it would be judjed by micheal cunningham the pultzir prize winning author of the hours.
and he had to make it a bit more interisting so the rules are, the first line must be "some people swore the house was hunted" and the last line must be "and nothing was ever the same again after that"
so you could imagin my excitment, being in love with the author, and intreagued by the rules, I wrote my story, which I was sure wouldnt win, my aultemet dream was for it to reach the finals, I didnt thin it would fro my work is almost always unpolished.
either ways I discovered that you must be over 18 and a us citisent which I am not.
but I thought I should publish it somehow anyways.
I was quite bumbed though, well a little more then bumbed, but, I am happy whith whatever god gives me.
there you go:
some people swore that the house was haunted, all sorts of myths floated around it, men`s horses cried out when breathing its air, children`s eyes turned pale gray at the sight of it.
it was a story from long befor any of us was born,a story about this hous that flood the whole village with terror, rapidly invading every cavity within its land,consuming the daylight, fogging the air, it was said that, this occures when old rotten memories, are not yet forgotten.
it was said that years ago a man lived within its wooden walls,a man like no other,a man lacking a heart, a violint terribul man, who went on a hunt every night, hunting for a pray, one that could fulfill his every animilistic need, a lushes and gratifying pray.
he would walk in the woods, knowing were they would go, where they would be, he would step on the grass ever so lightly , he would charm them, theses fragile females,he would charm them, with his dashing good looks,his witty remarks, his warm fingers, lightly caressing theres...
and to the house he would take them, offering them a meal and a tale.
he would sit them upon his cold stool, tie up there skin with dry ropes, he would inhale all there sent, consume all there energy, engulf all life out of them, leaving a cold body under ground, and and an empty soul bound to such a place house.
the men of the village ,the brocken , terrified ,tiresome ,men dispret for an end to evil that has dawned upon them.
but no one was ever brave enough, not one was about to inquest there own doom..
the winston family, oblivious, moved into what they thought to be a nice and quite village with sunshine and green grass, tell tragidy stuck..
mary, their exploring 16 year old daughter one day took a walk, took notice, there is a lovely strange house over there, she nievely thought, and her curiosity brought her closer,
she took a stipe, another step, 3,4,5...
samule winston, lying in his bed, with his daughter `s handkerchief betweeen his fingers, despair raining over him, drowning in absolute misery .
helpless and hollow, samule bounced of the bed, as rage set fire to his soul, he reatched for the wood stick,the fire match, the bottle of half drunk whine,and rode his horse, samule was no longer a man, he possessed no reason, purely driven by his rage, his need for vendetta .
as he came closer to the house, the horse made the predictable reaction , falling into a case of hysteria , refusing to corporate, feeling the spirits ,the bitter spirits living within, samuel got off the horse, and ran towards the house, ignoring every sign every instinct telling him not to, he lit fire to the wood stick in his hand, and ran closer,he scattered the whine over the front step ,he fed the beast to flaims that rapidly, greedily ate up its lushes gratifing pray, as it went down in fire and screams.
sweat ran down Samuels wrinkled forhead, as he stared in disbelief, at the burning house, finally, it succumbs , producing its last sound,
the ear piercing, agonaited screams.
he drew an acerbic smile, he took a breath, he took a stip.
nothing was ever the same again after that.
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