The Best Damn Fan Fiction Writing Contest + The Entries

[Morenor]

^ Haha good one mom

[bunny]

also are we aloud to make people die?

[Morenor]

^ I think you are allowed to do everything you want mommy

[x_becky]

Where to post our stories when we finish?
I'm going to upload my story to my deviantART account...but I'm not sure where to put it otherwise.

[Morenor]

^ You should put it here..

[ThePrincess]

Can we change the song we want? 'cause in my head is appearing a great idea for Girlfriend and it would be a more happier story than the Happy Ending one and besides I'm sick of sad stories (my fan fiction it's really sad so...) ... Pleaseee

Please scroll down to read, thanks

Guys, please read it through completely, thanks!


A single tear trickled down the woman's face as she stepped into the cold night air. Her long, black hair billowed behind her in the late November breeze as she stepped out into the long, winding street beneath the orange glow of light above her. It was twilight. She reached for her collar and pulled it up for warmth, and reached into her pocket. Her glasses askew, she retracted her hand, revealing a long, dark brown cigar with the word “Goldmens” glistening in the light from the street lamp above.Upon lighting it with a small, silver object, smoke began to billow from it. She raised it to her cold, chapped lips and took a long, grateful drag. Then, she dropped it to the ground, crushing it beneath her flat, black shoe and turned on the spot without another backwards glance. You don’t need him. You don’t need them. she thought. You’re Eeleye. You’re stronger than this. But in her heart, she knew she was kidding herself. Another tear followed the track on her cheek from the first, but this time, she wiped it away with a brown, leather covered hand. Going here tonight did nothing but bring back those memories. Sitting there, instead of doing her job; instead of reporting for the Southern Express, screams once again chased each other around her mind. Screams of fear and pain. Screams of wanting it all to end. She had never forgiven her uncle for what he had done to her. She had been confused. She had been nothing more than a confused little teenager. And now, even though thirteen years had passed, and he was long dead, those screams continued; and in her mind’s eye she witnessed it all over again.
She started to walk, shaking as she did. She listened carefully to her surroundings; now that she had lost her chance with Henry, she needed another story, fast. She couldn’t live without her job. At least, she thought she couldn’t. Mice could be heard scurrying into nothingness as she ascended; above, she could hear the faint cries of a starving cat. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she reached the nodal point of the hill. Below in the distance, she noticed the lake: a glistening silver ribbon entwined by a mass of green and black. A long, straight, slowly descending road lay in front of her, at the end of which was the city centre. Yet instead of heading onwards, she turned abruptly once again and headed right, in the direction of the theatre. Thoughts of her past left her as she neared the building; it was here that she had always felt at home. Journalism had always been her second choice; her realistic option.
“Avril!”, a short woman from a window above called. “Hello, Beatrice!” Eeleye replied. The gate creaked loudly as it swung open. She headed towards the front door of the building. The woman called Beatrice retreated from the only window on the front of the theatre: it resembled a large mouth to Avril; a giant, gaping black abyss. She smiled at the familiarity of it all, despite having only last seen it before her visit with Henry, the only blacksmith she knew. “So, Avril”, Beatrice started once Avril had stepped into the narrow, dark entrance hall, the candle in her grasp the only source of light in the room.
“What alias did you decide on?”.
“Eeleye Watts”, Avril replied. Beatrice nodded in coherence.
“Ah. Tried to interview Henry again, did we?”.
“Yes, but it didn’t go so well”.
“Nevermind”, Beatrice finished, turning away, starting for the opposite end of the hall. Avril was forced to fight back more tears with all her might: thinking about her visit with Henry was too difficult for her. But he killed her. It’s okay to cry. Her counsellors advice echoed through her ears once more. But she couldn’t break down just yet. The end was near. She had decided upon that a long time ago. Ever since Henry had killed her mother. “The party starts in a few minutes, Avril” called what sounded like a faint Beatrice from somewhere deeper in the bulding. “You can come in then”. Avril didn’t reply, but once again recited her plan, something she had gone over so many times that it no longer made any sense to her. Before the end of the new years party, she would leave quickly before anyone could notice her absence. Then, on her way back to her appartment, she would re-visit Henry on the pretence of seeking further support, murder him with her handgun which was now concealed beneath her coat, before heading home. Upon arrival, she would break her key in the lock to prevent further entry, run to her room, and hang herself from her window ledge. She pictured the noose billowing in the breeze as she recalled the plan once again; the noose she would soar into nothingness with; the noose that would finally, finally, put an end to it all. With any luck, she would never have to see the end of 1944.
She stood in the ballroom, glancing repeatedly at her watch. Couples danced round and around her, yet she stood there as nothing more than a cold statue in a drafty museum. And that was how she felt. When she wasn’t looking down, pulling back her sleeve at her watch, she simply gazed around the room, and around the faces she would never see again. She felt numb. No longer did she feel a part of it all; it was like she had been disconnected from them. For her, the living deserved pity. They were the ones who would continue to suffer beyond her death. What they feared, she would no longer be fearful of. Once death had encapsulated her, she would be truly at peace. As it neared 11.30, she felt as sudden rush of panic and, and at the same time, excitement. Stepping backwards out of the room into the darkness of the hall beyond, she tried to take a mental photograph of the scene: the old, dressed in long, flowing gowns and suits; the young, in miniature versions of each. A great wide curtain surrounded them; the colour wine seemed to suit the scene perfectly. Avril couldn’t have felt any more detached, yet smiled. She stopped and paused. Whether it was a few seconds or a lifetime, she could not tell. She put one foot forward, feeling a strange sense of longing. Beyond, in a room to her left, she heard someone singing lyrics. They sounded unfamiliar to her. She strained to hear them. Faintly, they drifted towards her like some melodic dove of sound. “If you’re trying to turn me into someone else, it’s easy to see I’m not down with that, I’m not nobody’s fool”. The little girls voice faded away. Avril sighed. Then she quickly turned and fled.

Note: You may notice some poetic references. If you do, know that I am not trying to take credit for them, I am doing nothing more than the former: just referencing them because of my liking for them.



It's 1 and 3/4 Microsoft Word pages just so you know.