Amazing stuff guys...Im thoroughly creeped out now :) hehe

I agree with Cimerone. Really well done, eerie writing going on here. Who needs a haunted house when we have a haunting message board?

Now everyone is writing two pieces! This forum is so demanding ;) Again, 500 on the nose. ------------------------------------------------------------ An Aerial Photograph of Home The wine tasted of oak and the autumn sun. Twin bubbles swayed and conjoined under the rim of my glass. I rolled a mouthful over my tongue. He still kept an excellent cellar. How was the journey? he asked. Long but comfortable. A blur mostly, I sighed. Im glad Im finally here. The familiarity of his face added to my feeling of belonging, more so because he hadnt aged a day in all the years that wed been apart. Lets leave the dishes and get comfortable, he said, leading the way. As I expected, pictures crowded the drawing room walls. I havent seen most of these, I said. Its been a long time, he replied. Then his eyes sparkled, I want to show you something. The latest one. He took my arm, led me into the darker part of the room. A lamp clicked on. Isnt it magnificent? On the wall was a triangular sprawl, like a cobweb across a corner, its filaments an accretion of macadam, the spaces stuck with block and tile. There was our hometown mapped out and framed but not, I saw, a map. This had all the dimensions of summer, the jewels and shadows of saturating sunlight. Home, as photographed from the sky. The detail is astonishing. The resolution its like being suspended in air. Its beautiful. My eyes flitted about the photograph, sprinted through the places I knew, a street a second. A strip of sky - the reflecting river - wandered across. Shadows of clouds, sailing higher yet than this vantage point, daubed the green geometry of the parks. And here, to the east, was the great grey circuit of the traffic interchange. Intersecting beneath it were the walkways wed skateboarded, wreathed in traffic fumes, following our echoed shouts through the tunnels. Look, he said, Mill Road. The railway bridge. I traced down from the splayed railway lines. There was the first place I ever lived. All those terraced houses, each with its portion of homes warmth, indistinguishable under long communal roofs. A few streets away, a small patch of tree-freckled green was crossed by two paths, connecting at a pale circle in the centre. There wasnt a park there, I wondered. The cemetery, he said, and with that word I fell, spiralling into the photograph. Here were the avenues I knew, the pavements and the crossings, caf, and grid mapped roads, spinning up through the tearing air toward me. My body falling, limbs raging against uprushing wind. Suddenly standing, one of a silent group inside a memory. Bare sky over headstones. All of us black draped, turning from where we had lowered him down. His girlfriend, unwed and widowed; my cold touch on her thin fingers. How are you? Terrible. Terrible. Id never left him behind before and was uncertain how to walk away. He touched my shoulder. Its where they laid you too, he said. You didnt see because you were on your way here.

Nicely done...thought I am disappointed to find there are dishes to wash in the herafter. For myself, I would like to know the relationship between the two people (parent and child? I'm assuming not girlfriend-boyfriend since he had a girlfriend at his grave.) And to make room for it, I'd probably (this is just me), take out the redundancy of the phrase "its filaments an accretion of macadam," which is just repeating the cobweb image very familiar to most most people and gives you six whole words to spare. ;) You worked in a lot of detail in thos 500 words...mood and setting well set. I'm glad we don't have to vote on which story we liked best....I wouldn't want to have to make a choice.

Beautifully written Cambert. I think I'm inspired to write another...

Thanks for the kind words, folks. Dailyn, you're right about the redundancy of the 'filaments' phrase. I'd envisaged the two characters as friends but I tried to leave the characterisation as open as possible; a hint that these people were insubstantial in some way. The narrator character isn't even specified as male or female. I'm interested in how we project ideas and characters onto 'unreal' people - the dead, celebritites, politicians and the like. The original of this was nearly 800 words and it's been a lot of fun hacking it down to size. It makes me feel totally ruthless, without any messy clearing-up to do afterwards :)

I find keeping to a word limit very difficult indeed. In school, when we were told to write three pages, I was the student who typed single space, elite (no computers in those days when dinosaurs roamed the earth), with 1/2 inch margins and three pages of footnotes in addition to my three page paper! I made the suggestion because sometimes once the question occurs to the reader, it distracts from the story...and that would be a shame. If the two people are friends, there's nothing wrong (I don't think) with indicating that without damaging the growing sense of something happening in the scene beyond simply two people meeting over drinks.

I can definitely see your point about the question being distracting once it comes up. I think if I was reading that piece for the first time, I'd want to know what the relationship was between them too - it would stick in my mind if I never found out. Thanks for that insight.

Well, actually, it's Chuck's insight and someone else's about one of my stories where I left out the same piece of information. It was clear to me but not so clear to someone else. ;) At least I learn from experience. Well, some experiences. Really like the richness of your style. I envy that. I'm no good at communciating settings and I admire other people who do that without holding the story back.

It was clear to me but not so clear to someone else. ;) One of my bad habits - I need to remind myself that what's in my head isn't always what's on the page. It seems I still haven't learnt the lesson properly. It's the same with all habits: good ones disappear in moments, bad ones stay forever :) Can't agree with you about not being good at communicating settings though. I saw the alley in The Scavengers very clearly.

bikermouse : Thanks for reading and commenting. I agree with your suggestion. On balance I prefer your rephrasing of the opening two sentences of "The Wind Over The Border". It reads better combined into a single sentence. Personally, the general flow of the text is an aspect of that piece that I'm dissatisfied with. It's not so bad at the beginning but later where I had to squeeze the word count hard the sentences get choppy and the rhythm is disrupted. I'm sure that one of the secrets of writing well is to strike a good balance between long and short sentences. In this excercise, cutting an original back to 500 words sometimes results in an ugly structure for the resultant text but I don't think it needs to stay ugly. I think it just means that you have to try harder to restore the flow again. Another editing pass is what's called for. If you've got the patience ! There are certainly some good examples in this thread where it's been managed very well. I like cambert's 2nd story a lot. The idea of a perfect aerial photograph ties in quite neatly with a literal interpretation of heaven as a place "up there", and that fantasy of the afterlife as the ability to be all seeing and all knowing. It's an original idea (but I also agree with dialyn that I got a bit hung up on trying to work out the relationship of the protaganists) Geminirand : I can see how this one would make a good set up for some later writing where the headless corpses make a reappearance. Is that what you have planned in your novel? I was a bit confused by her "religious" husband also becoming a headless corpse when he wasn't involved in the original ceremony and so I presume he isn't supposed to have any supernatural powers. But perhaps I'm meant to be confused. Obviously there is a mystery behind the (normal!?) supernatural events here as you're hinting in the final paragraph... Still, just goes to show that beheading isn't the way to stop a witch from rising again. I'll bear that in mind next time I see one... BellaMorte : Like in cambert's story the most frightening ideas can be the ones that reveal supressed information about ourselves. This is a major spoiler for anyone who hasn't seen it but the recent file "The Others" with Nicole Kidman explored this sort of territory and very chilling it was too. I'd thoroughly recommend it. I like the way you handle the dialog in this story. It builds up the tension very nicely. My only criticism would be that the start of the piece is in quite a jokey style, with the various asides e.g. "I'm not the screaming type" and then it all gets more "serious". I actually enjoyed the jokey style and the more "straight" horror but I'm not sure they blend well together. Pretty hard to do in 500 words!

Wouldn't you agree, DMFW, this exercise has been a success?

dialyn : I can't believe how many people have taken up the challenge and how good the results are! There are some interesting writers in this forum. I keep meaning to try and contribute to some of the other threads but just keeping up with this one is hard work!

DMFW: Thank you for your comments. Actually, the writing style for that piece is based around the type of person I am. I have this tendency to laugh in a serious situation and at times I'll try to be funny to lighten the situation only to have it fail. These only come out when I am so scared. Being an emotional person who doesn't scream, these become my form of release My piece was rewriten because I based her death on the accident that my husband and I were in last year but when I read it, it felt too close for comfort so I based it on the dizziness instead. I actually found that sort of hard to write. Not my normal writing there. Any tips for improving?

BellaMorte: Ah, I understand your story a little better now! I hadn't picked up on that nuance of using humour to deflect fear but it does ring true (maybe 500 words is just too short to bring that out or perhaps I was just too dense to see it). Actually, the more I think about it, the more it seems like a profound idea which could work very well if it was developed more fully in a longer piece. I can see it as an effective way of building character into the "victim" and deepening the final horror. There is a fine line between innocent laughter and hysterical laugher, after all and taking the reader from one to the other could make for a very disturbing tale. It sounds like you scared yourself a bit in writing this! I like your writing style and I can't think of any particular "tips". I'm too embarassed to offer tips when all my own weaknesses are on show in this thread :-) Perhaps one observation though. Your comment about finding this hard to write, probably means that it's been a worthwhile thing to attempt. I reckon the hard things are the ones that make you think more critically about your own writing and that's a good way to improve...

DMFW: I see what you are saying. Yes, I guess 500 words are not enough to protray that sort of emotion. Being a very emotional person myself (and, believe it or not, very shy), I do tend to get hysterical if I am involved. I hate confrontations. I get the shakes LOL. The internet is the first place I have found where I can be daring because I am not actually in front of people. Maybe not scared myself. I don't know really. Thank you for that :). I have a tendancy not to give tips because I feel my style is so basic. However, I have been surprising myself during the past 4 days since I discovered the writing comp :). Yes it was hard because I was using me as the model for the person telling the story. You see, I too suffer dizziness. I have never really used me as a character before and doing it in this halloween story was interesting, strange and a bit difficult.

Second time I posted this. The first one seems to have been lost in the ether. Kind of spooky, eh? My first posting here. 497 words by the way. jon ============================================================= The House Across the Street J. M. Strother There is a house across the street that is reputed to be haunted. It certainly looks the part; it is old, with huge windows, a recessed entryway, and an enormous front door at the top of a long series of steps. It's white facade stands out like a beacon on top of the hill when the sky is dark and the sun peeks in low under the clouds. It commands your attention. It is fabled to have been part of the Underground Railroad. Rumor has it that there are tunnels in the basement, tunnels used to hide escaped slaves, and later, contraband for the Union. If such tunnels exist, we never found them. God knows, we looked. I spent hours in the basement with my friend George, tapping walls and floor, listening for a tell tale sounds. George lived there with his mother and two sibs, Mary and Elaine. His father lived there too, when he was home, which was seldom. I never met the man. Seems the tunnels were the root of the haunting. A young Confederate officer by the name of Jeremy Pike heard tales of this house, and took it upon himself to go investigate in hopes of earning glory. So on October the 20th 1861, he rode out to the house alone. He was never seen again. Stories say he was graciously welcomed by Mrs. Stowe. After they exchanged pleasantries over tea and cake he asked if he could have a look around. She protested but ultimately relented, following him from room to room. Finally he entered the basement, and with the aid of a poker found what sounded like a hollow spot behind the staircase. He turned to ask Mrs. Stowe about it. He was met square in the face with a shovel, killing him instantly. So we banged and prodded around that stupid staircase for weeks. Even took a pick to the wall one time, much to George's regret. We never found anything. Still, the old place gave me the creeps, epically around Halloween. I'll never forget that one Halloween when I went over to collect George for a night of Hell raising. I rang the bell and waited. Finally I heard steps in the hall. The door flew open. George's old man stood there glaring out at me dressed in a Confederate uniform that was dead on, his Southern percussion six-shot Griswold & Gunnison replica revolver aimed at my chest. After recovering my wits I asked for George. No one's home. his dad snapped back. The door slammed in my face. I stood there for awhile before going on to collect my other friends for a pumpkin smashing night. We had a great time, but I kind of missed George. When I saw George I told him his dad had a killer costume for Halloween. My dad's in Colorado. George informed me, looking confused. Like I said, I never met the man.

Cool story Jon. Thanks for sharing :)

Attached Link: Halloween (continued)

Well, you can tell I was up too late. I thought I had posted it to the new thread! :-p jon

You did post to the new thread (you wrote the clever story about the ghost, right?). In fact it was your story that made me think that we should have a link hre to the new thread in case anyone missed that there were stories yet to enjoy. Sorry if I confused things. I meant to do the opposite.

No problem. jon

okay, to make an entry in this I'm going to just fly with an idea. it will not make 500 words. I doubt it will make 100. though that is possible. ~g~

She peers around the corner..looking along the darkened corridor..her heart pounding in her breast. She almost faints with releif when she sees the corridor is empty. Slipping around the corner and along the corridor, she pauses when she notices that one door is ajar. Sending her gaze flying to the ends of the corridor she relaxes minutely at seeing it unoccupied, then sidles up to the door and listens carefully to check if anyone is within. Hearing nothing from the chamber beyond the door she cautiously peers through the crack of the door. Her heart jumps into her throat, stifling her scream when she sees the blood encrusted racks filling the chamber.

that's it. no title, no more. just two quick paragraphs right off the top of my head.

I know I'm not a regular here, but the challenge intrigued me. This is based on something that happened to me when I was kid. Jack Going Home The three boys raced gleefully away from the machine gun rattle of exploding fire-crackers that echoed against the concrete sides of the empty silt pond. Even in the dark, sure-footed familiarity led them quickly to where the high dividing wall separated the empty half of the pond from the side filled with overflow from the river. With hardly a pause Graham stepped onto the top of the wall, followed by Woody. Peter hesitated; watching the other two, their arms outstretched like aircrafts wings as they wobbled towards the other side. He stepped onto the inches wide concrete and stood there, swaying. Its easy, he told himself. Its just like in the daytime, you wont fall off. He took a few steps. The Halloween moon glinted eerily on the black water. The others had almost reached the other side. Once across, they would turn around and laugh at his faltering, unsteady progress. He went faster, trusting to his ability to put one foot in front of the other the same way he had done for most of his eleven years. It didnt work. He felt himself tottering and just had time to decide to fall into the water, rather than onto the bone breaking concrete ten feet below. The freezing water closed over his head and, with sudden anguish, he remembered that his pockets were full of fireworks, now wasted. Gasping, Peter broke the surface and clung to the wall. He looked desperately around for his friends to come and help him but they werent there. They had run off and left him! For a while Peters tight-lipped anger at being deserted overcame his discomfort and he scrabbled his way to the bank. He hauled himself out and hugged his sodden parka around him. Almost crying now from fright, anger and the cold, he squelched off in the direction of home. Fortunately it wasnt far, but it was only when Peter opened the door to his yard that the thought of parental displeasure occurred to him. He sighed as he entered the dark kitchen, but it would be worth whatever punishment he would get to just to be warm again. He was just about to open the living room door and face his parents when he heard the voice of a strange man in the living room. People say, said the voice in a mysterious whisper. That on Halloween you can still see the ghost of little Peter Dewey coming home from the pond. Then Peter heard the tremulous voice of a child. And this used to be his house, didnt it? Peter opened the door and took a step into the light. Sitting on the sofa were a strange man and woman. On the mans knee sat a little boy of about seven, wearing striped pyjamas. They looked at him, startled, and then they started screaming at the sight of the thing in the parka, bloated and rotting, that stood in the kitchen doorway.

I am so glad the Halloween challenge is not at an end...I love having additional spooky stories to enjoy. Jack, I hope you will be inspired to post again. :) When I was a youngster, I fell into a pool. My brother, who could swim, thought I would come to the surface. Well, part of me did. I discovered my feet float nicely and my head is an anchor. It was the single most terrifying moment I ever experienced. Your story is all too real to me, though I was luckier than your character (at least I think I was).