Here's the voting for <b>round five</b> of the Writing Prompt Contest!
There were a total of five entries all labeled with letters <b>A - E</b> of the alphabet.
<b>Prompt:</b> ICE
<b>Word Limitation:</b> 5,000 ( 5,500 max )
So sit back, relax, and read through all these wonderful entries from the contestants. Once you're done, feel free to skim them over again, and vote.
Contestants may not vote until <b>August 25th</b>! Please don't vote for yourself or your entire vote will be void. Comments are recommended---feedback helps a writer improve, and tweak their work but do it in a constructive manner.
Each post contains two entries.
Vote wrote:
1st -
2nd -
3rd -
HM -
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Entrant A (153 words)
"Tempting"
Eyes like ice
Skin like snow
Lips like cherries red
I should have known
It wasn’t wise
To be invited in.
But, Oh, You’ve got to have
That sweet confection, love
That warms the bones
but breaks the heart
and leaves men in the dust.
Ice hard eyes,
A smile that chills
My blood runs cold as death
I should have known
That I would die
A supernatural death
But, Oh, You’ve got to have
That sweet confection, love
That warms the bones
but breaks the heart
and leaves men in the dust.
Ice cold breath,
Sharpened fangs,
All were meant for me.
I should have known
That my one love
Was my one downfall too.
But, Oh, You’ve got to have
That sweet confection, love
That warms the bones
but breaks the heart
and leaves men in the dust.
Warmed my bones,
Broke my heart
And left me dead…
In the dust.
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Entrant B (5,059 words)
"Ice Artist"
It was the first snowfall of a new year, and still the traders had not come. Every autumn their ship pulled into the crude harbor, bringing the villagers items that were vital to their survival of the winter. The medicines especially, for last year’s epidemic had left them defenseless in the way of medicines, and there was nothing to give the few who were already beginning to cough.
He sat alone on the harbor, mesmerized by the gentle fall of snow. It seemed so defenseless, easily melting on the tip of a nose or ear, and yet he knew that snowstorms could kill an entire village if strong enough. The small flurries, once banded together in a thick whirlwind, could suck the life out of about anything.
But a solitary small snowflake didn’t have a chance.
He breathed on his cold gloveless palms, watching the snowflakes melt and trickle off. It seemed so pointless really, waiting for the traders when there was very little chance that they’d be coming now. It was becoming too cold too fast, they’d be fools to make this route.
The longing he felt for the Star Pursuit to come sailing in went far deeper than just medicinal needs. There sat a much more personal, intimate reason on his mind, and continued to trouble him until he could do something about it. Until he could follow whichever path he chose, take the step away.
Out of habit more than anything, Col pulled a small chisel from a deep pouch at his side, and distractedly began packing a mound of snow. There was a hint of something developing, but his mind was too cluttered with other thoughts to give it full attention. He set his lips, and set the chisel to the firmly packed ice, as if to coax a form from it. A spring blossom maybe, though it’s delicate fragility would melt more quickly than something thicker.
Just an hour before he’d volunteered to come wait and keep the watch, Yulen had delivered a blow right to his eye. His young wife was sick, and so of course it was Col’s fault.
“I saw him watching her the other day,” raved Yulen, “Watching her with those cold dark eyes. He cursed her, I know it.”
After a few more blows (which Col successfully dodged, having warily guessed they were coming) a few of the older men intervened, grudgingly holding poor Yulen back. Col slipped away, rubbing the bruise gingerly.
In any case, he was no match for a fight anymore. The muscles that had showed so promisingly on his body as a young boy had faded, he was thinner now, and slower.
The other young men never asked to include him, though it wouldn’t have mattered if they did. Col found the rowdy activeness more and more distasteful to him, and usually retired to quiet silence when his day’s work was done.
“Lazy,” they muttered.
It was true. He was lazy. Every moment he spent working at the vegetables in the garden, every step he took on a trek to find game, even every swing of the axe when splintering kindling was torturous to him. In summer, when he finally got away from the seemingly endless list of activities, he would pull completely away into a world in his head that was always winter.
His winter’s were definitely a quiet sort. Every time he stole away from the mainroom, they muttered behind his back about his “oddity.” But it had ceased to shame or provoke him. All that mattered anymore was the things his fingers could give life to. They were what he daydreamed of, wished for, and lived for.
He wanted them now. The first snowfall was arguably one of the best days of the year, as he was filled with an alive anticipation on what he could do. Creatures of his dreams vied for attention, beasts of sea and air, and girls who he watched but never spoke to. There would be ships too, a whole fleet perhaps, with miniature captains clinging to the starboard in some ferocious gale.
Raising his eyes to the horizon, Col at first thought he was imagining it, caught up in his daydreams. But no, there it was. Star Pursuit was a ship he knew well, and should recognize easily, having seen it every autumn for as long as he could remember.
For a moment he just stared, catching his breath, almost-smiling. And then he scuttled upward, back to the village, for the first time in months anticipating the smiles that would greet him.
“The Star Pursuit ” he called, waving his arms to catch attention. “She’s here ”
There was a buzz of joy, and several of the men took off instantly to go meet her, forming an excited group racing forward. Col had stepped daringly forward to join them, still wearing a ridiculous grin, when he stopped himself short.
It was madness, utter foolishness to take advantage of the hype. Like always, he would meet the captain alone, help unload the cargo wordlessly, be once again the shadow he’d become.
Like always.
It was his eighth winter when he discovered the ice.
To say times had been hard would be merely brushing the surface of the grim reality of that winter. Before even the first sprig of green deemed it safe to surface, the food supply had run dangerously low. And for every three men that the chief sent out on the hunt, only one came back. The snowstorms came more quickly with every nightfall. They could never find their bodies.
His father was responsible for the next mission to the sparse forest. Three others were to accompany him, three for safety and purpose. Athan held him close, allowing a brief moment of tenderness in front of his companions, but only very brief, lest his mind be distracted on the trek.
Athan’s son had not been named yet. He was the healthiest child in the village - tall for his age, but not fragile like some. When he finished his small chores faster than any of the other children his age, his mother allowed herself a warm glow of pride.
The boy didn’t think much of any of their sufferings. He gathered that all their lives were hanging loosely, and he sensed the fear that pervaded in the mainhouse and every hut. But he did not think of it.
The snow was glittery cold and tempting. Some of the children threw teasing bits at one another, but most did not feel well enough to get involved. He felt well enough, but their idiotic actions did not amuse him. The snow seemed too pure, too good a thing on that morning to be used for such trivial games.
“Hey,” called one of his friends.“Want to wrestle?”
The boy shrugged a reply, but turned away. He felt the need for some solitude, some time away from the mundane. There was a small emotion festering inside of him, completely unlike anything he’d ever felt before. And Athan’s son, the strongest boy in the village - felt very, very lost with this feeling, so new and cold within him. Perhaps even colder than the stinging wind that touched his cheeks.
He felt as if he was seeing the ice for the first time.
There were mounds of it, covered in snow, but terribly hard. The troughs - which served no purpose now that the livestock had all been eaten - were also iced over, but in a dirty sort of way. He directed his gaze away deliberately, he didn’t like the way seeing the contaminated ice made him feel.
He’d mentioned to his mother, Iva, the way he’d started feeling that very morning. As if he had suddenly been given a new pair of eyes, and a new spirit to match. His mother said that he was probably just hungry. Mother’s always said things like that, pulling back to earth when it felt so much more exhilarating in the clouds.
He’d seen the hardened snow before, usually it was when undesirable water had been thrown out, that it formed into some kind of weird shape at random. It had never attracted him like this though. The odd shape danced in his mind as he turned away, it preyed on his fancies. A dragon, it was an ice-hard, opaque dragon with it’s wings folded tight at it’s sides.
He stared some more. The dragon had details, too many details to register at once. The cold eyes gazed up, nostrils flared, as if it had just brushed the earth and settled down in an instant.
With a small throb, his new spirit awoke in full force. All at once he knew the dragon, more intimately than he’d ever known any creature in his life. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew it - or even why - but his instincts told him that wasn’t important. What was important was to make sure everyone else in the village knew the dragon too.
The winter before, he had been given a crude set of carving tools to occupy his time when the storms were too violent for the young ones. He’d excelled at the small tasks he’d been given; bowls, spoons, small pendants for the girls. But instantly, those tools meant something different. He saw just how he could use the small knives to carve away the dragon’s intricately formed face, the larger ones to chisel a more accurate shape into the oddly formed block of ice.
His friends watched him as he vigorously plunged into his new mission. Most of them looked bored (an expression that had gradually settled on their face to repel the agonized stare of hunger) but a few caught on quickly.
“It’s a deer Isn’t it a deer?”
“Numbskull. That’s an elk.”
Sanj kept his lips pressed tight, his focus dedicated to this dragon, his new friend. No, deeper than that. Sometimes he paused, a sacred silence that none of the young boys deigned to break, his eyes rapt with obsession.
He wasn’t quite sure when he got so caught up in what he was doing, but suddenly he found himself oblivious to the comments and queries of his small audience. He was conversing with his dragon, he was exploring this new spirit like it was an unlocked room.
The ice fell in slivers and flakes around the block. They gathers in small piles at the foot of the dragon, others clung to him.
When his spirit failed to supply the detailed image he needed, his hands took over, almost on instinct. Col felt the small crevices he’d created tenderly, like a mother feeling the face of her newest. And it was as if his hands knew when a pattern was irregular or a curve too sharp. Again he’d scrape the knife over the surface, or put the chisel to the edge and gently hammer it in.
Hours fled with the small bit of warmth the obscured sun had provided. It was dusk when one of the boys said, “It’s a dragon.”
“Just so,” he replied. He looked regretfully at the beast, not wanting to leave it for the night, in case it’s memorized features should slip from his mind. This moment he’d felt so alive, so entirely dependent on his newborn spirit - a delicious completeness.
It was a dragon, and he had made it. Out of a mound of ice. A warm grin spread over his face.
“Son?”
Athan approached quickly, though his steps were heavy with exhaustion. Only two of the men were with him. The boy tried to note this in the careless way he always had, but an unfamiliar burst of pain hit him. He tried keeping his face stony still, like his friend the dragon, but he knew it was twitching in emotion.
Athan’s eyes were not on his son. His brows furrowed, he stared at the dragon in wonder.
“Who did this?”
The boy thought he could sense some displeasure in his father’s tone. Another foreign emotion struck him - fear. He’d never felt so queerly aware before, it was like being a completely new person. The fear was gripping and numb, like his cold body, only deeper. It paralyzed his tongue.
One of the little boys inclined his head towards the ice artist, a sharp nod. “He did.”
Breaths were held as Athan turned to face his son, and as his eyes registered the carving tools, a dawn of understanding crossed his face. And then, horror. Almost indiscernibly, he shook his head, and took a step forward.
Even his two companions had paused, watching to see the reaction to this strange phenomena.
Athan took his son by the shoulder, and began pushing him towards the mainhouse. “No,” he said simply, anticlimactically. “No.”
But his son understood the inflection in his words, understood how such a simple word could mean so much, be interpreted so broadly. And his exultant, fresh spirit melted - like the snowflakes on his clothes when he neared the fire.
Col lingered a moment longer in the elegant cabin, allowing his mind a moment’s fantasy. The delicious silken material felt as though it should dissolve at his touch. His fingers were so hard and calloused now, from countless times of frostbite and small slips of the knife. Bringing the cloth up to his face, he rested gently against it, imagining how it would feel to have such a luxury every night.
There was a small click, and then a low throaty laugh. Col’s eyes immediately widened as he fumbled with the bit of cloth, keenly feeling the blood rise to his cheeks.
“Well Col,” said Captain Grey, “Did you take a detour?”
Col tried to find the words, a reasonable excuse, or even an apology, but nothing came. He just stood there, his hands still poised as though holding the cloth, which had slipped from his rough hands onto the floor.
And then the idyllic nature of the situation struck him. A moment, just a moment alone with the Captain. There was no time to hesitate.
“I need to speak with you Captain Grey. I... I need... I mean if I could... I’d like to make the journey home with you.”
The older man raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Col was surprised to see a shadow of a smile come across his face. “Do you mean immigrate?”
Nodding in assent, Col met the man’s gaze, hoping he would not ask any more questions. But Captain Grey had known Col far too long to not understand what was happening here. His smile faltered just a little, and then he gave a sharp nod. “Of course. We’ll depart tomorrow morning. Be ready and at the dock.”
There, the decision had been finalized. Almost indiscernibly, Col felt a twist of pain, knowing it was too late now to go back on anything. Nothing to be done but gather up his few possessions and go.
As he ambled slowly toward the village, he wondered if it would be worth telling anyone goodbye. Surely they would not miss him; not them, who wanted him gone in the first place.
He paused once, memories overwhelming him momentarily. There he had carved his dragon, there he had first breathed form and life into the snow, and it was a creation he could call his own.
And there everything began to plummet. His village had no need for the likes of artists and entertainers. They were useless, distrusted even. A man who’s main obsession was not with such masculine things as hunting and warring could surely not be a man at all.
How very much like today, he thought, that day had been. When he’d stood at a crossroad and then had not needed to choose at all. No, the path choose him... the ice had called his name, and he’d merely responded. And again, and again... the ice would call to him, longing for him to work his magic upon it one more time, and he would merely respond to that call. Like always.
But his reverie was sharply invaded, as a familiar voice asked, “So you’re leaving us Cold Blade?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. The name, the label of disapproval, it stung him deeply. Again, he remembered.
“Name day,” Iva smiled. “This is grand for you, this is.”
The boy nodded furtively in agreement. He’d waited twice as long as most boys for this day to come, he’d fought disappointment when time after time the date was set and then cancelled. Iva gave him a motherly smile, and fidgeted with his special clothes.
“Can I have a moment outside?” He glimpsed out of the window. Spring was coming, the clouds grew shallower every day, making way for the brilliant white sun.
“Don’t stay too long,” his mother warned.
No. There were festivities to be enjoyed, a whole day strictly in his honor. How could she possibly suppose that he would have any inclination to miss it?
The snow crunched jubilantly under his boots, and a frail, dying wind tickled his ear. Nature was playing with him, teasing him on the adult he’d become. As he came to the melting pond edge, he caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired, extraordinary tall youth in it’s shiny surface. It made him pause, get a closer look. No different than yesterday of course, but then wasn’t he expecting something? Some new maturity or depth?
Finally raising his eyes from the glimmering surface, he surveyed the landscape with satisfaction. A smile paused on his lips. He raised his hand as if he was hailing an audience.
All around the pond his creations were gathered, over twenty this winter. It was the most he’d ever done. There - a gigantic fish, it’s mouth gaping and tail twisting, there - an imitation of a chair, with it’s thin back half-melted now, and there - a girl he’d found particularly pretty on nights when they sat silently around the mainhouse fire.
Over twenty, and they were all his. Every spare hour he’d snuck away, cursing at the smaller children who followed him, kicking snow in their direction. Not cruelty, no, but safety. He could well remember three winters back, when some numbskull tyke had found an ice horse, galloping wildly but ever still, and had announced it in a particularly loud voice that night at the mainhouse.
He could never forget the awfulness of that night, like every other night when Athan had caught him. The distance in his words, the threats, the horrible misunderstanding. But that night, Col particularly remembered, because it was the first night he fought back.
“Father, please,” he begged, “I’m not hurting anyone.”
Athan scowled deeply, and said quietly enough that only he could hear, “There is no good that comes of such a thing. Not only are you wasting your time, you are allowing your hands to rule you Producing those things - it’s unnatural. You will only gain suspicion and distrust for your efforts.”
There had been other arguments too; the danger of the snow, the priority of other neglected chores, the uncanniness of it all. Col had once promised to quit, believing his mother when she said it was “more trouble than it was worth.”
But the ice was part of him. Abandoning it was like as if he had allowed himself to melt; a slow, miserable process that he could not stand for very long before once again, he allowed himself the bliss of feeling the perfectly smooth surface being chiseled away under his deft fingers. So natural, just like breathing.
They’d gotten better, too. Sometimes for amusement, he recalled the first ones - proportioned absurdly, lopsided, perhaps missing a vital feature. Of course, at the time they’d been nothing short of marvelous. Perhaps that was his greatest weakness in this talent; he could berate himself, critique the things that involved him - but once his creation was complete, it was perfect. He could not force himself to see any wrong in them, like some idiotically adoring mother.
He paused and stared at the first one he’d done this year, his train of thought abruptly cut short. It was another dragon, a sleeping one this time, it’s neck slender and delicately curved. He brushed a gloved finger over it gently, wistfully. It was wet, dying, returning back to it’s original form without any solution.
No. Stay.
The numbskull pleading could do no good, as it had done no good the winters before.
Stay, please. Don’t leave me.
This was absurd. He shook his head at his own idiocy, the attachment he formed with these lifeless creations. But they were his, no, they were him, as much a part of him as nose or finger.
Suddenly forlorn, he felt a need to touch them all - one last time - before they evaporated into nonexistence. Hurrying through their midst, his fingers brushed his favorite parts; a particularly elegant circle, a fantastically detailed eye.
“Look at you,” a voice hissed.
He stopped abruptly, but scarcely dared to turn around. His pulse danced, the gloved hand still partially extended shook momentarily.
“What do you think your father is going to think of this?”
Now he felt suddenly empowered with a vicious energy replacing the numb fear. He whirled on the intruder in his sacred grounds, a half-snarl forming at his mouth protectively. The man from the village matched his expression with a face more full of loathing than the boy could have ever imagined possible.
“What do you think your father is going to do?” The man’s voice was softer now, a sinister edged blade, and the boy involuntarily took a step back. “He’s forbidden you from these games, hasn’t he?”
“They’re not games.”
“A boy of fourteen winters, disobeying his parents outright You are a shame here.” The man grabbed a fistful of the warm cloak he wore about his shoulders over the wool tunic. “Come with me, Athan must hear of this immediately. He made no effort to resist, knowing too well it would only make his punishment that much worse.
Athan’s hard-lined face fell as they approached, his brilliant blue eyes seeming to darken under the weight of the brows. Everywhere, people stopped the preparations for name day; worriedly frowning, confusion, enlightenment, anger. Forcing himself to look away from the disappointment in their faces, he met his mother’s eye, and hated himself.
“There’s devilry in your boy’s fingers Athan,” said the man, shoving the boy forward towards his father. “But I’m afraid it’s seeped into his heart too. Caught him in the act I did, more than a dozen of his little ice carvings out by the frozen pond.”
He braced himself for his father’s anger; a punch, a yell, a curse perhaps. He winced as his father took a step forward, winced in anticipation of what was to come.
But Athan said nothing, nor did he move a limb. He stared in the dead silence, stared away from his son into the burning white of the sun. His lips formed a word, but there was no sound other than the heavy breathing of the others observing this moment.
Looking up, he writhed in pain on the inside to see something he’d have never dreamed possible. Tears glistened in his father’s eyes, not mere disapproval, but a deep-seated disappointment that was too loud, too angry for words.
Finally Athan found his voice. “You will have no name. This day is cancelled forever.”
He caught up his breath, feeling suddenly compelled to cry aloud, to scream that it wasn’t his fault. His nature demanded that he touch the ice, it was impossible not to. Was he to be cut off from an identity for merely following a compulsive instinct?
“You will be nothing to this community but a wanderer if you continue this path. You’ve made your choices. There is no place here for such oddity. Stop this immediately, here, today and perhaps you still have a chance. Continue... and you are not only nameless to us, but you are nonexistent.”
There was fear all around him, and he sensed the distrust that was rapidly forming in the hearts of his neighbors. He hung his head, but could not respond. How could he lie again, knowing that when the next temptation hit him, he would go straight back to the ice?
He heard Iva catch her breath, grieving in silence for this moment.
Athan turned on his heels, meeting the eyes of any who dared, and strode for the main room.
Silence greeted him as he looked up; unfriendly eyes and tight mouths. And a sudden uncomfortable premonition hit him that these expressions would be the ones he’d be seeing for a long while yet.
No.
But even such a powerful word, if not spoken by the right person can do nothing. Shuddering and nameless, Athan’s son moved out of the crowd, ignoring their stares, and went to sit alone for a while in the snow.
There, near him was a malicious smile, a whisper.
“I told you you’re father would be angry,” smiled the man. “You got what was coming to you, that foolish carving of snow and ice was never meant for a man’s blade. Your blade is cold, yes, cold like the snow.” The cruel smile spread, and reverberated in his words. “Cold Blade. Perhaps you won’t be deprived of a name after all.”
Focus, focus.
Col snapped to the present, but a cold shudder came with him from the past. Right behind the man he could see his father approaching, and he fought back the bitter words the begged to come out.
So you’ve come to tell me goodbye, now that you’ll never see me again? How very nice. Especially since you are the one who is forcing me away.
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Athan quietly. “It is a wise decision; you will find a better place somewhere else in the world.”
Allowing him a curt nod, Col brushed past, struggling with the unspoken words that awoke even deeper pain in him.
Find a place elsewhere, a place where there is no snow and ice, a place where your blade will not be cold.
No, Col begged silently, I want to stay. I’m sorry. I didn’t choose to leave.
The young wind of winter was pulling at his cloak, and it felt resentful, betrayed. For months, since they had first suggested he leave, Col had struggled desperately, but had hoped, once he plunged into his decision, this inner turmoil wouldn’t last.
But even now, part of him struggled like a dying thing who knows it hasn’t long to live. Part of him wanted to reach out and feel the wind rush between his fingers, to grab handfuls of snow and pack it firm, to push his blade into the hardened ice and give life.
Col blinked fiercely and denied it. Another part of him came alive in anticipation for the future, a longing to find his niche in another word, a world more tolerant of those who must give life and not take it.
But a desperate inner voice demanded, Is there such a life apart from ice?
The rocking sensation was unpleasant, but also slightly exhilarating. For the fifth time, Col grabbed at the side of the boat, trying to balance himself. One of the crew gave a snort of laughter.
“Oh, it’ll be a lot worse once we take off. Just you wait little ice rat.”
Col had finally just left the mainroom, without a word, since it was apparent he wasn’t going to get a goodbye from anyone else. He felt their gazes in the back of his head, their whispers and hidden giggles. So the freak was finally departing from their midst.
The right thing. His father’s words echoed in his head, but they struck hollow. It didn’t feel like the right thing. It felt very, very wrong.
The crewmen scurried about with purpose, each performing his task deliberately, with a definite end in mind. Col envied their assurance more than anything, the way each knew his place so well. He tried visualizing a picture, himself working on such a boat, enjoying the blistering heat, the nauseating movement, and rough texture of the ropes.
Definitely not.
“Homesick already?” Captain Grey laughed. “Make the best of it Col. You know where you belong.”
Col wondered wildly for a minute why the Captain hadn’t urged him to stay in the first place, if he had such insight into his destiny. But the Captain merely shook his head, and turned to the wheel. They were departing soon now, on their way to new paths, more accepting worlds.
“You still have two paths Col,” he shouted. “We’re going to stop and spend the winter at the next village. No use in traveling with the storms coming up so fast.”
Suddenly the snowflakes that had been falling all morning seemed to be falling only for him. A reckless idea crossed his mind, and it tasted deliciously cool, like ice. Unused to acting so unseemly on impulse, Col hesitated, but couldn’t resist the beautiful temptation.
“No,” he said, and for the first time, the word belonged to him. “It’s here, in this village, with this ice. I’m not going.”
The Captain shrugged, but his eyes danced. I knew it. With amazing deliberateness, Col made his way off the gangplank without a backward glance.
Once back on the ground, everything came alive for him like it had so many years before. He saw a snow-white gryphon there, a stumbling dwarf there. The ice was screaming for him, rejoicing with him, and a certain selfish awareness that it was what he’d come back for gave the silent sound a prideful edge. Col shook his head and smiled.
For the moment he didn’t think of his irregularities in the community. Though he knew he didn’t, the feeling of belonging was gloriously overwhelming. It didn’t matter then what anyone thought of him, for he’d been born here like the rest.
And with the feeling of exhilaration clinging to him, he glanced up at those staring at him, and met the incredulous eyes of a very pretty girl.
Col smiled. Yes, he definitely belonged here.
I may even comment, depending on how much time I have. 
