The Writers

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The Writers
na.jpg
Motto: Coming Soon.
Founder(s):
Date Founded: 14 October 2015 (2101 g.e.)
Guild Page: The Writers 


WHO WE ARE

"The Writers" Guild is a guild dedicated to help all people of Godville with writing, reviewing, and ideas for their chronicles and stories. The guild is a new concept in which members do not have to physically join the guild to be a member as long as they contribute to helping others with their chronicles and story telling.

TO JOIN

Should you wish to join The Writers Guild, you simply need to type Join “The Writers” guild into your Voice of God box once you have reached the level 12 or higher.

For the largest chance of success, send the command while your hero is outside of town, not heading back to town and is idling. (i.e. not fighting a monster) If the above does not succeed after several tries, try replacing the word "join" with the word "enroll".


CURRENT MEMBERS AND MEMBERS ABROAD

The following members below are willing to help with ideas, reviewing and guidance on writing your chronicles and stories. You may contact them threw the Forums or Private Message.

M = Member within the guild.
MA = Member who are also in other guild.


M GodShadows Ghost 
The founder of "The Writers" guild and first official member. Shadows Ghost has a deep interest in the paranormal, folklore and the occult. If you need some inspiration for something creepy, here is your man. If you want to meet someone creepy, still your man.

MA GodDrakkar  Storytelling Rank = 108
Co-founder and first non-official member of The Writers guild. Drakkar is open about being dyslexic and will help anyone who suffers from it as well. He has years of experience and many tips and tricks on dealing with it. Drakkar is a big Jules Vernes fan and works best as a scientific mind. He is probably not the guy you want to go

to if you are looking for ideas on magic or witch craft. BEWARE OF DRAKKARS DRUNKEN BEAR HUGS.

MA GodHoly Spirit of Hell  Storytelling Rank = 89
Is a mansly man who mans mansly. If ever you needed a mansly idea, this is your man.

M GodTrob 
Creator of a chronicles so big, he could no longer contain the beast in his chronicles. He then lured the beast into the larger greener wiki pastures with a thesaurus where he fed it with the dictionary of Godville and it grew into possibly the biggest chronicles in all Godville. He can do this because he has a very big brain. Unlike many others, he use simple and witty way of writing.

MA GodGod2000  Storytelling Rank = 477
Everything you need to know about this god can be found on their Personal Wiki.

MA GodMommitude  Storytelling Rank = 7
Not only is she the fierce leader of the "Hug Central" guild, she is quite possibly one of the nicest people you will meet in Godville. She is always ready to give a big hug and a bottle of warm embrace. If you are wanting to write about pure good, look no further than right here.

MA GodDerelict Red  Storytelling Rank = 44
You could say his chronicles is a mix between Bob Ross, the Shining, and Conan the barbarian. It's so dark yet so colorful. It makes you want to paint a happy little tree then engulf it in gasoline and flames.

MA GodMalik Red  Storytelling Rank = 22
Red rhymes with dead said the Wind Up Toy, and if you need inspiration for your twisted desires, look no further then Malik Red. Hey, that rhymes :)

MA GodHigh king of undies  Storytelling Rank = 20
Don't get your undies in a wad because the king is here. The High king of undies, a brilliant person for all your brilliant needs.

MA GodAliamei 
She loves to write about fantasy and magic, she is very fond of a giant cat that she replaced the moon with and plays with a cart. Kitty, need we say more.

MA GodPortico 
Is much too busy picking locks to take time on a witty introduction for herself (¬_¬). And Drakkar is amused watching Portico picking an unlocked lock. Keep jiggling the handle, it will open eventually.

M GodTuxedoSalt 
The James Bond... Of salt. He may also be the mortal enemy of slugs and snails.

MA GodWyrmwood 
And the name of the star is Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they became bitter. Here is a writer of biblical proportions, not in size but in style.

MA GodArthuri Victori 
This authors chronicles take strong ties to anime in style and imagery along with plot twist. At one moment it can be cute little girls playing violins, then without warning the world around them explodes into chaos. Then soon again its strawberries and cupcakes. Mmmm... Cupcakes.

MA GodPablo the Dragon 
Keeper of the word, and he did not even use a thesaurus to come up with that. But now I need a dictionary.

M GodTace 
The silent but deadly type.

M GodAtricus Imperator 
The unbiological son of Dr. Frak-sten-stein, and the Devil of Deville. A new twist on an old classic.

MA GodZevharayah 
A scientists currently looking for a cure for stupidity.

MAGodInfinitecircler 
When he's not fishing or reading he's probably writing. Give him a word and he'll write you a story. It may take a while but he has infinity after all.

MA GodHit you 
Im sort of someone who is knowable about everything but have no special expertise.

M GodYofi 
Although a lady of light, she finds herself writing dark stories through the night. She wishes everyone a good day and a good light-- she means night.

MA GodPogoPogo 
Haunted by the Void, Ash Corde lives in the grey area between her two goddesses, PogoPogo and the Darkholder. If you need help with description, feel free to ask PogoPogo, but be warned that something else might overhear the conversation...

MA GodI Am Not The One 
She isn't exactly the one to write... Or is she?


FLASH FICTION CONTEST



LAST WINNER AND CURRENT JUDGE

GodPablo the Dragon 

THE WINNING STORY

Nyctophobia: Fear of Darkness

I check my phone before entering my house. It’s 6:16 AM, Friday the 13th, November. What a terrible time. I’ve been up all night, and I didn’t realize it until now.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and close the door behind me. The first thing I register is that it is much warmer here than the outside. There’s also an odd smell in here. Kind of bitter. I’ll probably get used to it.

Then I notice, that with the door locked, my house is dark to the point I can’t see anything. I instinctively reach for the light, and flick the switch several times. Nothing happens. Shit. They still haven’t fixed the power lines in our neighborhood yet.

My breath catches a bit and I lean against a wall for support. The darkness only magnifies the sound. I hear a constant low drone, interspersed with mechanical clanking in the basement. It’s probably the heater. My mind can only jump to the worst possibilities though. I close my eyes. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help at all.

Instead, I focus on other sounds. A quiet dripping sound. An almost inaudible groan. That’s the kitchen sink and fridge, I tell myself, All those stories you’ve been reading are just fiction anyways.

I manage to stumble up the stairs, too afraid of tripping to run up them, and definitely not looking back. With every step, I recall the multitudes of horrors that could lay in the dark. My mind projects a gnarled, clawed arm from a piece of loose paper, or glaring eyes from whatever starlight that comes through the blinds.

Then, something occurs to me. I grab my phone, and Google something, completely on a whim. My idea is a bit childish and silly, and pretty improbable, but why not? I still have some time and nothing to lose.

The internet goes out halfway through the page (stupid data reliability, I mumble), but I know enough. I tiptoe out of my room and head towards the attic steps. The steps make an awful, clamorous groaning sound. I wince with every step, but I make it up.

I take a deep breath of the musty, stale air, and turn my phone flashlight on. I sweep it across the attic. Bad decision; the angle of the flashlight reveals shadowy monsters behind every old box or crate. That’s just me being irrational though. Clearly.

I silently walk towards the lone window. Halfway across, I realize I forgot to lock the front door. Part of me says, it’s a safe neighborhood, I’ll be fine. The rest of me is flashing reminders of what happens in horror stories when you overlook something like that. There’s just something about the darkness that makes the second possibility so much more likely. I sprint to the window and slam it open, hand going through what feels like a solid block of spiderwebs.

Slowly, with morbid curiosity, I turn around before climbing out the window. I can’t see the door to the attic from here. The darkness is a poisonous fog; it’s slowly choking me to death. I register the silence; the clanking and screeching and groaning and dripping of the appliances downstairs is gone.

I take a deep breath, and pull myself to the roof. I sigh with relief as all my fears drain away. A grin slowly widens on my face.

The sun is rising.

PREVIOUS WINNERS

GodYofi  Feb 8, 2016 to Feb 15, 2016

BANG!

Hooray! Hooray! Today is my birthday! Big Sis has a special surprise for me on top of that big hill over there. I can’t wait to see what it is! Could it be a giant stuffed panda bear in a purple ninja suit with throwing stars in its paws? Or could it be a cute little bunny rabbit with a pink polka dot ribbon around its neck in a picnic basket? Or maybe it’s a tamed raven that has a tiny scroll in its beak that reads, “Caw! Happy Birthday! Caw!”

Eee! Call me now, Big Sis! I can’t wait any longer. Hahaha. It’s no fun waiting here next to your red pickup truck. I really don’t like the sun burning me and reflecting its really bright light off your truck. Oi-oi! I’m going to run up that hill right now even if you’re not ready yet! I just can’t wait here any longer! Roooooaaaaar! Hahahaha.

Running from the side of the truck to the top of the hill with my arms straight out like an airplane’s wings, I zoom pass the curious squirrels climbing the pine trees and busy termites crawling on rotting logs. Hahaha. The pine-needle-covered ground is so soft and the twiggy sticks snap under my sunflower sandals. And oh, these pine woods in the mountains are awesome. They have such cute animals like those funny woodpeckers and the fluttering butterflies and the chubby songbirds and the—

Huh? What’s that? There’s a strange noise coming from the top of the hill. It sounds really, really, really weird. What is happening up there? Is Big Sis okay? Whatever that thing is, I hope it doesn’t hurt her.

I reach the top of the hill to find her in the middle of a large clearing with her back towards me. Her beautiful long, flame-red hair flows down her back to her thighs as a light breeze brushes it. Her white t-shirt, navy blue jeans, and leather boots are stained by the green grass and… Bl-blood? Is that blood?!

“Big Sis!” I stop a few feet away from her.

She remains standing there, silent and still. She grips pieces of… Animal fur and bloody flesh in her freckled hands.

I approach her, slowly, and keep my eyes focused at her head. As I come to the front of her, I see her emerald green eyes all wide and staring at something straight ahead. Several strands of her hair are blown by the cool breeze to her freckled face.

“I-I tried to sa-save it.” Her chapped lips tremble as the words tumble out of her dry mouth.

What did she tried to save? And what did she tried to save it from? I turn my head to look at what she stares at. “Wha-what is that thing?”

A shadowy four-legged creature with glistening, bloody fangs tears out the intestines of a black cat wearing a blue collar.

“Shi,” Big Sis gulps the little saliva she has in her dry mouth, “don’t run.”

Keeping my eyes on that thing as it slurps up the intestines, I-I can’t help but whimper. “Big Sis,” my eyes now gaze at the lifeless cat, “it’s eating my present, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Were you going to give me that poor kitty cat as my birthday present?”

There’s still no response from her. Why doesn’t she answer me?

I turn around to look at her: her lips quiver and her eyes water. “It’s okay.” The image of her blurs. “I don’t need a present for my birthday.” I rub my wet eyes with the back of my hands.

Although I said that, I really want that poor kitty cat. We could’ve played together at my house with my big stuffies, and we could’ve had some of my yummy, freshly baked cookies. And we could’ve gone to Big Sis’s work where we could play this really awesome video game and meet really cool people who are super-duper nice. And we could’ve gone to the small farm near my house where there are these silly cows who love to eat the grass from my hand when I—

“WATCH OUT!”

I swing around.

Tha-that thing is running at me! It intensely stares at me with its golden eyes so focused, it’s terrifying! Its long tongue dangles from its mouth with the blood dripping from it, and its teeth have flesh and fur caught in between them. It crushes the pine needles, the grass, and yellow flowers underneath its paws with really sharp claws.

I don’t want to be eaten by that monster like my poor kitty! Oh, no no no! I can’t move at all! It’s coming at me, eager to sink its fangs into me, and I can’t move! Wah! Someone help me! AH!

Ouchy-owwy! My ears are ringing, but why? I rub my ears from that awful ringing, as I stare at the creature that was going to eat me alive that now lies on the ground, motionless. Hey, look there. There’s blood splattered on its back. I approach it slowly, scared that it might jump at me and bite. Going to the side of it, I search for the reason why it’s dead. Oh, found it. There’s a gunshot wound at the back of its skull with blood oozing out. Since there’s a bullet in its brain, then that means someone shot it.

I gaze up to look towards the tree where my deceased cat lies: a silhouette of a man holds a rifle as he stands in the shade. He removes the shells and reloads his gun and then aims it at—

“Is he pointing it at us?!” My eyes remain fixed on the man.

“It’s him,” her voice chokes up, “he’s the owner of that thing.”

He’s the owner of that monster? “Big Sis, does he want to kill us, too? It’s because he’s aiming his gun directly at us.”

She gulps, “Yeah.”

WAH! The loud ringing in my ears hurts! I can’t hear anything else but all this ringing. And oh, I feel so weak like that one time when I was a kid: I fainted at the park with Big Sis standing next to me.

Falling backwards to the earth, I see a blurry image of her standing over me. She mouths something to me, but sorry, I don’t understand. She kneels down and cradles my head in her arms. Her eyes well up and tears drip onto my face.

Looking around me, the trees, the gunman, the blue sky, and my sister slowly fade away as I feel myself slipping into darkness.

GodInfinitecircler  Dec 19, 2015 to Dec 26, 2015

A game of darts

In a land on the other side of the interface, what passes for dawn breaks across the flat green plains. Perfectly straight lines of zeroes and ones slowly break formation and wander across the empty spaces, in their respective fields. Along the divide separating two of the planes, a 1 stands at the brink of a seemingly bottomless crevasse and stares longingly at a 0 on the other side.

The pair was careful to stroll along the edge and look into and across the chasm in a random fashion. However, if one were to observe this pairs actions they’d notice they mirrored each other’s movements along the boundary and what appeared to be random observation of their surroundings was in fact silent reinforcement of their love for each other.

It had been ages since zeroes and ones shared the same plane other than daily formations. So long in fact no one could recall when or why they’d been separated. The opinion shared by most was that interactions between a one and a zero on this side of the interface would in some way negatively impact the formation of the object they’d become on the other side.

As 1 turned to find where 0 had moved to, he was the first to see the bright flash of light that occurred before the interface moved across the planes and began to randomly pull zeroes and ones from the fields. He tried to fight the urge but found himself rushing toward the bright flashing light while shouts of “Choose me!” rang in his ears. A flash a buzz and then a whirl and 1 blacked out.

On the other side of the plane, 0 watched as 1 turned and ran toward the flashing lights of the interface and she began to cry. She’d been able to resist her initial urge the rush to the middle of the field and had hoped 1 could do the same. It wasn’t often it’s quota hadn’t been filled, by the time the interface reached the edge of the field.

As the flashing lights drew near, 0 looked up. A loud buzzing noise rang in her ears, as she was swept from the plains and through the interface.

When 1 awoke he discovered he was part of a round object hanging on the wall of a tavern. The surface he was now a part of was broken, punctured and torn. Turning to his right then left, 1 asked what object he was now a part of.

The one to his right replied, “You’re a portion of the latest of many plugs inserted into the t20 score area. The last player made two perfect strikes to the very spot you’re now a portion of and one in the bull leaving her in a good position for her out.

Keleios adjusted the feathers on her brass dart but the balance had been lost when that oaf of a bartender had yanked out her perfect score to make a repair the board. “How dare he touch my darts,” she thought as she drank the beer he’d offered along with his apology for tearing the feather.

The board now repaired her opponent stepped to the oche line and made his tosses. Keleios dipped her hand into her traveling pack, drew forth a new brass barrel and fitted it on a set of feathers she’d prepared for an event like the one that had just occurred. She buffed the tip of the dart, noted her score of 254.

0 opened her eyes but found that she was not able to see as it was very dark wherever she was. 0 turned to her left and then her right and inquired what she had become a portion of. The zero to her left replied, we’re the point of a brass dart.

Her first throw was a perfect t20 and her second grazed the edge but fell just outside the t20 ring. Taking up her newest dart she then made a perfect t20 toss and rejoiced with her girlfriends.

On the dartboard, the one next to him disintegrated as the point of the dart passed directly through him and 1 trembled at the sight. Shocked, he didn’t hear her voice at first but then his head cleared a bit and 1 realized 0, his lovely 0, brushed against him for the first time ever and she was trying to tell him something.

All 1 heard was “I…” and then 0 was gone. He wondered what she’d tried to say so he turned to his left and inquired. The zero there would not reply. She only glared at him her anger apparent.

0 cried as she was violently removed from the dartboard. She had tried to express her love to 1 but he’d been in a state of shock and hadn’t even realized she was there. The ones and zeroes that surrounded her were all shocked and angered by her expressions of love. Certain she’d doomed them all they tried their hardest to withdraw their connections from her.

With her score now 114, Keleios was certain she could win with the three darts she held. The hero and his friends were cute and from experience she knew the beer she was about to win would make them even more interesting to her and her friends. She’d realized he was throwing the match when he’d thrown a double s20 and an outer bull on his previous round but beer was beer and it’d been a while since she’d had a fling.

Keleios decided to save the most difficult toss for last, stepped to the oche line and tossed an s14 followed by a d20. “Now for the t20 and the win,” Keleios thought. Her grip was firm, the release soft and the flight of the dart perfectly smooth.

0 had been forced to the edge and as the dart penetrated t20, she was pulled away from the matrix forming the dart. Sensing the dart would be a direct hit on the spot he was standing, 1 tried desperately to release himself from the matrix forming the board.

For the briefest moment 0 and 1 collided, as 1 broke free from the dart board. 1 grabbed 0 and pulled her close hoping they could form their own matrix. A flash of light a loud buzz and in a land on the other side of the interface, a 1 stands at the brink of a seemingly bottomless crevasse and stares longingly at a 0 on the other

GodDerelict Red  Dec 12, 2015 to Dec 19, 2015

Jane Eyre: The True Happenings behind Thornfield Hall

Jane Eyre: The True Happenings behind Thornfield Hall

“Well, ma’am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are only some bits of walls standing now.”

“Were any other lives lost?”

“Well,” the man paused, and his eyes betrayed a glimpse his feelings, of wonder and disturbingly, a slight terror, “we don’t know.”

“Don’t know? What can that possibly mean?” I asked incredulously, at his hesitant speech. The man’s eyes darted around nervously, as if to think someone listening, and leaned in closer.

“It’s a right mystery, that one, ma’am. Folks searched around the ruins a bit, but found nothing…”

“Nothing? All of the occupants were lost?” At this time, the worst of my fears were in play, and a dull ache in my chest set in. But I glanced once again at my hosts eyes, and discerned that he wasn’t done. He shuffled around in his seat, his eyes downwards, until they finally came back up to me.

“You don’t know?” he whispered, his voice coming out little less than a breath. When I responded that I indeed did not, he resumed his tale, still yet just as cautiously.

“When Bertha jumped off Thornfield Hall, we saw him, Rochester, up there… Presumably trying to save her. His silhouette stayed for an instance longer after she jumped, the encroaching fire causing the strangest aura around his frame, and then, he disappeared back into the Hall. But… We never saw him again. All the servants and such came out fine, but Rochester, well, we couldn’t even find his body. There was a whole crowd for the spectacle, with the firemen, neighbors, and worried citizens all around. There was no way he could escape unbeknownst.”

At this point, Reader, my eyes could not contain my wonderment and astonishment at the seemingly wild story, and my face no doubt certainly paled. My host, seeing this, offered to get me some refreshment, but I refused. I wasn’t done yet.

“Where could he be?” It may have been a ridiculous question, to expect this man to know, but he jerked slightly, and then looked again towards me, seeming eager almost to tell me.

“Rumor says, that to this day, that his… his ghost roams about the Thornfield estate, moaning and wailing. But one name in particular, Rochester’s ghost will just keep repeating. Jane, Jane, Jane. Well at least that’s what they say, the ones who claim observance of the event. It’s said that he is searching for the girl who left him, that his cries carry for miles.”

I started strongly at this, for it was then I remembered the unearthly cries I heard while considering St. John’s proposal. I had rushed outside, in agony and conflict, afraid of my eternal betrayal of Rochester’s love, when I heard the cries, carrying over the moors. Could it be possible? Could Rochester be stuck on this plane, wailing and waiting for true love to resolve itself?

My thoughts were abruptly broken apart by my host’s laugh.

“Of course, it’s all just myth, just a story to tell. I do love the sensation it causes,” he cajoled merrily, but to me, though not at all his fault, offensively. It was then I understood, that this was all just a thrilling tale for him, a thing he talked about to send the shivers up his guest’s spines, tales of the unnatural and supernatural. But this wasn’t just superstition for me. I knew the supernatural, the unreal, and the strange existed, and now, it was involved in my life more than ever before. I trembled at the prospect before me, but I knew it was something I must do.

“I’ll need your best transportation,” I nearly ordered. My host was surprised at my sudden bluntness, but he replied none the less.

“We have a very handsome chaise.”

“Very well. I shall take it immediately, with the driver, at double the normal rate.”

“If you will, ma’am, but I’d be careful at this time of night. Strange things wander the land when the sun sets,” my host warned ominously as he rose from his chair, and I suspected he made a mockery of my fright. However, looking up at his visage, I detected no discernible sign of him being in jest. "I’d better send someone along.”

He paused, as if on a second thought. “Actually, I’ll do best to come with you. I’ll be getting the chaise ready.”

I at once tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant in accompanying me on what he called a dangerous night. “I couldn’t sleep well, knowing that I’d let a young lass like you gallivant off into the dark alone.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. No tears were to come yet to my eyes at the fate of my master Rochester; they could come later. I couldn’t let myself become prone to weakness, not while Rochester still might need me. I steeled my nerves, and newfound resolve bolstered my spirits. I rose and made for the prepared chaise.

What seemed an eternity later, we were back at the humbled remains of Thornfield Hall. My host and now guardian understood I needed some time alone to deal with my past, and let me go on ahead, once he had ascertained the relevant safety of the grounds. I walked through the gate posts, and viewed what once was grand. I was inwardly decrying the decay of the fine mansion, when I heard a slight moaning. It got stronger and stronger, and peering down the path to the Hall, I saw something staggering out, pale and with an eerie glow around. My heart leaped rapturously at the sight of Rochester, earthy or unearthly, and I began to run blissfully toward him. He, the ghost of Rochester, alighted his eyes on me also, and at once began to limp as hurriedly as he could toward me. We were almost in arm’s reach when a loud roar passed by my head and into Rochester. He stopped, shock on his ghostly face, and crumbled into ashes. No words could describe the desolation that entered into my heart that second. I heard something approach, but was too dazed to notice at first. He stepped in front of me, viewing the misty remains of the ghost, with a smoking pistol held upright in his right hand.

“That was a tricky one. Couldn’t get him out of his hole. I guess he had to have some incentive. True, undying love works, I guess.” He looked at my pale, flabbergasted face, and offered his hand. “St. Constantine, Professional Ghost Hunter, at your service.”

It was my Host!

GodPablo the Dragon  Dec 5, 2015 to Dec 12, 2015

Hunted


If he could stop running to think clearly, the first thing he would reflect on would be the irony of the situation. The hunter becoming the hunted in but a moment? Classic. What else could be fitting for him? He was just too good at this game.

But of course, he had no time for such things. He had to focus on running, and only running, even as his body began to ache, and his breath came out in short, forced puffs.

Somewhere, he heard a high-pitched squeal, and the rustling of people running through the undergrowth. Perhaps the hunter had found another victim to chase? It was about time.

Relieved, he jogged to a stop near the stream, chest burning, breathing rapidly. He squatted down, hoping the burning in the legs would stop. Hopefully, his pursuer was distracted enough to not look for him. For a while, at least.

Maybe I could even have a drink, he thought, suddenly aware of his dry throat, but no, I’ve been told the water is absolutely filthy. Wouldn’t want to get sick.

He was shook out of his thoughts with a cry in the distance.

“Come out, come out wherever you are! You can run, but you can’t hide!” The voice was girly and high pitched, but the surely malicious glee sent a shiver down his spine.

“That’s just cliched! And silly! And totally stupid! " he shouted back. Physically, against the one chasing him, well, he could not even touch her. But verbally, maybe he could do something. Start an argument, maybe.

The rustling stopped for a few moments, but started again, this time getting close to him. He had misjudged – she was much closer than he had thought.

Darn it. You just revealed your location for an insult.

He pushed himself off the ground, eyes darting around for an escape route. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registered that he was trembling. There! A bridge. He sprinted towards it.

A high pitched giggle resounded from behind him.

He pushed himself, despite the swiftly growing ache in his legs (if only he had not rested, then his legs would be numb by now). Twenty feet to the bridge. Then ten feet. Now a few more strides… If I make it over, he told himself, then I can stop running. I will be safe from…

He leaped on the bridge, but over shot. A brief feeling of weightlessness, and for a moment he thought he was flying away. Then he was sliding across the wooden boards. He felt a stinging sensation on his left knee, surely he was injured, but that would not stop him!

Ah, who am I kidding. I’m dead meat, pretty much.

Then, he was aware of the echoing footsteps of his pursuer behind him. She was walking slowly now, enjoying the moment. Well of course. It was very rare for her to catch him. He could not help but chuckle a bit. The roles would be reversed again, he supposed.

The young girl he had been running from for the last few minutes tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Tag! You’re it!”

GodDerelict Red  First Winner Nov 28, 2015 to Dec 5, 2015

The Felling of the Lambert Tree

He rushed into the storage closet and slammed the door behind him. A thump and a shriek followed close behind, as he fearfully held it shut.

The man frantically tried locking the door, disoriented by the dark, small room, and finally found the bolt.

Clunk.

He gasped in relief, and fell backwards onto the floor, disturbing an assortment of brooms and buckets. Cautiously, he braced his feet against the door, just in case.

Now he could not hear them anymore. Either them or his friends. But he knew that they were still out there. They had just grown silent.

His gun held in a white, tight grip, he gradually relaxed. A small, night light shed a pale blue on the room. The man looked down at his uniform, brushing the nametag.

Sergeant James Hynes. A decorated police officer here in Chicago, honored with the Lambert Tree medal, the city’s highest award for bravery. But none of that mattered now. Sgt. James glanced at his gun. Almost useless. They were not taught how to shoot at something faster than the eye could track.

The good men and women of the Chicago Police Department, responding to an urgent call from Our Lady of the Angels Catholic School, had rushed in heroically to stop the violence. They were cut down almost instantly.

As his adrenaline faded, Sgt. James felt the doom and the sorrow sinking in. A tear dropped from his eye, onto his proud badge. He wiped the salty residue off his cheek with the barrel of his still tightly grasped gun. Just yesterday, he remembered his friend Sgt. Foley, telling a slightly off-colored but good humored joke about Irishmen, who James was ethnically part of. Now Foley was dead. Sgt. Jannison, a hearty, fiery woman, from New York, and her fierce debates with him about Chicago being the second best city. He won, by pointedly asking why she was here then. She was also dead. He saw it happen.

As he remembered his dearest friend and partner, Sgt. Kramer, two more tears fell. James let the tears dry. Sgt. Kramer, who had saved his life in a gang shootout, one of the most intense moments of both their lives. A loyal friend, a quiet joker, who stuck with him through his near divorce with Jame’s wife, Shauna. James had not seen Kramer die, but he had heard him screaming. James had left him, running away.

His body shuddered with dry sobs. This was not supposed to happen. This was the economic boom of Chicago. Everything was going well. James had a great wife, who he had stuck with through the constant thin. Amazing job, amazing friends. He had been a hero. Now, he had torn that down in the face of this terror.

Sgt. James gazed bitterly at the Lambert Tree. A lie. He ripped it off, and hurled it into the door. It bounced off and landed on his boot. He stared at it, his eyes dry now.

A sudden, simple thought hit him. He remembered the plans they had made, him and his fellow sergeants. They were going to have a potluck next Sunday. Foley, Jannison, Kramer were all going to be there. James would have walked out of the house when they would arrive, with Shauna on his arm, and welcomed them with cold beers. Next, when they were all sitting comfortably out back, in the green yard, with meat on the grill, they would have launched into a spirited discussion about the new Mayor, Richard J. Daley. And many other things. When they bade each other good night, Sgt. James would have gone to bed with his wife, and had a restful sleep, ready for a new day at work, with his partner Kramer.

A thump against the door. James jumped in fright. It left, skittering away, and he breathed easily. But now, a new sound. Something from far away and above, moving noisily along metal. He listened intently. James realized what it was, and took a deep breath. His tears were done, and his fear had hollowed him out. He heard the sound getting closer, and closed his eyes. They had found the air vents, the large, open tubes which supplied air to every single room.

Sgt. James shuddered lightly, then looked at the gun in his hand.

GodKorrigan  FIRST OFFICIAL JUDGE Nov 28, 2015


CONTEST RULES

RULES FOR CONTESTANTS

1. Entries should be between 100 to 750 words. Your story should be submitted to "The Writers" guild forums with the first line saying this is a submission to the Flash Fiction Contest followed by your title and story.

2. You do not have to be a member of "The Writers" guild to enter the contest. Everyone is welcomed

3. Your submissions should not reflect negatively or insult other players or guilds. Use of profanity should correspond with Godville forum rules. Sexual content is not permitted. You can write a love story, just keep it PG.

4. The winner of the contest will have their story displayed in the Wiki and become the judge for the next Flash Fiction contest. Their story and name will stay in the Wiki until there is a new winner and then their name will be moved into a list of previous winners.

RULES FOR JUDGES

1. If a judge is unable to meet the commitment, please contact a contest committee member to make arrangements for an extension or replacement judge.

2. Judges can not enter submissions while in the role of judge.

3. A judge should view and treat each submission fairly. A judge can not refuse to view a submission just because they do not like an individual or guild. A judge should not give a win to a friend if they feel someone else has written a better submission. Everyone must be treated fairly.

4. Any problems should be brought to the contest committee.

COMMITTEE MEMBERS RULES

1. Changes or adding of rules are to be done before a contest starts. Changes to rules during a contest should only be made if the changes are necessary to prevent disruption of the contest or to insure fairness to all participants. Any other changes to the rules should be applied to the next contest.

2. If contacted by a judge stating that they will not be able to participate in that days contest judging, an extension of 24 hours can be offered to the judge. If the problem can not be reconciled in 24 hours, an replacement judge(s) should be brought in to insure fairness to participants.

3. If a judge is missing from the scheduled contest judging. A reasonable amount of time of up to 24 hours may be given to attempt to contact the judge. If the judge can not be contacted in a reasonable time, an replacement judge(s) should be brought in to insure fairness to all participants.

4. If a replacement judge is required, any contest committee members who currently do not have submissions in the contest should agree for up to two willing and neutral individuals to judge the contest. The judge(s) can be members of the contest committee, or individuals outside "The Writers" guild just as long as they do not have a submission in the contest.

5. Committee members will agree to the start and stop dates of each contest.

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CONTEST COMMITTEE MEMBERS

GodDrakkar 
GodDerelict Red 
GodAliamei 

The Writer's Drink of Choice

The ink stops flowing if you stop writing. Sometimes, every brilliant author struggles to keep writing, and their brain writhes in frustrated agony. On late nights, they simply cannot create new pages anymore.

The Writer's guild seeks to combat this issue with the artful inspiration of a new drink: Alphabet Soup! Wrought into existence by guild member GodPablo the Dragon , this magnificent drink imbues writer's with the strength of language of language in it's simplest form: the alphabet. Each little letter drank swirls into the mind, and endless possibilities and combinations are the result. The dry drought of the mind has finally met it's bane!