Lying vixen!" He stormed around the table and yanked the chair out from under me so that I tumbled onto the icy tiles. "My money! My chair! Nothing in this house belongs to you. Nothing!"

Mute, I stared back up at him. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't know what to say. My mind had abandoned me.

He looked down at me a moment longer. Then he turned, went into our bedroom, and shut the door.

When I lowered my eyes to my hands, I saw, clenched within them, the two halves of a chopstick I'd used for picking up the rice. I held the halves in my palm, and the splintered bamboo caught my soundless tears.

Hours later, I was arranging blankets on the sofa when I heard the bedroom door creak open. Warm hands embraced my shoulders. I stiffened, but he murmured, his words a comforting breath against my cheek, "I am sorry, my wife, my Tian-tian. I didn't mean what I said. If anyone should sleep on the sofa tonight, it is I. But I hope that it will not be so. Will you come to bed, Tian-tian?"

His presence behind me was a mountain upon which I leaned. Perhaps he meant it when he told me he loved me, again and again. Closing my eyes, I nodded.

But throughout the next few weeks and months and years, he has only grown colder. Our petty arguments have only grown louder, and our silences have only grown longer. On weekday evenings, he reads the newspaper while I wash the dishes -- except many times, he is not truly reading. It is during these times that I feel his stare, hard and terrible, boring into the back of my head. My hands always shake. Once, they shook so much that I dropped a plate, which the floor shattered into a thousand pieces. Cheeks hot, I crawled to clean them up. He did not ask to help me.

I have developed a sickness. What does my American doctor call it? A disorder of anxiety? Depression? Sometimes, the walls of our wooden house turn into glass and threaten to close in, to shatter like the plate did. At night, I lie in bed beside him and choke on the heart that hammers and hammers in my throat and would not calm. My doctor gave me pills. I swallowed the white tablets and spent the next few hours standing at the edge of a bridge, wondering if I would something better in the tossing river below.

That same afternoon, he bought me flowers. "They will bloom for the brightest sky," he said, and kissed me. I wanted so much to love him, then. I wanted so much to fall, laughing, into his arms and relive my youth in Shanghai. But as I looked at the yellow buds, I could think only of Hope. I could think only of how things were then, how things are now, how things had changed.

I cannot love him. My heart is stone.

But sometimes, even stone can crumble.

He was reading the newspaper, as usual, when suddenly he called me. "Ming-tian. Come, read this article. It's about a woman from Beijing who immigrated here with her husband, like you did. You see, she doesn't look back. She is very happy."

Instead of obeying him, I continued stacking the dirty dishes as if I hadn't heard.

"Come look," he repeated, more loudly this time. "See how she smiles. She is grateful and happy."

I scrubbed the washcloth under the faucet. "That may be so. But I am not that woman."

My quiet response made him leap to his feet, slapping the newspaper on the table. "Everyone else is glad! Why are you so restless? Do you know how much I've sacrificed to get us this far?"

Hands shaking, I whirled on him. "How much you've sacrificed? I've sacrificed with you! Besides, no one asked you to sacrifice anything! We're no better off than we were before. We're not rich. We haven't found paradise. We should have just stayed in Shanghai."

His face resembled a demon's as he approached me, slowly. His breath grated against my face. "What did you say?"

Invincible, I met his gaze. "I said we should have stayed in Shanghai."

His smack snapped my head around, struck me so hard that my legs failed to hold me. "What did you say?"

Sprawled on my knees, I stared back at him in quiet defiance.

I don't remember what happened next. One instant he was standing before me, a vengeful god, and the next he was crouched by my side, pressing something icy and hard against my neck. "Always the ungrateful queen," he hissed. "I have been good to you all these years."

I did not tremble. I did not fear. "And will the good husband now kill his wife?"

The knife scraped against my skin. Then it clattered, bloodless, to the floor.

After he left, I crawled to the sink and looked at the soapy dishes. I saw the half-washed chopsticks. I seized a handful and, sinking to my knees once more, began to snap them in half, each and every one. Easy. Too easy. My hands hardly hurt. Desperate, I grasped the halves and snapped them again, and again, until my fingers were blistered and raw from bending the tiny pieces, until grease and soap wrinkled my flesh and stung my cuts.

Again and again. Once for each time he had ever said he loved me.

At last, they would break no more. Gasping, I squeezed the last splinter of bamboo between my thumb and forefinger and bent until my thumb bled. The last fragment of chopstick resisted, as though to mock my exhaustion.

A battle can only have one winner, it sneered. Too bad.

In response, I hurled it out the window. I hurled it with all my might, and it sailed far, far away, out into the brightest sky. Then I fell back down and did not cry. Cowards are too weak to cry.

That night, he held me close and told me he loved me. "It doesn't matter," I whispered back. And it's true because in my mind, the glass house has already crashed down, suffocating me beneath it. In my mind, I am already dead.

My name is Wu Ming-tian, and I am not a warrior or a royal or a philosopher. I am a woman, simply a woman, and I have nothing. I remember the life that a girl by my name once had. She was beautiful and white as the petals upon the water, and she had the world. But I no longer look behind. Neither do I look ahead, to a path strewn with broken chopsticks.

My name is Wu Ming-tian, and my story is not over yet. I will trip and fall, but I will keep walking the path of broken chopsticks. For the aunts and uncles and cousins, who wait forever. For Ma, who searched the sunset and thought of me.

Someday, my Hope will live her dreams, and I will be happy for her. Someday, I will be kissed by the man I married, not the stranger who stifles me now. Someday, I will gather my courage and lift into the air and soar over the vast, vast ocean to Shanghai or the clouds or the sun itself, like tall smoke in the brightest sky. But until that day, I cook the dinner and iron the shirts and clean the house.

Until that day, I will wait.

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Entrant Z (942 words)
Untitled


BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!

Angelina ran into her bedroom and looked at her clock sitting on her nightstand. 5:47 P.M. Oh God, it’s time. She thought. The day had finally come.

It was the 22nd of March. The day she had marked off of her calendar at least 3 months ago. The fated day that would change her life forever. The day she had been waiting, for what it seemed, a lifetime for.

Oh, how she wished this day had never come.

Angelina was 19 years old, and she was single, in a sense, taken, in another. Angelina lived with her parents until she was 17. She decided to move out, to make a living for herself. So, in honor of her choice of becoming an adult, her parents threw her a farewell party. It was at that party where she met the love of her life, the capturer of her heart, the one she wanted to be with forever. His name was Peter Locksbro, and he was also 17 at the time. She first met him at the drinks, when she ran into him and spilled her red wine all over his white shirt. Angelina blushed at the memory, remembered how in her mind she scolded herself for already showing him how clumsy she was upon their first meeting. He had laughed and told her it was nothing. That night, they began talking and getting to know each other, and after their farewells, Angelina knew that her heart was no longer hers. The funny part was, she didn’t mind at all.

They talked a few times after that, but not as much as Angelina would have liked. Yet, they talked enough for her to learn that Peter had joined the arm instead of going to college. And today was the day that the army was sending Peter across seas, to join the war. And it was the last day that Angelina would see Peter for a long time.

It was the day that Angelina would tell Peter that she loved him.

She looked back down at the clock. 5:52 P.M. It was time to go. The ship would cast off at 6:15, and the soldiers would arrive around 6:05, leaving ten minutes for friends and loved ones to say their good-byes. Luckily, she only lived a few moments away from the cast-off base, so it only took her about five minutes to get there. Grabbing her keys and her purse, Angelina rushed out of the house and got into her old, torn up truck, starting the engine quickly. Angelina fingered her gold cross necklace that hung around her neck on a matching chain as the truck warmed up. Her parents had given her the cross, a reminder of her Savior, and her Protector. She planned to give it to Peter today. She took a deep breath and started driving.

~~~~~~~~~~

The wind was blowing hard as Angelina got out of her truck and walked out into The Farwell Grounds, as it was nicknamed. Many women and children were already there, saying there goodbyes to there loved ones. Angelina scanned the crowd frantically, searching. Then, she spotted him. Relief flooded through her veins as she cried out,

“Peter!” A man with light, shaggy golden hair turned his head and smiled a half-smile. Yet, even though he was smiling, there was a different look in his eyes. Angelina couldn’t quite read it and she didn’t really care at the moment as she walked up to him.

“Hi.” She said.
“Hello, Angelina.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah. This will probably be the last time you will.” Angelina shook her head, trying to not even think of that possibility.
“No, no, Peter, you must have hope! I know you will return. You must return.”
“For what would I return here for? What is there here for me?” He asked, his face emotionless.
“Peter…” Angelina began, not sure where to begin. “Peter, I want you to have this.” She unclasped her necklace and put it in his hand. “I want you to have it because…because…I love you, Peter.” Peter looked at her, then down at the necklace, then back at her.
“Angelina, I can’t take this…” He began.
“No, Peter, you can, I don’t –” She also began but Peter cut her off.
“No, Angelina. It’s not that I don’t think you really care about the necklace. Angelina, I have to be honest with you, so that you don’t live with false hope during this war. I don’t love you. Yes, I admit, I have flirted with you…but not because I loved you. It’s to get closer to what I really wanted…what I have wanted since I first meet you two years ago…and last night, I finally got it.” Angelina blinked, confused.
“I don’t…I don’t understand…”
“Your sister, Angelina. I love her. I always have, and I always will. You see –” Peter continued to explain, but then a bell rang loudly, echoing in the streets, signaling it was time for the troops to board. Peter looked at the ships and then turned back, putting Angelina’s necklace “Give my…fiancé my regards, will you?” Then, Peter turned and walked away, along with the rest of the soldiers.

Angelina watched him walk away as the meaning of the words hit her, as the confusion passed. She fell to her knees; silent tears streaking down her face. Her sister was marrying her love, and worse, her sister knew she loved him. Angelina had given her heart to many people, friends and family, anyone who she loved or at least liked.

It had only taken two people to break it.

_________________
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1st - Entrant Y
2nd - Entrant X
3rd - Entrant V
HM - Entrant T

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I was cured all right.

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Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Yeah, come onnnn! Come and vote. It's really not that hard and you won't regret it..Darn. Where are JF's pink duckies when you need them?

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I was cured all right.

Ditto... many thanks, Caunion. I can't vote yet, but here's my criticism. Romance, especially romantic poetry like some of you entered, really isn't my thing, so you may or may not find it beneficial to heed my advice.


T - Graceful style. I especially like your similes, strong mental images, and description of the forest. I also like how you stayed true to LotR, sprinkling a few details here and there for the reader to guess but never stating it's a fanfic until the middle. But regarding the Eowyn/Aragorn exchange, perhaps you could have deviated from the original conversation? We're all familiar with the scene, so it's easy to skim over that part. Bring something new to the scene. Introspect more deeply on Eowyn's emotions to keep the reader interested. Overall, you did a good job of capturing the moment, without rambling or overdoing the descriptions.

U - I know from experience that rhyming poetry is a very difficult feat to accomplish, and you accomplished it quite nicely. Eowyn sounds like she's venting her problems to an unnamed listener. The rhythm of the first few stanzas is right on the spot. One stanza's a little off, though. The last lines of the first three stanzas each have seven syllables, but 'when dawn draws hence' only has four, which breaks the rhythm. Another thing - the last three-lined, mostly nonrhyming stanzas don't seem to fit with the rest of the poem. Perhaps you could insert a few stanzas with the same format toward the beginning, so the readers aren't too caught off-guard by the sudden change? Overall, great story, and congrats on the rhyming.

V - Beautiful story and vivid sensory descriptions. The entire atmosphere of the piece is cold-ish, and I swear I could feel chills along my arms as I read it. The only thing I would suggest is better coherence throughout reality and flashbacks. Often I found it hard recover and visualize the new descriptions after the flashback ended, and I had to reread it to get the finer points. Also, maybe a bit more characterization on the human, besides his love for Serylle? Like what specifically he loves about her besides beauty, or maybe have her spy on him and find out what he does in his spare time. Overall, great sentence structure, diction, and descriptions.

W - At first I had no idea what this was about, but then someone more observant than me explained it, and all I can say is... wow. It's a whole new (rhyming!) perspective on 'unrequited love.' The only thing I would suggest is making the images you paint more congruous, since imagery is a key component in poetry. For example, I can't imagine Jesus nailed to the cross and holding you at the same time, or lying in a grave with eyes open and boring into you. A picky thing - the line 'all because of a tree' sounds a bit flat. What specifically do you mean by that? Overall, great rhythm and original take on the prose.

X - Simple yet heartwarming story. The descriptions of the characters and the nymph especially are vivid. I like how it takes on a plot toward the middle. However, I thought it a bit predictable. When they went out searching for his brother, I could guess at the next sequence of events. I'm not sure, though, how you would make it less predictable without changing the plot altogether. Another thing - it's slightly disconcerting how it changes POV sometimes, mostly jumping from Phaedra to Calder and back. For instance, Phaedra's emotions would be described, but then she would be described as Calder sees her. It makes it difficult for the reader to connect with the scene. Overall, I appreciate the well-crafted story and the optimistic 'love overcomes all' theme.

Y - This perspective on the stresses on American immigrants hasn't been explored much, which makes this piece refreshing. The simple diction and figurative language suit the POV as well. A few problems - The way you switched to referring to the husband as 'you' works for accusatory effect, but the transition is a bit rough. Perhaps you could subtly dip into it, making it clearer at first that 'you' refers to the husband? Also, 'brightest sky' becomes repetitive. It's her name, almost something sacred, so you don't want to wear it out by bringing it up too often. Perhaps you could save it for truly contemplative or profound moments. Overall, interesting cultural insight and nice story.

Z - I like how you captured an ordinary character in an ordinary world and dove into emotions that many people have dealt with. I think the main issue is that it's too short. While it begins suspensefully, you plunge into a huge backstory about Angelina's past in the fifth paragraph, when the readers haven't fully committed themselves to reading it yet. Perhaps you should keep building the suspense, make the readers wonder what's going on. You could describe her getting ready to go out and sprinkle the backstory in as you go. Angelina could open the closet and see the dress she wore to the farewell party. Simple actions like her forgetting her car keys in the house can show her anxiety. Overall, I like the emotion and how you captured a commonplace scenario and put it into words.

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Apologies for the double post... just bumping this thread. VOTE or I shall pursue your hapless souls with my chainsaw of doom.

1. V
2. X
3. W
HM. T

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Okay, here we go...

Entrant T - First of all, nice idea for a story about unrequited love. The Eowyn slant on that hadn't even occurred to me. I like how you refer to her as 'the lady' - it adds a new twist to the scene, and makes it not readily identifiable as LotR. One thing I would suggest editing is the second paragraph, about only one man having reason to leave in the dead of night. Restating the fact works well, but your wording seems too similar to me. The phrases 'she knew of only one man who could be leaving camp at this time of night' and 'only one man would leave in the dead of night' are a bit more repetitive than they are useful for driving the point home. I would say to either repeat the wording exactly or change it so that it's a bit more substantially different. Loved your descriptions, especially the last paragraph. Just one more picky thing - Eowyn's frame isn't really small, like you say in the last paragraph As I recall she's rather tall, and she IS a shieldmaiden, so she's not really petite. Lovely style, and a nice simple, short scene that still stands on its own

Entrant U - poetry! And Eowyn as well - again, good idea. It summarizes her feelings nicely, and even sounds somewhat like her. A couple things I noticed were some of your rhymes. Rhyming poetry can be hard to write without sounding contrived, and I noticed that some of yours didn't quite work. Depending on the rest of the poem, the line 'he is for my hand trying' could work, but in the current context it strikes me as somewhat out of place. Also, you don't seem to have much of a consistent meter. For example, your first two stanzas have an ABAB-CBCB pattern, whereas the next two go DEDE and FGFG without the same connection between them. The repetition of the last and third last stanza is a nice touch, I thought, but perhaps it would fit a tad better if the lines there rhymed as well. Poetry's a bit tricky to figure out that way. Nicely done, you captured the essence of what Eowyn's feeling at this point very well.

Entrant V - Hey, Narnia! I like how you refer to turning to stone the whole way through, and the long winter, but it isn't specifically Narnia until the end. A couple things I noticed: the human doesn't have much character. He obviously has some backstory behind him, but you don't do much more than hint at it, and the story could certainly be a bit longer without dragging. Maybe some more interaction between him and Serylle, perhaps with her father as well. The end seems a little rushed, and the lion isn't mentioned anywhere else in the story, so his entrance seems somewhat abrupt. Lovely descriptions, though, and the writing flows well.

Entrant W - okay, first and foremost, nice rhyming. It flows very well for the most part, and I like the repetition of 'unrequited love'. You use the main points of Jesus' death and resurrection, stated simply and coherently. One thing I noticed was the line 'without anything to say'. Maybe state that a little more emphatically? This is a really huge thing, and the words don't quite adequately express speechlessness. In my brainstorming, this idea did occur to me, but you've done it better than I could. Very nice!

Entrant X - hey, coincidence, another one with a nymph. I really enjoyed reading this. Your descriptions are lovely, almost poetic-sounding, particularly in the second half of the story. I would have liked some flashbacks, maybe - how Phaedra came to be there, maybe a few earlier interactions with Calder to set some foundations for the relationship. There isn't a whole lot of reason for her to love him like she seems to, maybe talk a little more about that? I do realize, however, that you were at the word limit as it was A couple little grammatical things too, but mostly punctuation-related. I liked

Entrant Y - bravo Very original premise, and you accomplish it quite convincingly. I particularly like how the first few paragraphs tie together with the last few. Not a whole lot of criticism to offer, but maybe a bit more of Hope in the story? She has somewhat of a brief appearance, and it sounds like she was a pretty big part of her mother's life. Did she have her own children? Where was she in the latter part of it? Overall, I like muchly. Nice job

Entrant Z - Awww, ish sad. You captured the essence of a story in a very brief snapshot, good job. A couple things I would point out - maybe use flashbacks instead of Angelina remembering things like their first meeting? I'm admittedly a fan of flashbacks, and I probably use them too much, but that's just my two cents. Another thing is that Peter seems a bit harsh. You introduce him as kind, but in the interaction between him and Angelina in the second half, he comes across and blunt and uncaring. Maybe add some more descriptions in there, as well, and edit the dialogue slightly. It's a little square. Good concept, and I like how it's brief (comparatively) but it gets the point across

And...

1st: Y
2nd: X
3rd: W
4th T

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Entrant T: What a beautiful little sketch of Eowyn and Aragorn. Your descriptions are amazing, I could picture everything perfectly in my mind. I also enjoyed the little added descriptions of the characters, such as Aragorn's scent. My greatest wish is this would have been longer, and maybe perhaps developed a little more of a plot. Perhaps ventured more onto Eowyn's anguish after his departure, and how she dealt with it? Anyway, great job with this... it worked very well as a stand-alone scene, and is an intriguing little fanfic.

Entrant U: Grima! First off, props for using Grima in your poem... I really liked how it was in Eowyn's perspective, but almost used Grima as the protagonist. I can empathize with how difficult rhyming poetry is, so I applaud you for making a very good attempt at it. At points the rhythm seemed slightly off though, such as the line "Uncle doesn't care." Also, your poetic voice seemed slightly inconsistent at times, I thought. For instance, the "I am a prisoner of his heart," uses a strong simile, and works well for poetry. However lines like "when dawn draws hence," seem a bit forced, and work against the lovely poetic atmosphere. Overall, I really enjoyed this poem, and encourage you to keep writing!

Entrant V: I absolutely loved this. Beautiful plot idea, and perfect descriptions of the canon Narnia characters you used. Your own characters were vivid and memorable, and your descriptions beautiful. One thing, the transitions to the flashbacks seemed to be a bit sharp at times, especially switching from a past-tense voice to a present one. I'm not sure how to solve it, though perhaps if the present-tense sections were shorter, and the past-tense longer, it would allow the past-tense to play a more dominant part. Just a thought. Really amazing little flowing piece though, I enjoyed reading it.

Entrant W: Very cool perspective on unrequited love! I loved the language, though I thought it could have been a bit stronger at times. Since the theme was unrequited love, perhaps the fact that Jesus love wasn't necessarily returned could have been played up a little more? And while the repition of the line "unrequited love" works well... it seems to lack definition in the poem itself. Another thing, I <i>really</i> liked the paradox's used, and I thought the poem would be really nice with more of them, and perhaps even sharper contrasts. Lovely poem though... good work!

Entrant X: Aww, sweet story. I enjoyed the characters - Calder with his human frailty, and Phaedra with her almost ethereal affection, but they seemed to lack a little depth at times, and their development is slightly rushed. Also, as LDM mentioned, the POV changes make the story harder to focus on, and slightly annoying to the reader. Since Phaedra was continually observing Calder anyway, wouldn't it have been better to have described all events through her eyes? Another thing, the story seems to flounder at times, and though there is emotion, there is very little drama building up towards the climax. Perhaps creating more issues that needed to be resolved would have helped? Otherwise, really pretty piece, and interesting premises.

Entrant Y: I completely love the idea, and the story itself has nothing lacking. The originality makes it stand out, and the easy flow holds the reader's attention very well. Only one thing, after her husband threatened her, and then came back, the story says nothing more about him. I think it would have been interesting to have a few more of her thoughts directed at him towards the end. Overall, this was a brilliant short story, excellently done.

Entrant Z: A very bittersweet little piece. I liked the idea, and especially the simple emotions of Angelina's character. It did seem a bit rushed at times though, which is a pity, since I would have loved to read more of it had there been more. Too, Peter's character seems a bit shallow. While Angelina undoubtedly loves him, the story gives no real reason how or why. I did really like this piece, and great job with the dialogue!

1st: Y
2nd: V
3rd: W
4th: T

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Thank you for FOUR outstanding votes, but----could we have more? Please? Wouldn't hurt to have FIVE outstanding voters or..... or maybe... SIX? EIGHT?

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Entrant T-
Excellent story! I like the description you used- it gave the whole piece almost a poetic feel. You did an especially good job on describing the setting- I could see the clearing in my mind. I think the conversation could have used a little more description in between the dialog. For example, when Aragorn says, "The love which you seek.." how does he say it, what's his body language, etc?

Entrant U-
I like your take on the unrequited love theme! For the most part, the poem had a good rhythm and rhyme. "When dawn draws hence." seems like it needs just one more syllable, maybe.

Entrant V-
I like your writing style- good description, good use of flashbacks. I really like how the story unfolds gradually. It might be nice to see more of the characters- I didn't really get a good feel of their personalities. Great job- I like it!

Entrant W-
Good job with the rhythm on the poem. I like how you repeat "Unrequited love"- I'm not sure why, I just like it . One little thing- the line "I fall down upon my feet" seems a little strange- maybe "upon my knees" or something like that would work? Lovely piece!

Entrant X-
Beautiful story! I like the characters, and your writing style. It does seem to jump from Calder's to Phaedra's viewpoints several times. I like being able to "see" what each of them are thinking and feeling, but maybe you could have fewer transitions between views- half the story could be told from Calder's view, half from Phaedra's, or something like that?

Entrant Y-
Great characterization- the main characters seemed very lifelike and dynamic. I like how you contrasted the present with the past, and I really like the ending- it wasn't what I was expecting, in a good way . I can't really think of any criticism or advice. Wonderful story!

Entrant Z-
Poor Angelina! She seems like a very real character- her actions and emotions make sense in the situation. It would be nice if it was longer- more characterization and more backstory would be nice. Oh, and a nitpicky thing- since Peter's in the army, he would most likely have short hair .

1st - Entrant Y
2nd - Entrant V
3rd - Entrant X
HM - Entrant T

Whew- tough voting!

Thank you for voting, Elenya! =)

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THE HALLOWFEST 2010
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Four votes is great but two more would make things fantastical!

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THE HALLOWFEST 2010
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1st - Entrant V
2nd - Entrant X
3rd - Entrant T
HM - Entrant Y

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<center> <i> " I loved you with a fire red, now it's turning blue <br> And you say, sorry like the angel heaven let me think was you " </i> </center>