First off, we want to offer a huge congratulations and thank you to everyone who participated. It was a rocking good time!
So, with no further ado, here are the long awaited results!
In first place: Crayons!
In second place: Mrs. Sam!
And in third place: Stelleta!
On the Integration of Feelings - Or, colour mixing in the human heart
Red rage.
Yellow sunbeams.
Healing.
Red hate.
Yellow gentleness.
Overcoming.
Red love.
Yellow daffodils.
Hope merging.
Orange warm,
Orange sunrise -
Merging of rage and warmth,
hate and gentleness
and
emerging love, warmth and gratitude.
Rage is understood in the light of the heart.
Hate is contained in gentleness.
And love is a fragile, strong, delicate thing that offers hope.
Never underestimate the power of a sunrise in your own landscape of desolate terror. Pulsating warmth delineates the shadows and lines of pain and sorrow, raveling them up with care and heart-breaking joy that causes awareness of your own humanity to flood through your entire being.
The next theme for the competition will be posted shortly, as before though, you will have three weeks to get your responses in!
A REMINDER OF THE RULES:
Entries must be posted in this thread. If you wish to get feedback on your work, please also post it in a separate thread.
Participants can submit several pieces if they choose, but only 1 piece per media (so, only one photograph, only one painting etc. An example would be someone might decide to write a poem, take a photograph and make a video)
It must be your own work (well, kind of obvious I know, but still!)
If we suspect an entry is not the work of the entrant, we reserve the right to seek proof that the work was created by the entrant. If we are not satisfied that an entry is original work, we may disqualify an entrant from that month's competition, and disqualify the entry in question from the big competition. Entrants suspected of plagiarism will have two weeks from the date of the discovery of the alleged plagiarism to furnish proof. Our decision is final unless new evidence comes to light. In cases where a decision of plagiarism is overturned, we cannot revisit old monthly competition results, but the work can be forwarded to the bigger competitions.
Joint projects are allowed, as long as it's posted as such (so, if you and another member want to write a story together, go ahead! just make sure you tell us that's what you've done)
Entries are within RYL’s rules (again, obvious!) but we don't want to have someone put a lot of time and effort into something only to have it removed due to being rule breaking. See RYLs rules here)
We will not discriminate against poor grammar and spelling as long as we are able to read it without too many problems. We would recommend getting someone to proof read it for you.
You may not enter work on behalf of another member except under exceptional circumstances AND by prior arrangement with the CDG.
Last edited by Bitter_Angel : 13-04-2010 at 12:21 AM.
Reason: Wasn't me, twas the fairies from under the tall oak tree =]
Just as a reminder and for any of you that didn’t see or enter the last competitions, the idea is that a theme is announced each month, and you lovely lot have 3 weeks to come up with a creative response to that theme. This can be a painting, a poem, a song, video, sculpture, writing your own play - anything! You can be as literal or lateral as you like.
THEME: Beginnings
Start date: 12/04/10
Closing date 11:59PM (GMT) 30/04/10
We chose Beginnings as a theme for this month as spring is in the air and everything begins to appear in full color again after the bleakness of winter. However these beginnings can be defined any way you can think of, so feel free to be as inventive as you like!
Some Examples include:
A REMINDER OF THE RULES:
Entries must be posted in this thread. If you wish to get feedback on your work, please also post it in a separate thread.
Participants can submit several pieces if they choose, but only 1 piece per media (so, only one photograph, only one painting etc. An example would be someone might decide to write a poem, take a photograph and make a video)
It must be your own work (well, kind of obvious I know, but still!)
If we suspect an entry is not the work of the entrant, we reserve the right to seek proof that the work was created by the entrant. If we are not satisfied that an entry is original work, we may disqualify an entrant from that month's competition, and disqualify the entry in question from the big competition. Entrants suspected of plagiarism will have two weeks from the date of the discovery of the alleged plagiarism to furnish proof. Our decision is final unless new evidence comes to light. In cases where a decision of plagiarism is overturned, we cannot revisit old monthly competition results, but the work can be forwarded to the bigger competitions.
Joint projects are allowed, as long as it's posted as such (so, if you and another member want to write a story together, go ahead! just make sure you tell us that's what you've done)
Entries are within RYL’s rules (again, obvious!) but we don't want to have someone put a lot of time and effort into something only to have it removed due to being rule breaking. See RYLs rules here)
We will not discriminate against poor grammar and spelling as long as we are able to read it without too many problems. We would recommend getting someone to proof read it for you.
You may not enter work on behalf of another member except under exceptional circumstances AND by prior arrangement with the CDG.
Good luck to everyone! We look forward to seeing what you can come up with, so get your creative thinking caps on. Here are a few examples from the CDG:
Of course, keep posting on the CC Board and help make it a interesting and friendly place to share your work.
Last edited by Bitter_Angel : 13-04-2010 at 12:42 AM.
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
The following content has been hidden - Reason : My photo
Congratulations to last month's winners, by the way ^_^
Now I'll play your ghost as my ace, whenever I'm led astray.
But I am actually good, can't help it if we're tilted.
I'm in my right place, don't be a downer.
Now I'll play your ghost as my ace, whenever I'm led astray.
But I am actually good, can't help it if we're tilted.
I'm in my right place, don't be a downer.
I'm going to enter this later. I just have to finish my entry. = ]
oh non-believer, please believe me.
is there honestly nothing in this world
that keeps you living & breathing?
you're a ghost in your own
goddamn city.
Silly question, but is the entry allowed to be triggering at all (if we label it and hide it and everything)?
oh non-believer, please believe me.
is there honestly nothing in this world
that keeps you living & breathing?
you're a ghost in your own
goddamn city.
I really hope this is within the rules. I checked, and I think it is, but very sorry if it's not.
Also, sorry it's so long.
The following content has been hidden - Reason : Triggering - Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide
Day One
She is twelve minutes old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her life, is teeming with activity. Nurses scurry down the halls; midwives flit between rooms; doctors consult their charts and confer with each other about the results, casting watchful glances at their patients.
Her mother gazes down at her, a dreamy smile on her face; her father stands beside them - protective, almost possessive. "You're beautiful," he says. It's unclear whether he's talking to his wife or child; and in any case, it hardly matters, since he thinks that about both.
She has soft, smooth skin, and such gorgeous eyes.
It's the beginning of a happy-family life.
Day One Thousand and Ninety Four
She is three years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with a broken arm, is quiet. A few nurses wander in the halls; a midwife sits in her office, humming to herself; two doctors frown over their charts, glancing at their patient.
Her mother rests a hand on her daughter's shoulder; her father stands in a corner, arms folded. "What happened?" he asks. It's unclear whether he's asking his wife or himself. It hardly matters, in any case, because they're both unwilling to admit the truth.
She has bruises on her wrists, and such confused eyes.
It's the beginning of a harder type of life.
Day Two Thousand, Seven Hundred and Fifty Five
She is seven years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with a broken rib, is almost silent. The halls are devoid of nurses; the midwives are all on call in some far-off ward; a single doctor scrawls on his chart, lazily casting an eye over his patient.
Her mother sits on a chair beside her daughter, nervously wringing her hands; her father stands in the doorway, seeming distant and out of place. "I'm sorry," he says. It's unclear whether he's talking to his wife or his daughter, but it doesn't matter anyway, since neither will forgive him.
She has a welt across her face, and such sad eyes.
It's the beginning of a more lonely life.
Day Four Thousand, Eight Hundred and Seventy Six
She is thirteen years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with PTSD, is busy. Nurses scamper through the halls, like ants in a nest; only one midwife hasn't been called away - the rest attend to their patients; doctors scribble furiously on their charts, have hurried conversations about them, and then dash off to their patients.
Her mother holds her gently; her father stands in the corridor outside. "I never touched her," he swears. It's unclear whether he's trying to convince himself or the police officer; it doesn't matter, though, since neither really believes him.
She has cuts on her legs, and such lost eyes.
It's the beginning of a different kind of life.
Day Six Thousand, Two Hundred and Sixty One
She is seventeen years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her death, is buzzing. Nurses frantically zip through the halls; midwives hasten to stay out of the nurses' way; doctors glance at their charts, bark out orders to each other and the nurses and everyone else, and try to save their patient.
Her mother attempts to follow her daughter, but is told no; her father stands in his prison cell, staring at the ceiling. "I never meant to hurt her," he whispers. It doesn't matter whether he's talking to God or to himself, since no one replies.
She has cuts on her wrists, and such vacant eyes.
It's the beginning of the end of her life.
oh non-believer, please believe me.
is there honestly nothing in this world
that keeps you living & breathing?
you're a ghost in your own
goddamn city.
I really hope this is within the rules. I checked, and I think it is, but very sorry if it's not.
Also, sorry it's so long.
The following content has been hidden - Reason : Triggering - Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide
Day One
She is twelve minutes old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her life, is teeming with activity. Nurses scurry down the halls; midwives flit between rooms; doctors consult their charts and confer with each other about the results, casting watchful glances at their patients.
Her mother gazes down at her, a dreamy smile on her face; her father stands beside them - protective, almost possessive. "You're beautiful," he says. It's unclear whether he's talking to his wife or child; and in any case, it hardly matters, since he thinks that about both.
She has soft, smooth skin, and such gorgeous eyes.
It's the beginning of a happy-family life.
Day One Thousand and Ninety Four
She is three years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with a broken arm, is quiet. A few nurses wander in the halls; a midwife sits in her office, humming to herself; two doctors frown over their charts, glancing at their patient.
Her mother rests a hand on her daughter's shoulder; her father stands in a corner, arms folded. "What happened?" he asks. It's unclear whether he's asking his wife or himself. It hardly matters, in any case, because they're both unwilling to admit the truth.
She has bruises on her wrists, and such confused eyes.
It's the beginning of a harder type of life.
Day Two Thousand, Seven Hundred and Fifty Five
She is seven years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with a broken rib, is almost silent. The halls are devoid of nurses; the midwives are all on call in some far-off ward; a single doctor scrawls on his chart, lazily casting an eye over his patient.
Her mother sits on a chair beside her daughter, nervously wringing her hands; her father stands in the doorway, seeming distant and out of place. "I'm sorry," he says. It's unclear whether he's talking to his wife or his daughter, but it doesn't matter anyway, since neither will forgive him.
She has a welt across her face, and such sad eyes.
It's the beginning of a more lonely life.
Day Four Thousand, Eight Hundred and Seventy Six
She is thirteen years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her time with PTSD, is busy. Nurses scamper through the halls, like ants in a nest; only one midwife hasn't been called away - the rest attend to their patients; doctors scribble furiously on their charts, have hurried conversations about them, and then dash off to their patients.
Her mother holds her gently; her father stands in the corridor outside. "I never touched her," he swears. It's unclear whether he's trying to convince himself or the police officer; it doesn't matter, though, since neither really believes him.
She has cuts on her legs, and such lost eyes.
It's the beginning of a different kind of life.
Day Six Thousand, Two Hundred and Sixty One
She is seventeen years old. The hospital, the place that marks the beginning of her death, is buzzing. Nurses frantically zip through the halls; midwives hasten to stay out of the nurses' way; doctors glance at their charts, bark out orders to each other and the nurses and everyone else, and try to save their patient.
Her mother attempts to follow her daughter, but is told no; her father stands in his prison cell, staring at the ceiling. "I never meant to hurt her," he whispers. It doesn't matter whether he's talking to God or to himself, since no one replies.
She has cuts on her wrists, and such vacant eyes.
It's the beginning of the end of her life.
oh non-believer, please believe me.
is there honestly nothing in this world
that keeps you living & breathing?
you're a ghost in your own
goddamn city.
Here we are :) Please do click to enlarge though, it's better when you can see the detail.
Ooh, I like that. = ]
oh non-believer, please believe me.
is there honestly nothing in this world
that keeps you living & breathing?
you're a ghost in your own
goddamn city.
Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"
Thomas Parke D’Invilliers