Everything Must Go! (RESULTS POSTED)

Do You Know Me?

That would be a "No."	40.2%	[ 43 ]
Of course! We're BFFs!	4.7%	[ 5 ]
Who really knows Anyone?	29.0%	[ 31 ]
Gold?	26.2%	[ 28 ]
Total Votes:			[ 107 ]

[Saline Everwood]

I will be submitting something once I decide which writing piece I want submitted.

[Saline Everwood]

KurayamiYoshido

This is a Ballad, I did a bit ago... But is one of my favorites... XD


Soul's Garden

Deep in my soul hidden away,
Rest the garden forever in play;
Shh and be quiet and you may hear,
The effortless song full of forgotten fear.

The garden's scent full of true joy,
Is the little girl's only toy;
Shh and be quiet and you may see,
The glorious song full of forgotten glee.

Whispers carry away the sound,
The small girls tears fall on the ground;
Shh and be quiet and you may cry,
The seamlessness song full of forgotten why.

The flowers grow from times began,
The girl raises and says she can;
Shh and be quiet and you may go,
The carelessness song full of forgotten woe.

The flower wilt from the times end,
The broken girl dreams her lost friend;
Shh and be quiet and you may stay,
The expertless song full of forgotten gray.

The garden's gravestone's flower die,
The girl walks away to go try;
Shh and be quiet and you may hear,
The beautiful song full of forgotten cheer.

I'm not all that good at critiquing but I'll give it a shot.

In the third stanza in line two you have "The small girls tears..." instead it should be "The small girl's tears..." Also, in the last line of the third stanza you used the word "seamlessness," personally I think that word is a mouthful and would used a different word or just cut out the -ness ending.

In the fourth stanza in the last line you used the word "expertless," and it isn't a word. You could have used the word "unknowledgeable" or something similar to what you are trying to get across to the reader.

With that out of the way, I do love the imagery to your poem. Maybe it is just me, but the imagery gives the poem a mystic feel to it that really appeals to me.

You have talent and I enjoyed reading your piece very much. I hope I did okay with the critique.

[calviness]

Chaillot

Can I just post my story here? Or do I have to wait for some sort of acceptance? sweatdrop o.o;;

Like the first page says, go ahead and post it whenever you want.


Also, for everybody, I will be updating the front page today (I hope).
edit: yay. i did. So, I know you are all busy, but with the end date coming up close - I'd like to encourage everybody to help everyone to get critiques. Also, I am going to end new entries in March like I planned, but I am going to give you all a week or so to edit your pieces before I start judging. Thanks everyone for participating. smile

[The Blue Blob]

Hey =) I just wanted to warn you since I know the closing date is pretty soon: I'm going to be away from the 24th until the 3rd and will have little to no access during that time! Just wanted to apologies in advance incase anything is said to me during judging etc and I don't reply straight away! I'm not ignoring you I promise! =) I'll try to find a spare half hour to do a couple of critiques too before I go... I did try the other week but mostof those that hadn't already been done were poetry and I SUCK at anything to do with poetry. But yeah! I'll try to squish a couple of critiques in before I leave =)

[Saline Everwood]

Finally, I have decided which piece to enter. Just a heads up, this is also posted on my deviantart account.

Going Home

As day turns to night, I lay my head down to rest.
Shinning light flickers around me.
The wind whispers sweet nothings.
Rain falls slowly from the sky.
The angels cry for my soul.
I close my eyes breathing in the smell of everything for the last time.
A cold hand caresses my cheek.
Opening my eyes, you stand before me with a loving smile but sadness is clear in your green eyes.
My hand reaches out for you.
Warmth spreads through me as you grab hold of me and help me up.
Fear falls from my shoulders, shattering in the wind.
There is no reason for me to be afraid.
I let my last breath leave my body as you walk me towards the light.
It is time for me to go home.

[Koda Crest]

So sorry i've been MIA!

[Bysshe Shelley Keats]

The Bogey Man's Disease

"You're not a person. You're a disease."

When I hear them chant that and when I see them stare at me with their soul-less eyes, I feel sweet satisfaction.

I stole something precious to them. Precious and pure and I held the power to destroy it and I still do - even as I rot in this cell.

If I look proud of myself, it's probably because I am and they all know it too.

It's why they hate me.

Not that I care about their opinion of me, but they don't realise the truth, you know.
No, no they don't. Hah! I stole something precious and I destroyed it piece by piece, I'm not going to lie. What's the point?

You know what I did. I tortured and slaughtered their children like butchers slaughter animals.
Hm? What's with that face?

Oh! You hate me too? Well, that's all right. More of a reason for me to talk.

You want to know how I tortured them? Oh, you want to know how I chose them?

At random. All children are the same, y'see? Smelly, destructive, naive little creatures. Give them candy and empty promises and they'll do whatever you want. Especially the young ones left at the park for a minute or two to play.

When I got a child - boy, or girl; it's never mattered, you know - I let them have whatever they want. Never struggle as much then. Especially when the torture begins.

I love hearing them scream in terror. So much power and so little effort.

You know, keep looking at me like that and you're face might stick that way. Not that I mind.
The more people think of me, the better.

How better to be remembered?

I removed their limbs, y'know. Digits, toenails. There was so much blood - I never let them die until I got bored.

A monster, you say?

I quite like that title.

Call me the real life Bogie Man. If I get out, maybe I'll hide in closets, next.

I won't be getting out?

Never out of your mind, you mean. No one will forget what I've done. No one will forget the Bogie Man.

I steal children and tear them limb from limb. I have tapes too, y'know. Sometimes I like to remember...

Maybe you should see them too?

No? What a shame. Just as I thought we were getting along too.

Tsk tsk. Now, now, Andrew, you should know better than to throw a tantrum like that. You resemble such a child when you do those things - and you know what I do to children...

How do I know your name?

I'm the Bogie Man I do believe that is explanation enough.

Oh? You're leaving now? We're done already? Interrogation over?

You're not curious at all as to why?

Oh, you don't want to know.

Too bad. I'll tell you anyway.

I thought you'd sit down again, Andrew. You're just like a curious little kitten. You do know what happened to the little kitten, correct?

All right, all right, I'll tell you why.

No need to get so loud. My old ears are quite sensitive, y'know.

I did it because I am a monster and knew that I could.

Isn't that quite terrible?

I thought so too. Not that it stopped me.

I'm quite like a child myself. I'll keep repeating my actions so long as I don't get caught and punished for my actions.

Yes, yes, I know the laws. Still, I killed quite a few successfully. Forty nine, actually. I was aiming for one from each of the fifty states. When I said random?

I lied.

I am a monster, after all. A disease. Best to be ridden of - especially after the pandemic. Now, however, those who died to the Bogie Man's disease will be remembered as my victims and hardly anything more.

Yes, yes, I am a monster. You've already said that.

And yet, my face is everywhere and so is my name.

I'm quite a popular monster, hm?

I'll be used to scare children even after I die.

The greater the monster, the less likely forgotten.

I'm quite proud of myself, Andrew. And you helped me become so popular, so, wouldn't that make you a monster too?
------------------------------

A/N: Yay, a place to get critique! That's more important to me than winning a contest biggrin Still, fun, fun.

Totes going to go back and see what I can offer to those still needing critique.

I've posted this piece in a few places - most notably on my DA account and also on my fictionpress.com account.

[Bysshe Shelley Keats]

Saline Everwood

Finally, I have decided which piece to enter. Just a heads up, this is also posted on my deviantart account.

Going Home

As day turns to night, I lay my head down to rest.
Shinning light flickers around me.
The wind whispers sweet nothings.
Rain falls slowly from the sky.
The angels cry for my soul.
I close my eyes breathing in the smell of everything for the last time.
A cold hand caresses my cheek.
Opening my eyes, you stand before me with a loving smile but sadness is clear in your green eyes.
My hand reaches out for you.
Warmth spreads through me as you grab hold of me and help me up.
Fear falls from my shoulders, shattering in the wind.
There is no reason for me to be afraid.
I let my last breath leave my body as you walk me towards the light.
It is time for me to go home.

Never tried critiquing before, but I'll give it a shot! (I probably need desperate improvement at it).

I did get a bit of a chill as I got to the end of this, but mostly because I realised the character died (though of what, I'm not sure).

I didn't feel emotionally invested in this piece, even though I can tell that it was supposed to make me feel initial sadness and then relief when it got to the end. I don't know who the character is, or what they feel and maybe that's why it feels disjointed and why I can't connect to him/her.

I find it unusual that the only splash of colour in this poem is the mention of 'green' eyes. Is that symbolism? Either way, it doesn't seem to fit. There doesn't seem to be much rhythm at all and it makes the piece (at least for me), a little bit difficult to get through. The poem doesn't really flow, especially not when we get to the long line in the middle.

I would have liked to have seen a more rhythmical approach and more emotional attachment. As a reader, I understand that the person with green eyes is important (mostly because there's a clear focus), but I don't understand the emotional attachment and it makes it difficult to connect.

Actually, the only emotion I could recognise was 'fear' (because it was directly said that it fell from the characters shoulders) and relief because the character got to "go home".

I didn't get that the character was afraid at all until it was said that he/she was. I think that when you write something from a first person perspective, especially a poem, and when your objective is to inspire feeling into your reader (which I do think was your objective) then you should work on being able to place the hidden subtext of the emotions in your pieces.

I loved the idea of what you have though, and I think it has incredible potential. I like the use of the words "shattering in the wind" and the imagery of the character's fear slipping from her shoulders like a veil (that is the image I get when I read it) so there's no doubt in my mind that you're brilliant when it comes to describing images smile

Also, the thought of angels screaming for a soul is pretty creepy.

[Mokomonko]

THE SLOW DESCENT

Susan slowly pulls the mop out of its bucket; she rings it out carefully, only to be assaulted with the sound of dirty water drip drip dripping onto the white linoleum floor. She bites her lip and rubs her thumb against the ribbed surface of the mop handle over and over and over until the skin is worn down to the lowest, reddest layer.

She takes a deep breath. The daily routine will continue, and she will come out alive.

She walks backwards as she mops, the wet spots closing in on her and rapidly leaving her with no space to move. She tries to take one more step back but is greeted with a dull thud as her foot taps a little too forcefully into the wall.

Trapped. She is trapped. And just like that, the frustration pops.

“Goddamn it!” she says out loud, sinking to the floor and pressing her knees up to her chest, her small feet just barely touching the edge of her little island.

She suddenly feels like crying, but she doesn’t know why.

“Oh, ******** me.” She buries her face in her hands, wondering if she has made a mistake, if her life has only been made of mistakes.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She looks up to see the owner of the house’s son, a boy of barely sixteen, standing on the line of carpet where the living room turns into the kitchen. He smiles at her softly; his teeth are slightly crooked, but it’s a nice smile, nonetheless.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” She stands up quickly, feeling the heat rush into her face. She wishes she still wore her hair down, like she had in high school, but it’s tied too tightly against her scalp; she has nothing to hide behind anymore.

“… Is the floor wet?” he says finally.

“Yes?” It comes out like a question, and she looks down, embarrassed by her timidity.

“Wait a minute.” He walks away and comes back with an armful of towels. Slowly, carefully, he lays them down in a line coming straight at her, the last one just reaching her toes.

“I’ve laid out the red carpet for you my lady,” he smiles, holding out his hand to her. She doesn’t mean to, but she grabs it, driven by an outside force. An outside force that likes the attention.


“Thanks,” a voice smoother than her own replies, her lips spreading into a smile against her will. His eyes scan her, all the way up and down, like he has never really seen her before.


“Hey, no problem. How can I walk away from a woman in trouble?” He laughs, winking at her.

“A woman in trouble...” she replies softly, letting go of his hand and taking a step backward.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, looking confused, “You always look so... sad, whenever I see you. I just thought that maybe I could, um, help you out… for once. ”


She walks out of there as fast as she possibly can while maintaining some semblance of composure, but the hand carrying her bucket of supplies shakes and her chest constricts, and it takes every last bit of will power to climb into her car and drive home.

She finally stumbles through the door, feeling defeated. She has never been good with talking to people, she’s never been good at doing anything really, and it’s always been hard for her to keep away the panic that always seemed to be building in her lungs.

Irrational fear. Isn’t that what her old psychiatrist used to tell her? She suddenly wishes that she could talk to him again.

She tries to conjure up his face, but it’s blurry. She hasn’t been to a psychiatrist since she was fourteen. The face she ends up with is Sigmund Freud. She supposes it’s better than nothing.

“Why do you feel this way, Susan?” Freud asks, taking a long drag from his pipe.

“I don’t know.”

“Really? You honestly don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Fine.” He rubs his imaginary fingers against his imaginary temples, “Then tell me, what exactly are you feeling? You can tell me that can’t you?”

She pauses, trying to comprehend her twisted up emotions, but the words leave her mouth before the thought was even finished, “Regret, shame, and fear. There’s always fear.”

“And why is that?”

She can’t take it anymore; she turns away and runs to the bathroom, wrenching open the medicine cabinet to find those pills she bought.

She swallows two without water, feeling the hard corners rub dryly against her throat all the way down. She puts the bottle away and then rethinks it, pulling it back out and taking two more.

“Pathetic.” Freud says from behind her. She closes her eyes.

She had been given the chance to get married once, but her nerves hadn’t let her. She had been too afraid of the strain of married life, the strain of children, the strain of a real job and a real life.

“How does it feel Suzy? Your strain-less life?” Freud asks, his voice a whisper against her ear.

“Pathetic.”


She wakes up not knowing what time it is. Her cheek is pressed up against the cold tile floor, her hair is plastered with vomit, and her stomach feels like it has been corroded away. She sits up slowly, her bones creaking; she grabs the edge of the sink, attempting to pull herself up, but fails. Eventually she gives up and just sits, one hand on the sink, the other hanging limply at her side.

She cries then, and she doesn’t stop until she hears the alarm in her room that says that it’s time for her to go to work. When she does hear it, she forces herself up, washes her hair in the sink, and stumbles her way into the bedroom to change into her uniform for the day.



After work is over Susan stops by the liquor store to pick up a couple of groceries. She used to go to the grocery store, but it had been too taxing on her nerves, to big, too many people. The liquor store was safer.

But her neurosis's are worse lately.

Even the liquor store, which she must visit at least 15 times a month, is giving her hives. The fluorescent lights beat against her brow and she can feel cold sweat running down the back of her neck. Every shelf is a maze, every person is one person too many and she feels cramped, trapped. She closes her eyes to keep the panic from reaching her throat. Maybe it's best if she just leaves; she can deal with this later, after a pill or two.

But every time she tries to take a step towards the door she can feel Freud's hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from it. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. She's not allowed to leave until he says so.

The panic grows big and fat in her throat like a tumor.

“Susan?”

The panic shrinks slightly at the sound of the familiar voice and she turns around. It’s the boy’s mother, Marjorie J.

“Ah, hello Mrs. J.” she replies weakly, the hand holding the basket shaking.

“I’m glad I ran into you. I was wondering if you would mind coming over today at about eleven O’clock or so? We’re throwing a party and it’s going to be a huge mess, so I’d really appreciate it. I’ll pay you double.”

“I don’t-”

“Do it Susan,” Freud interrupts, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shivers at his touch and finds herself nodding, moving her mouth to say words in the affirmative.

Mrs. J. doesn’t seem to see the turmoil.

“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.” She walks off, the click click click of her heels hammering into her skull like the nails on a coffin.

“Why do I have to go? Can’t I just-“

“No. You can never ‘just’ do anything. If you don’t keep moving, you’ll die. Besides, the party will probably be over by then anyway, you can handle cleaning can’t you?” His voice is firm, and she does not argue.


When she arrives at eleven o’clock the party is clearly not over.

She can hear the laughter and the music from the other side of the door, and as she takes the first step up to the porch, her entire body is covered with goose bumps.

“What are you so afraid of?” Freud asks, his eyes admonishing her for her unwanted and melodramatic fears. She looks down at her black suede shoes; she has chosen them on purpose, so that if she ever gets the desire to look at them she won't have to stare at her own reflection. She silently applauds her foresight, the last thing she needs right now is to stare herself in the face.

“I don’t know, please, just let me go home.” She can feel his stare boring into her back and her eyes begin to blur with tears. What does he want? She doesn't understand why she feels the way that she does, so how could she possibly tell him? All she knows is that she wants to run away.

“Oh please, it’s just a party. Don’t you like parties?” It’s a different voice this time, a woman’s voice. Susan turns to the left and sees a tall, beautiful woman, dressed in a black cocktail dress. The woman looks like a more glamorous version of herself.

“Please, let me leave,” she begs, turning back and forth between them, hoping one will give her sympathy. Freud and the woman laugh.

“It’s a lovely party, why don’t you live a little? You don’t have to clean until it’s over, so why don’t you…” Susan feels a push on her back forcing her closer to the door, and she watches as a her hand, uncontrolled by her, turns the knob, “… have some fun?”

From the moment that she opens the door there is nothing. She sees only darkness and is tortured by her own voice, echoing from a far away place; her own voice, saying things she would never say, laughing in a way she would never laugh.

"Oh, you're such a cutie pie," she hears her voice say, laughing in that odd way.

"Um, thanks Susan. You know, you seem really different today, are you okay?" she instantly recognizes the soft male voice as Marjorie's son's.

She opens her mouth to yell, to try to get her voice to reach out of the darkness, but there is no sound. 'Please!' she silently begs, 'Let me out! This isn't me!'

There is no answer and she gives up, sitting the the darkness, waiting to be released. She feels no hope, but at the same time she can't bring herself to feel sadness either, who is she anyway? Maybe it's better if she could just go away for a while.

'Okay Susan, you want out? I'll let you out. Go see how much everyone has.....missed you," the woman in black laughs her strange laugh as she says it, Susan tries not to think about what she means.

When she opens her eyes the party is over and Marjorie is standing in front of her, her mouth curved into a pleased smile. Her son is standing next to her, he looks less pleased.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Susan. I’m glad you showed up before the party ended. You deserve to have a good time once in a while, you’ve been working for me for seventeen years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”

"Yes," she says slowly, feeling odd. Her senses are coming back slower than they should and it takes her several seconds to realize that there is a hand on her shoulder, rubbing its way up and down her neck and along her collarbone.

She turns to look at the source of the hand, startled to find a strange man standing there, smiling at her.

He leans over to press his lips up against her ear. “Would you like to come back to my place?”

She looks away from him, wide-eyed, her eyes darting back and forth between Marjorie and her son. Marjorie sees nothing wrong, but the boy seems to sense her uneasiness and take a step towards her. But he moves no closer than one step, his face betraying the uneasiness he feels in 'helping' a thirty-five year old woman get away from people who are being nice to her.

She's not sure what she should do, so she stands frozen, unable to move.

"Are you alright, dear?" Marjorie says, laughing uneasily. The man with the hand on her shoulder waves away the question with a flick of his wrist.

“Oh, she’s fine, she’s probably just had a little too much to drink. I'd better take her home.”

"No, I-" she stops, feeling a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh!" the woman in black whispers in her ear, "Do you want to ruin everything? People like you this way, people like you better when I'm you. Why do you always have to be weird? This is why nobody likes you."

Susan stops, considering her words, wondering why they don't hurt her as she's sure they are meant to. Oh. She suddenly realizes. It's because it's true.

Nobody has ever liked the 'real' Susan. The 'real' Susan is the girl who shuffled between classes, never looking anyone in the eye; the 'real' Susan is the girl who never had dreams or hopes, who ran away when people asked her a question, who cried when her pencil broke and never went to college because she didn't want to move. Nobody likes that Susan.

She looks over at the boy; he's nervous, eying her up and down, not quite sure what to do. He likes her.

"What's one teenage boy?" the woman in black sneers, "What does he matter, when everyone else hates you. You're not strong enough, Susan. It would be better if you just went away. It's really better this way."

The truth of these words seems undeniable, and Susan no longer feels like fighting. So she closes her eyes and lets go. She can feel all those despairing, strange, unmanageable feelings and pain within her wilting. Oh, she thinks for the last time, it is better this way. It really is.

“Oh, I'm sorry I seem so off, I'm just a little tipsy. I had a wonderful time,” the woman in black says with Susan’s old lips.

The boy stares and stares, but Susan isn't there anymore. The light in those brown eyes isn't plain enough, isn't sad enough to be Susan. He can't look anymore, so he turns away, confused and afraid.

But no one else notices. The world is full of smiles.

[Mokomonko]

Icily Platinum

The Ritual

Which path did you choose?

CRITIQUE:

First off I have to say that I love this story. i think that it's very original and keeps me engaged all the way through. I especially love this line:

The third and final question will be: "who do you love most in this world?"

The only correct answer is: "myself, but I respect everyone else."

That actually made me laugh a little.

There is something very mysterious in your writing style and in the imagery, but at the same time I am not left confused, you make sure that everything is very clear to the reader. the only thing that is shrouded in mystery are the things you WANT to be shrouded in mystery.

Reading it over it's obvious that you were very careful not to have any grammatical or structural errors, although that makes my job harder since it gives me less things to criticize XD

Honestly though I can't think of any criticism that wouldn't ruin your story. You made this piece knowing exactly what kind of story you wanted it to be and you made it just that, if I were to tell you to make it more structured by givign it a main character or a serious plot, or something like that I would be in essence undermining everything that you worked for. So i'll just leave you with this:

Good job.

[calviness]

Okay everyone, no new entries/contestants as of midnight tonight (I dunno, Pacific U.S. time?). You can still critique everyone until I start judging, and make edits to your pieces until then, but no new entries as of.... 7 hours from now!

[moonbird67]

Schmeal

Riverbank

It is avnice poem and I like the story behind it. However, the flow of the syllables seems patternless. Try to match corresponding lines with the same number of syllables. Think Shakespeare's imabic pentameter, which had ten syllables per line, only less extreme. As an example:

Writing is so fun (5)
but oh so very hard (6)
Without a place to start (6)
It is killing me. (5)

Not all poems have this, but it is a good starting point to let the words flow together instead of rushing ahead or stopping when there feels like something more should be there.

[Starry Starry Fright]

I haven't done poetry in a long time, but I figured I have nothing to lose:


My Angel

My angel fell from filthy skies,
I fell from Hell into his eyes.
Love and hate and shades of grey;
nevermore to fly away.

Evil words that shatter glass
rob my Angel of his past.
Brimstone pearls and golden screams
and memories fading into dreams.

All I've ever known of grace
was written on his troubled face.
I've stumbled, fallen into love;
my treasured trash from up above.

Two thousand years of raw discourse
defile a love with no remorse.
No place in hearts, no place in sky;
beneath the feet of passers-by,

he's carried me, on broken wing.
He teaches demons how to sing.
Forever live in days gone by,
where angel face meets devil eye.

[Yutora]

So excited for a critique from you o:

[Mokomonko]

aww someone read mineee? I will give them hugs? <3