Author Topic: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God  (Read 480 times)

WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« on: 04 Oct 2019, 15:25 »


"Hey, you, down there! Did you eat that goddamn fruit from the GODDAMN TREE!?"

Requirements: It doesn't matter which one, but on this day God was proven to exist. A God! An entity so powerful that it has been worshipped since time immemorial in one way or another, and now it's no longer just scripture, theories and dogma. It's real, proven, tangible.
What happens now? Do you write of how societies collapse? How religions clash? How an individual among it all experiences the revelation? How the God him/her/itself views this new revelation among his/her/its minions?

It's all up to you.

Stories will be due 23:59 UTC on October 20th (this date already has a built-in extension into the weekend, for Baron, and to get us on a nice and even writing schedule again.)

Voting categories:

Best Writing Technique: Technical Prowess and Storytelling
Best Character(s): The people and entities involved in the story
Best Revelation: Who had the most interesting, well described or otherwise unique take on God being proven real?
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU

Baron

  • Mittens Serf
  • Not-so-Evil Banana Dictator
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • Best Innovation Award Winner 2011, for the concept and management of SWARMAGS
    • I can help with voice acting
    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #1 on: 13 Oct 2019, 02:50 »
Oh god....  :=

Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
    • I can help with translating
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #2 on: 13 Oct 2019, 10:33 »
What? Where? *looks around fearfully  8-0

Oh yeah, also; I'm working on something. Interesting topic. I had a couple of ideas and needed to decide which one to use. I think I've finally decided and can start to write...

WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #3 on: 16 Oct 2019, 13:45 »
The weekend approaches. The deadline looms!
Don't forget: SHE IS WATCHING!
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU

Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
    • I can help with translating
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #4 on: 19 Oct 2019, 19:18 »
Wanderer‘s Path

Harusech knelt on the ground in front of the large statue of the Wanderer. The carpet to her knees was spread on the ground, sprawling far to the sides of the small chapel. Bright and strong colours of all kinds and varieties filled the room with life, golden and silver threads found their way through them, symbols of the ways one life or the other might take.

In a steady rhythm, she swayed back and forth, moving not just her hands to do her work, but her whole upper body and head. Again and again she sat straight, then bowed all the way to the ground, her forehead nearly touching the sacred path of the Wanderer’s worshipper’s fate.

Her movements were honour and reverence to the Wanderer, but more important was now the work she was doing. Carefully, skilfully, trained in years of service, first as an acolyte then as a novice, her fingers followed the the threads weaved into the cloth of the carpet. Spun from real gold and silver, they were rough on her fingertips. One after the other, without system, she plucked them from the smoother material of the carpet.

Slowly, she destroyed the patterns and pictures the ritual had created. She wondered idly if the divination was for a man or a woman when her fingers got stuck on a tangle in one corner of the cloth; for a man, this meant several children, for a woman a long and painful birth. She hoped this carpet was a man’s. But as her thoughts followed the story of the life before her, it also started to wander. Routine in a task done a thousand times, with no real prayer connected to it, allowed her mind to wander further and further away.

While she picked the threads, she practised her knowledge of paths and stories, but when she hesitated in her back and forth movement and smoothed the threads between her cold fingers, just to then roll them into balls of silver and gold, her thoughts scolded her exercises as lies and deceit. She placed the balls in earthen bowls and chided her work as treason. She took the little wooden spatula up again that helped her unravel the patterns and chastised her work as blasphemous. As meticulous as this work was, as tumultuous, as confusing were her thoughts.

Done with the carpet, the last for this afternoon, she rolled it back up and then put it into the little alcove underneath the Wanderer’s statue, where it would stay until another believer needed to learn about his or her future. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the floor for so long, but this pain was not the reason for the tears streaming down her face.

Slowly, Harusech got up and turned towards the inner sanctum, where people expected mysteries and worship and where in truth sleeping quarters and administrative offices were found. She was glad the temple was nearly deserted at this time of the day, at least to the casual observer. In the offices, priests and priestesses worked on the long scrolls that noted divinations and paths, paths trodden and paths to tread. They were filled with secrets, with hopes and dreams. As a novice, she had sat to the feet of her masters as they slowly filled the scrolls with words. She didn’t question where the stories came from. No, in truth, she had just assumed she knew. Where did the knowledge of a seer of the Wanderer’s Temple come from but from the Wanderer himself? Through herbs and fermented fruits the most powerful of the priests, those high enough to have reached the status of a seer, not just a mere scriptor or diviner or common priest, looked into the Wanderer’s world, where all paths became clear and all words were the truth. She had believed. She still did.

But in years of training, doubts had sat in. The hints had started to manifest slowly, her disappointment even slower.

Away from the public eye, behind the decorated walls of the main hall, she now walked past the little holes in the tapestries and the little plaques you could slide away in alcoves and recesses. As a child, when she first looked upon them, they were just there, their meaning lost to the young novice just leaving the status of an acolyte who was not introduced to any mysteries. Now, as a young woman, just about ready to take her second oath and become a priestess, she knew them for what they were: spyholes, hidden passageways to secrets and hopes.

She shuddered just thinking of them, felt new tears slip down her face as her eyes fell on them now. She understood their purpose a while ago and then she pushed them from her mind. But now she was ready for deeper mysteries. Now, she knew too much to feel comfortable, or too little.

What was the mystery of seeing the truth? A lie. It was all a lie. Did the Wanderer tell them the truth? No, priests waited behind walls and listened in when people talked. And the seers and diviners knew truths they could not possibly know without divine intervention. Except, they did.

Now she knew that the truth, written down in long lines on sacred scrolls, might indeed be truths, but truths that were used as lies.

The Wanderer works through his priests, Master Ktosep had said this morning, in a tone that made it clear she was supposed to already know this. He has given us the abilities to unearth the secrets of the people, so that we may better teach them their future paths and past missteps – more often than not through their past missteps. When she heard it, it made sense to her. Now, thinking more about it, the words echoed through her mind, sounding hollow. Or was it just her mind that was hollow, not yet filled with the truest mysteries of them all? Their dreams and desires, their thoughts and prayers, are our guides to better lead them through the twisted labyrinth that is their future life. For a while, it sounded reasonable. Now, it gave her a headache. It felt true, it felt like a lie. It felt like something was missing. And no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t merge this philosophy with her deepest beliefs. Because she knew, just knew, that the Wanderer lead the people through their lives and a true believer, a true priest, would never need a lie to gather knowledge of this kind.

The same thoughts cruised through her mind again and again as she walked back to her bedroom, the little chamber she shared with three other novices shortly before their second oath. Again and again she repeated in a meek voice, just loud enough to be heard as a toneless murmur: “It doesn’t matter. The Wanderer works through us. It doesn’t matter how. The Wanderer is real. It doesn’t matter.” She wasn’t sure if she could ever convince herself. Maybe to parts of it? Maybe the priests of this temple were not the Wanderer’s real home? Maybe? Just maybe?

As if to convince herself of the lies that had so confused her, she hesitated in her steps, then turned to her left. Instead of going to her quarters, she found her way to the room right behind the main hall, where a hollow space was more than just somewhere to put unused items. Through puffy and red eyes, she looked at the empty inside of a body. The statue of the Wanderer, the main one, was nothing but an empty shell.

In how many senses? She could not tell. But her shaking fingers stroked the marble while her eyes searched for the hooks and levers, the hidden mechanisms that would move paintings and tapestries in the main hall, that she now knew where there. Behind cloths hanging from the ceiling she found mirrors and ropes, elaborate systems to convince believers of whatever you wanted to convince them of.

Words seemed to argue in her mind, her own conviction, her master’s opinion, beliefs she had lived with years upon years, the words spoken to her so long ago when a diviner prophesied a great future for her in the temple, words that made no sense at all... It was all a sham. It didn’t matter. It changed nothing. Someone needed to stop them. Someone had to tell the truth. Someone, she...

The tears rolled faster and faster down her cheeks, though her eyes were so dry that hardly any seemed left. Her vision blurred.

Are you real?

Her heart beat fast, too fast. Again and again her palm rubbed over the rough rope hanging there, chafing her tender skin. It was a welcome pain. Less confusing, more real. But it didn’t take away the pain in her chest, this feeling of being used, of being part of a lie.

As the shadow walks...

Her long black hair seemed unusually dull in the candlelight and the smoky surfaces of the mirrors in the hidden room. Her red eyes looked unusually huge into the shadows.

As real as my shadow in the candlelight, she thought, not tangible but still there. She tried to convince herself, again and again, but her breaths stopped in her throat, her head felt like it was going to split in two, her vision blurred further and further. Candles flickered in a gust of wind that wasn’t there. An unknown pressure forced her to the ground. Her knees just couldn’t support her weight any more. Weakened by pain so much stronger than any pain a body could suffer, she slid down against the wall. Her sobs, half cries, half screams choked her.

...must be real...

She drew her legs to her body and cradled them in her arms. The straps of her toe sandals cut into her flesh.

...real... Harusech...

The voice was in her head, but it wasn’t her own. It wasn’t her teacher’s either, or the diviner who had told her her future, not her parents, not another priest. Deep and booming, it vibrated through her whole body and shaking from exhaustion became shaking from the sound of it.

That was the moment pain became panic.

She jumped back up, faster than she could take it with her eyes bawled out to exhaustion and her breath already caught in her throat from too much sobbing. The room turned around her blurry vision. Her hand scratched over the rough stone of the walls, adding more cuts to the already hurt palms.

“What...?” she gasped, rubbing a shaking hand over her blotched face.

Harusech... the ‘Walker of the Path’... good name... good shell...

The voice was without intonation, coming from deep within her, but her fingertips still felt her own lips move. Her eyes found one of the mirrors on the wall. She saw herself, not like she had ever seen herself before. The little mole over her eye seemed larger, more detailed, the little speckles of grey in her otherwise green eyes seemed to glow with an intensity she had never knew she possessed.

...true believer... truest of all, lovely shell... lovely shadow of my will...

“Your will? Who are you?” The questions sounded stupid, even in her mind, even as she realised – in a tiny part of her mind – what she was doing.

I give you power, the voice now said, while her hands pulled down her lower lip, stretching and turning it.

She grabbed her wrist with the other hand without even thinking about it, just to stop the strange treatment. Her headache, already splitting before, now made her fell like someone was pulling her apart, tugging at each hair individually.

You are true. The truest of all. You believe. Truly believe.

“Yes!” she gasped, half hoping to make the pain stop. “Yes!” she groaned, half believing the words in her mind. “I do! I do believe!”

More than them. More than all of them. Useless, one and all. But you... the voice hesitated, though there was still no real tone or emotion in it, you are true and useful and shell and feet, arms and eyes. You see them for what they are. Their lies. Their heresy.

“Yes...” She coughed, the strain on her whole body making it nearly impossible to breathe.

You know this, the voice flattered, though it was only in the words, You felt it. And so I come to you. Just one word was more than a monotone droning, one word she heard herself scream out into the empty room. It echoed from the walls, or so it seemed, it resonated in the mirrors. It made fiery scorpions crawl over her skin.

I am the truth, your truth, and me you serve, Harusech, my true seer, my hands and eyes.

Her knees gave way again under a weight indescribable to her and without her will, no even against it, she pressed her hands against the floor to get up again.

Punishment. You see it, Harusech, lovely Harusech, you know it. With these words, Harusech’s hands found one of the candlesticks.

“Yes, master...” Did she? Her mind was no longer her own, not entirely, but underneath the haze of pain and control, there was still something left. When her hand tipped the candlestick over, her ragged breath just about stopped the flame. Why? She had no concentration left to discuss it with herself. Shadows that had danced before in mirrors and nooks now went to sleep in darkness.

They need to leave. They need to burn.

She started to run, away from the room, away from the voice, but there was no stopping the voice from following. It felt like a cloud behind her, attached to her in the shadows the candles in the hallway through towards her. She grabbed one hand with the other, stopping them from reaching out towards flames, she stumbled over her own feet that did not quiet want to follow her orders.

Where did she run to? How do you run away from a God? A God in your mind? Was it the Wanderer? Was he real? Yes, yes, yes, he was, if there was ever any doubt... No, there wasn’t, there was nothing to make her question this truth. And she knew it, knew it better than anything ever before. And wasn’t this what the temple, her religion, had told her all her life? What if the priests here were not true in their beliefs? Now she was a true seer, possessed by the Wanderer to see and to act, but this act, this will... No, no, it could not be, she wasn’t...

“They don’t deserve to die!” She screamed as she stumbled into Master Ktosep’s chamber.

Camel puke, the voice answered, just as booming and emotionless as before, and she screamed the words with it.

“What...?” Ktosep turned around slowly, one of his white bushy eyebrows already raised in his customary fashion, as Harusech stumbled against the wall – threw herself against the wall? - and then fell to the ground, panting. The master slowly put the tome he had worked on down and looked the young novice up and down. His face, usually speaking with the slightest move of a muscle in the lines of age and humour, stayed neutral in its confusion.

“Harusech...?” he said, but the young woman did not answer. She did not even hear him, except as a breeze in the storm of her mind. It was comforting, the part that reached her, the oasis far, far away, on the edge of the horizon, but like a Fata Morgana it was not really there to quench her thirst. The dunes of a god’s voice, overrunning her in impassable waves, suffocated her in a never ending sandstorm, rough, biting, hurting.

She screamed, maybe words, maybe something else. Were it her won or the God’s? She felt something holding her wrists. Was it her own hand, Master Ktosep’s, maybe the Wanderer? She couldn’t tell, but didn’t try to either. She felt so many sensations, none of the comforting. Her head had long passed the staged where it seemed it would crack and had split in two, her heart beat so fast that the blood running through her veins could outpace a cheetah. She felt the beat everywhere, in her chest, in her neck, in her stomach, underneath her skull plate, where Master Ktosep cradled her.

Did he? He must have. The thought was there, so it must be true.

Traitor. Blasphemous traitor. Did she say it? Did she even hear it? And why did it echo through her mind in Master Ktosep’s voice?

The voice came slowly to her, comforting, though of little consequence. “It happens,” it said, “It happens, more often than you think. You are not ready. You never will be.” There was an amount of sadness in the last sentence she couldn’t really place.

But what could she place when the god tried again and again to force her up from the ground, forced her hands to close the wound in her stomach.

What wound? Her eyes burst open, but there was nothing but a dark veil in front of them.

Camel puke, the Wanderer cursed again as her hands became too weak to press the thin fabric of her dress against the wound. You are useless, like all the other. Liars, heathens, useless traitors. Pretend to believe in me and when I come, you...

The pain in her head faded like the voice, the veil in front of her eyes formed into shadows, then vague silhouettes of a room she knew well. She blinked, blinked tears away and then thoughts, and she stared into Master Ktosep’s gentle grey eyes, looking down at her. He did cradle her head, he did whisper words of comfort to her. And he held a knife against her throat, a knife that was drenched in blood.

“It is not good to believe too strongly,” he whispered in the tone he had used just this morning, reminding her of things she should know, of a lesson she should have learned a long time ago.

“Help,” she thought – she thought she said, but no words left her mouth. The plea must have been clear in her eyes though, because her master answered.

“Too late,” he said, “And if it were not so, I would make it so. It happens, you know, it happens far too often, Harusech. Young priests believe when they should lead. A god once powerful, once important, now demands we follow him in every step. But what makes his way better than ours, his path true, when we do good and he does nothing, at best? Is murderous at worst? What good is he, when our way works? What good a priestess that follows him blindly and does not consider the ways of people? What good the one who believes in him so strongly that she calls him back, Harusech? What good a prophesy that might be true, but does not better the world? What good a god when there are people? What good...”

He said more. She heard it not.

Baron

  • Mittens Serf
  • Not-so-Evil Banana Dictator
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • Best Innovation Award Winner 2011, for the concept and management of SWARMAGS
    • I can help with voice acting
    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #5 on: 20 Oct 2019, 00:24 »
Hey, can I have an extension until-

Stories will be due 23:59 UTC on October 20th (this date already has a built-in extension into the weekend, for Baron, and to get us on a nice and even writing schedule again.)

Oh.  :-[

Baron

  • Mittens Serf
  • Not-so-Evil Banana Dictator
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • Best Innovation Award Winner 2011, for the concept and management of SWARMAGS
    • I can help with voice acting
    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #6 on: 20 Oct 2019, 03:13 »
God the Father

   The president smiled using his sincerest game-show host smile.  When the applause died he leaned into his vowels like a road worker from Queens.  “My fellow Americans, climate change is a hoax.  It's a hoax.  Perpetrated by an unholy alliance between the Democrats and the shadowy Migrant Workers Terrorist Front.  It's a screen for raising your taxes to pay for mandatory vaccines that will give you all autism and breast cancer.  Yes, even you men.  It'll hit you right here, by the heart.  You know how I know?  God told me.  True story.”

     There was another roar of applause from the crowd.  Someone rang a cowbell, and there were a few happy gun shots into the air.  The president nodded benignly, basking in the adulation of the unwashed hillbilly masses. 

   And then there was a clap of thunder and the sky itself ripped in twain.  A shaft of pure white light shot down from the gap, followed by a gigantic foot and then another.  A huge human shaped figure eased itself down towards the ground, its face sporting a magnificent white beard that stretched down to its knees, it's head beaming with a shock of hair that would make Einstein envious.  He wore a simple garment, half-robe, half-toga.  The gigantic figure landed on the field next to the rally, its knees bent gracefully like a ballerina's.  When it straightened it must have stood a thousand feet tall.

   The president squinted in confusion.  “Who the hell are you?”

   “I AM GOD!”

   The crowd stood gape-jawed, staring at the magnificent figure towering over them.  One by one they began rapturously falling to their knees.  The president sneered jealously, but quickly hid the expression behind a studied mask of self-importance.  How dare someone try to upstage him?!  This was going to call for some serious spin.

   “Lo!” the president spoke.  “God attends my rallies, not the other guy's!  If I told you once, I've told you a thousand times.  God votes Republican!”

   “HA HA HA!” God laughed, again bending his knees to do another ballet plié.  “I DOUBT I COULD NAVIGATE YOUR CONVOLUTED IMMIGRATION SYSTEM IN ORDER TO REGISTER.  NO, I HAVE DESCENDED TO EARTH FOR THE GRAVITATIONAL RESISTANCE.  IT'S LEG DAY!”

   “Very amusing, Lord!” the president said fawningly.  “You see, folks?  The border wall is working!  But maybe I shouldn't have made it quite so high.  My bad.  Say, Lord, that's some nice light skin you've got there....”

   “YES, I NEED TO GET OUT MORE.  MY USUAL GYM IS CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS, SO I THOUGHT, WHAT THE HEY, I'LL GET SOME FRESH AIR AND EXERCISE THE OLD FASHION WAY.  SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND THREE!”

   “Look at that, will you?” The president said admiringly.  “God loves exercise.  That's why you should all exercise your right to vote next month.  Throw the whole family in the back of the pickup and come out to vote for the only person who ever-”

   “SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND FOUR!”

   Oh god, the president thought, why the hell is he exercising?

   “I CAN READ THOUGHTS, YOU KNOW.  I AM EXERCISING TO KEEP IN PEAK PHYSICAL CONDITION.  ONE DOESN'T GET THE BODY OF A GOD BY SITTING ON THE SOFA AND EATING POTATO CHIPS.  JUST LOOK AT WHAT HAPPENED TO ADONIS AFTER THE GREEKS STOPPED WORSHIPPING HIM!”

   Oh god, the president thought, and then immediately regretted it.  Why isn't he wearing any pants?!?

   “HEY, SHAME IS FOR PEOPLE THAT HAVE STUFF TO BE ASHAMED OF!"

   Oh god, the president thought again, despite himself.  There's no amount of exercise that's going to tauten up that old-man junk!

   “SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIVE.  I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I HAVE A MIRACULOUS OINTMENT FOR THAT.  AND ANOTHER THING-”

   Suddenly there was another, smaller shaft of light to the other side of the rally.  “Hey, Dad?  Wanna play some catch?”

   “OH, HEY SON!  SORRY, DADDY'S BUSY.  THE WORLD DOESN'T JUST RUN ITSELF YOU KNOW.  SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND SIX....”

   “You always say that, Dad!” the smaller shaft of light said.  “Why can't we have some quality time, once in a while?  You know, talk about guy things?

   “JESUS, HAVE YOU DONE YOUR HOMEWORK?” God asked with just a hint of exasperation.

   “You never ask Lester about his homework!!” the more diminutive light whined.

   “THE LESTERITES HAVE THEIR PRAYERS ADDRESSED TWICE DAILY.”

   “Of course they do!  There's only eighty of them!  I've got, like, a billion Christians to listen to!

   “BEING A GOD ISN'T ALL ROSES AND THUNDERBOLTS, YOU KNOW.  THERE'S ALSO A LOT OF HARD WORK THAT GOES INTO THE POSITION.  SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND SEVEN....”

   “God!  You weren't such a tight-ass before Mom left.”

   “YOU LEAVE THAT TWO-TIMING HUSSIE OUT OF THIS!”

    “Daaaad!  I just need someone to talk to.  You know, about guy stuff?”

   “OH!  I HEAR YOU SON.  YOU SEE, WHEN A MOMMY GOD AND A DADDY GOD LOVE EACH OTHER VERY MUCH-”

   “Daaaaad!  Not that kind of stuff.  It's this thing I've been thinking a lot about lately, and I'd really appreciate your support.  You see, Dad....  I love mankind.”

   “I KNOW SON.  A LOVING GOD IS A POWERFUL GOD.”

   “Yeah, I know Dad.  But the thing is, I r-e-a-l-l-y love mankind.  Not so much the womenkind, if you get my meaning.”

   “WELL, I MEAN, WHO COULD BLAME YOU, RIGHT?  WHAT WITH THAT ROLE MODEL OF YOUR MOTHER, THAT INSENSE SMOKING JEZEBEL.  WAIT, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT A KIND OF PLATONIC LOVE OF RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, RIGHT?

   “Uhhh.. no, Dad.  It's more of a Zeus-in-the-guise-of-a-bull type love-”

   “SIX HUNDRED THIRTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED AND EIGHT!”

   “Hey, uh, God?” asked the president, presiding over a crowd so hushed it could have been attending a Mitch McConnell speech.  “Is everything all right up there?”

   “EVERYTHING IS FINE!  CONTINUE TO GO ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS!  BLESSINGS UPON YOU MY CHILDREN!”  And with that the giant godlike form climbed back up into the sky just as quickly as he had descended.

   “Well, there you have it folks!” the president struck an up-beat note.  “God endorses me as his rightful representative on Earth.  To vote against me would be a sin punishable by an eternity in the ghoulish fires of hell.  God himself said so, in his own cryptic way.  I heard him.  Didn't you hear him?  Any thing else you hear is just fake news.  God bless America!”

   But the kneeling crowd continued to stare out in the other direction, silent and unusually pensive. 

    The president rolled his eyes and took out his phone to tweet.  This incident was going to take all his guile and mendacity to manage.  It would be an uphill battle, yes,  but the president was supremely confident in his own ability to bend the news-cycle to his will.  “Hey, does anybody know how many f's in convfefe?”
« Last Edit: 20 Oct 2019, 03:16 by Baron »

Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #7 on: 20 Oct 2019, 14:12 »
The Chorus of Serpents Upon the Year Zero.

Being a Draconic Recounting of Events during the Dream-Years and Year Zero. As Whispered by the Moths, and written and promulgated for the curious by their Listeners.

For so did the Endless Moth say as the Before-Age neared its close:

Do not be afraid. The World is not Ending. It is Beginning.


The Before-Age was an aeon of darkness and light. It was a time for hope and despair, mercy and cruelty, such as not even we of granite-scaled wings and with the dust of ages in our antennae can recall.
The World was under Glass, then. A static display and an undirected performance left to its own devices ever since the Last Fall. A garden abandoned by its tenders to grow or wilt as it could. It was a shrine to the power of free will and to the Word, and it was also its Condemner, at once heaven and hell for its courageous inhabitants. Hidden from the Over-World, Mankind was alone, lingering in fear and doubt. Its only enemy was itself, and the nemesis of its neglect.

But the Cosmic Machine turned, and both Earth and Man were required in the greater schemes, in the service of Heaven. The Curtain had to fall upon the Man-Play, and the Over-Masks introduced and the Fourth Wall demolished.
The Origin Godhead held the World-Under-Glass close, and wept, for it was an intriguing specimen, and he loved all sinners and dreamers and their work. He shone with pride at their wonders, and covered with sorrow at their transgressions. A world and a race at the brink, either to Enlightenment or Damnation, a book almost written.
God heaved a sigh that shook all high heaven, and let the delicate orb fall from His Thrice-Hallowed hand.
And thus, the Glass shattered, and the Curtain tore apart and Time itself halted. The already frightened and hard-pressed mortals were shaken, and pleaded in fear and roared in anger, but it could not be undone.
The Slaughtered Lamb and the Radiant Risen Pea-cock and the Reed-Speaker and the Sword-Weeper and all other Flesh-Voices came forth to comfort and shield their charges in their most wretched of hours, and they stood fast against the Primordial Void and the Static Cloud as the world turned Vaporous and dream and vision rolled over the land like waves and phantoms and glamours conquered the land.

The God-Drum beat the time, and the Dragons were marshalled into service and descended upon the melting world and there were Ten Songs and Ten Dreams.

And first, as it always is and shall always be, were the Source, the Egg Beyond Time, and it was the World and the World was the Egg. Its herald-snakes came upon golden wings from beyond, not in terror as The Maw and the World-Eater, but as a Promise in a rain of Falling Stars. And they raised a thunderous chorus of silence and the Orbs fell upon the land. They calmed the Titan, the Unstoppable Force that pulls the Engine, so that the Wheel would not tear asunder.

And the Words of the infinite song was Source.

Forth from the Nebulous Black came the host of Alpha All-Father, in shimmering jet. In their breath were the blazing gold of the Star-Scribe, that builds and destroys. The Alpha Aspected breathed upon the Egg, and guarded it well as they set forth to Sing-Shape the World as God had spoke and Men had dreamed.

And the Words of the Song of Men was Alpha.

Forth from the Radiant White came the host of Omega World-Mother, in dazzling silver. In their breath where the liquid lunar silver of the Endless Embrace. The Omega Aspected breathed upon the Egg, and held it and nurtured it and sang to it as it lay in its Sideways-Slipped basket, and took all mortals lost and weeping under their shimmering wings.

And the Words of the Song of Women was Omega.

Forth came the Rainbow hosts, beautiful and nebulous and resplendent. Upon their lips, they carried the gifts of Promise. The Word of two Promised Worlds, and a reminder of a promise made aeons ago in a mysterious past, a promise now challenged if not broken. To the fearful, they brought comfort, to the angry, they brought calm and to the brave they brought succour.

And the Words of the Prismatic Grace of the Promise was the Rainbow.

Forth came the Saffron-Scaled host of the Limitless Keystone. They looked upon the world and set to work, for they are architects and bridge-builders. The Mortals were divided and shattered and cracked, with hopes ten-fold betrayed when they defied the False-Song and reached beyond, ideals and innocence lost and hands burned. This the dragons knew, and they mourned it.
Thus in the Timeless Time they came to close old wounds and bridge old divisions, and they sang and mortals joined their work and they raised the Alabaster Halls that never were, the Coral Pillars that had once been, and at last their mightiest Bridge-Beyond-Bridges in shining granite.

And the Words of the Song was of the Orange Constructor.

Forth came the onyx hosts of Saturn, with a steely resolve and the violet fire within.
They stood fast, in immaculate formation and guarded the vulnerable new world, and they approached the mortals and taught them the Dance of Swords and the Song of the Acorn. For discipline, law and courage would be Man's weapon against the cosmic shadows that they could no longer be hidden from. The Warrior aspect at last parted from the Cannibal, the Law tempered free from Corruption, and the new, valiant Scions of Mars were duly prepared for Cosmic War.

And the Words of the Song was of the Black Law-Guardians of Saturn.

Forth from out of the Waters Beyond came the Aquamarine hosts of Neptune, the Guardians of Sunken Secrets, with Wisdom in their wings. And to the mortals they returned the secrets and knowledge that were their right by birth, and looked upon the learning and the machines of the mortals of the Ended Age with fascination, and preserved them until dawn.

And the Words of the Song was of the Guardians of the Golden Age.

Forth came the Winds of Balance, the Light-Winged hosts of Heaven and Earth. They came to the mortals and sang of Above and Below, and taught them of the Ladder and how to Erect it, and the mortals knew that they would from now never be lost and alone.

And the Words of the Song was Air Above, Earth Below.

Forth came the Host of Clay upon emerald wings, the Supreme Gardener's aid and pride. They swept over the rolling lands and the solid seas and they sang of healing and thus drew the poison and the decay from the long-suffering earth, and mortals joined them. Bountiful harvests would follow, and plants and moss flourished upon the bones and ruins of the Before-Age.

And the Words of the Song was of Earth and Water.

And many more arrived, uncountable and numberless hosts of the Godhead's trusted servants, and the Egg and the World and the Wheel was Written and Sang and Dreamed anew.

For years uncounted, under ten falling Orbs, the Dream-Age continued, and all manner of works were completed under song and dreams. Lands were raised and sunk, cities razed and rebuilt, phantoms vexed and battled and poisons drawn out and cured.
As Without, so Within, and the distressed phantoms of Mankind calmed and joined with their helpers and were soon more than they had ever been before, bathed and basked in Divinity.
So came the Day when the World-Egg Hatched.

And the angels blew their horns and the teeming dragon hosts roared and mortals sang and prayed and through the cacophony breached the Voice, and all heard it, for all were present at once. The Emissary arrived, shone and blazed over the world, and spoke.
'Forgive me, my beloved children, for the stage, the play and you, the actors, are no longer what you were, and never will it be so again. The curtain have fallen on what was free, wild, hideous and beautiful. I have taken that finest gift which is Doubt from you, and spirited away the comforting dread that they name Insignificance. May all Blamers come forth, and render unto me their tears so that I may comfort them, but I could do no different.
All of you who will not know my words nor take a mask, I shall gift a second world, one as the one we have now slaughtered here. The Bridge-Beyond-Bridges is already built, and this new-old land awaits. No memory of what have transpired here will linger, and I and my teeming hosts shall not interfere until you are willing and prepared. Forgive me, and prosper.

An Aspect of That Which I Am once set Mankind free, and what was a minor fall have now become a major lift, and from those lips shall come the plea. For without Sin, there would be no Mankind, and none of this would come to pass, and none you shall build could ever be. Bring forth the Fallen Wyrm.'
And the Fallen False-Singing Serpent came before the cradle, weakly slithering for it had abandoned its cloak of formidable brass and ruby scales upon the oak of agonies beyond.
Its teeming brothers hissed, for they hated the False-Singer, but bowed their heads and determined to do as their Lord said them.

'I always meant to elevate Man, for they were so much more than static beasts, my Lord, but it all went wrong and here I stand with nothing on my lips but a plea. Let me give them what they will truly need. Let me give them my flesh and my blood for Ink, so that they may be protected against the Deplorable Signs for a little time yet.
Let it be my final offering to the Earth, and my final gift to the race that I have failed.'

The Emissary, the Elder Source, bowed His head, and he held the Repentant Fallen in His hands, breathed upon the Flayed Serpent, and it was so. It turned to dust and Men made it into Beyond-Ink, and all its scaled kin shed tears like pearls and forgave.

And thus spoke the Emissary of the Godhead further;
'I will never take from Mankind your finest gift, that which you have, in the face of all that is False and Hideous, kept pure. That which you have cultivated and kept like a fluttering flame in endless darkness and in doubt. Your will is your divinity. The Power of I AM.

Enemies will come. Adversaries from beyond such as you have never seen but within. The Fallen will return, for no Garden can be without a Snake. But do not be afraid. Your dawn will the bright, and no clouds will come until both you and the day are older, my children.
You can Sing, you can Speak, you can See, you can Hear. Your world is fertile to be tended, your wisdom is tilled to be cultivated, you are armed and drilled so that you may defend it.
Live, Dream and Prosper.'
And the Emissary departed to the heavens, but legions of dragons remained, as they always have, and Mankind saw and knew them once more.
Those who would not linger on in a world they knew no more departed, under tears and with great joy, and all the promises under the rainbow were kept.
The Wheel thus creaked back into motion behind the Titan, and the Sun of Dawn broke once more over the World Reborn, and Mankind rejoiced.

And thus did Year Zero begin. A new game was afoot, a new play preformed, a new tale unfolding, in which each chapter is better than the one before. And such was the Timeless Time, and the Dawn of the World.

Amen.


And so, patient reader, goes the Dragon-Sermon of the Year Zero.

You have seen the ruins of the old age, and seen the gaps left in the weave by those who could not join us.
Mourn what was left behind, for what was and could have been. Mourn the memory of those who left, but take heart that they are were they need to be, and want for nothing but a memory of a different time. Remember God's words on the break of Dawn, and the songs of the Dream-Years. We have lost our freedom and our cosmic innocence, but we have never before been what we are now.

Praise be to God and His teeming hosts, praise be to those who would still wear the heavy False-Singing masks to play out the role, praise be to the World, resplendent and holy and reborn, and praise be to Mankind, for we passed our trial by ordeal, and our most glorious of ages are now before us.

This is not the End. This is not the Beginning of the End. It is, perhaps, the End of the Beginning.

Penned by Aratmaxes Moth-Speaker, of the Alabaster Halls. Year 33.

---
---
---

Containment Bureau – Archival Office.
To Operations Department.

Internal Message - URGENT

Subject: Seditious text, intercepted.
Item logged 12/12/07.
Threat Level: Epsilon.
Nature of Item: Heretical Text, Out of Time.
Nature of Threat: Breach of Linear Time. Sedition against Progress.

Description: Plain text intercepted by field agents within public libraries and thrift stores, districts 12, 16, 8, 2 and 4, inconclusive sightings elsewhere. FC-sized paper, non-industrial, non-bleached. Ordinary black ink, non-industrial. Text changes according to intended reader's preferred language (phenomenon TX-32).

Decision: Intercept and suppress all issues of this text. All further copies in Bureau possession are to be destroyed. All holders or publishers to be uncirculated by PR protocol 26-D. Pre-emptive media campaign to be put in action.

Emergency Blankpage protocol authorised.

/Director Sunday


WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
And so we have thee GODLIKE entries!

Ladies, Gentlemen and all in between, I present to thee, our contestants:


Sinitrena, with the tale:
Wanderer‘s Path

Baron, with the tale:
God the Father

Reiter, with the tale:
The Chorus of Serpents Upon the Year Zero
(New face? I don't remember a story by a Reiter before! Or maybe I just suck at remembering people... in any case: WELCOME ABOARD, and best of luck in this, the friendliest of contests!)


Please cast your votes in the following categories (1 vote per category):

Best Writing Technique: Technical Prowess and Storytelling
Best Character(s): The people and entities involved in the story
Best Revelation: Who had the most interesting, well described or otherwise unique take on God being proven real?

EDIT: Forgot a voting deadline. 26th of October, 23:59 UTC.
« Last Edit: 22 Oct 2019, 20:56 by WHAM »
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU

Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
    • I can help with translating
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #9 on: 21 Oct 2019, 17:26 »
Quote
(New face? I don't remember a story by a Reiter before! Or maybe I just suck at remembering people... in any case: WELCOME ABOARD, and best of luck in this, the friendliest of contests!)

Considering Reiter only registered about a month ago, I'd say it's a safe bet he/she/they are new. So, from me too: Welcome! (Not just to the FWC but the AGS forums as a whole.)

Two interesting stories. I'll have to read them again and will vote later.


Okay, it is later.

Baron: This is the most obvious showing of a god of our three entries and going by WHAMs description probably closest to what he had in mind. God really does show up for all to see. This story, as satire, is very much bound to the time of its writing. It is clear, without any doubt and without naming names, who the president is - which makes it a bit strange that you do name-drop Mitch McConnell. Why name him but not Trump? I think you got the most likely reaction of T. Pretty spot-on, though I missed a bit more reaction from the public/audience of the event. Going into the motivations of the god-character, I'm left with the feeling that you missed the mark a bit. God does protest that he wouldn't vote republican but in the end he did show up at one of the presidents event and did not outright smite any of them. So, while the reaction *of course god is here because he thinks I'm great* is obviously narcisstic, it is also, looking only at the text, reasonable. Still, I shouldn't delve too deep into the motivations of characters in this story and enjoy it for what it is - which I did, very much so.

Reiter: I think you went basically for the same reaction of people discovering gods are real as I did: they would cover it up. But this topic only comes up in the last maybe 10% of the story. Especially the first part, the main part, doesn't say anything relevant to this specific topic. As a matter of fact, most of your story is a (christian/jewish influenced) creation myth. There would be a lot to discuss this part from a religious standpoint, looking at influences, changes, inner logic and such, but that's a bit much for a short review like that here. I'll just point out that, considering the often used symbolic meaning of alpha and  omega not just as beginning and end but also as dominent and submissive, I'm not exactly a fan of these two sentences: “And the Words of the Song of Men was Alpha.“ and “And the Words of the Song of Women was Omega.“ I do complement the mythological-like language of this part, though. I'm not entirely sure what  is the document people try to cover up in the end, though. Is it the whole creation myth thing, the short second part, both, something else? There seems little connection between the religious stuff and the burocratic stuff.

Onto my votes:

Best Writing Technique: A clear vote for Reiter here. Not only did they get the tone of a mythological text right, they also showed the ability to write in different styles in one text.

Best Characters: Baron for getting the personality of a certain president spot-on and for a very likeable father-son duo. Reiter lacks distinctive characters.

Best Revelation: Because I have no idea how much of a revelation there actually was in Reiter's entry and despite Baron's being a bit on-the-nose, this is a clear vote for Baron.
« Last Edit: 23 Oct 2019, 15:07 by Sinitrena »

Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #10 on: 25 Oct 2019, 23:08 »
Good evening! Yes, I am a rather new arrival to the forums, and this is my first appearance in this sort of competition. A delight!

Now, some further thoughts on the text that I submitted may be in order, or at least be of some interest.
I can say that this was an awfully difficult text to do, all together.

I am fascinated by mysticism and of esoteric texts, and I am delighted by works like it that invoke symbols and association, where words and phrases can both strengthen and re-make previous meanings. It is a bit like music or pictures, where association is given so much space. It proved impossible to approach the vast subject of God in any other way.
It is a tricky business to be invited to say something, something on a subject that is quite dear to you, and something that you feel that you can contribute to. Something that you feel that you may, perhaps, pass onwards. The terror of a blank page becomes monstrous, and attempt after attempt falls apart.
I shall confess here that, with the dead-line looming, I decided to attempt a channelling of sorts. It was a wild leap into the dark, but fitting for the subject, and I did receive the bones of this tale, and it was all rather splendid and fascinating, in a way that I cannot describe. Then, I hammered down the text and all the other parts surfaced as they were needed. It was quite exhausting, but it worked well.
Indeed, looking at this text now, after a few days of rest and other projects, is very peculiar. I was in an odd half-trance as I knocked it down, and I cannot recall all of it. It is all a bit of a dream, but the text itself and the notes I took are quite real. It has been an extraordinary experience, and I really did gain something from this little project, more than I would have believed. The text would have benefited from a second round of editing and tidying, but I was very tired, and I slept for about a day after publication.
I doubt this is a recommendable method of writing, but it did produce a piece that I am quite happy with, although it is of a peculiar sort, without specific use.

Now, on the text itself;

It is less of a creation myth, but more of a mythological remembrance of Judgement Day. Well, a Judgement Day, held a few odd years from now. A vast overhaul of the Earth and of Mankind, rather than a final act before the theatre closes down. Less thunder and winnowing and pitiless justice, more a mournful duty, and the closing of but a chapter, where all ends as happily for all as can be arranged. Linear time itself is halted, and God's elemental servants, the dragons, descend to re-shape and cleanse it for its future tasks and trials. The result is a new Earth in a new age of hope and splendour, but also an Earth and a mankind that have lost something invaluable in doubt and in silence. The previous ages had been given over entirely to free will amongst mortals since the Fall, with all that it means. That is, at least, what ultimately emerged out of this text.

Now, I was quite unaware of the implications of dominance and submission attributed to Alpha-Omega, I shall confess. Well, that is not entirely true, I have heard of it but I simply never think of it. Frankly, I consider the popular psychology alpha-beta dynamics theory to be complete twaddle, insulting to wolf and man alike. It did not factor into my vision, as it were, as I hear them more as two ideals, two vital parts of a one. I see it everywhere now; ends and beginnings, Yin and Yang and so forth. Neither takes dominance of the other, as both are indivisible and vital in their parts for the Song. Masculine and feminine energies, amongst other aspects, without whom there can be no Egg. Of course, none may be blamed for thinking that. It is an association amongst others, and the blame falls upon the blasted misconception itself. Nonetheless, I will continue to defy it. And, perhaps, find a good defamation lawyer to speak on behalf of the poor wolves.

Now, on the Bureau; some thirty-three years after the Earth was re-written, the events were recorded by scribes as best as they could be remembered, expressed and depending on how much the Moths were willing to share. The new Dream-Time was both over in an instant and aeons long.
Then, issues of the Chorus of Serpents begins to appear 'back' in the Old Age, seeping through time into places where loose and undetermined text congregate. Perhaps to where they are particularly needed. The Containment Bureau takes exception, naturally.
The Containment Bureau is effectively the Bureau from the eponymous video game, the Illuminati archetype and the Inquisition archetype, all rolled together into one. The Status Quo is vital to them.
They have a long-term plan of their own, and will use what influence they have to extirpate all threats to their time-line and to the world as they decide it should be known. When extra-dimensional or extra-chronical phenomenon seeps into their world, they intercept, evaluate and hide them.

Thus, this text (that is, all of the post with the exception of the Bureau internal message slip at the end) have begun to surface in various locations where loose and undetermined text congregate. Since it is an account on a Judgement Day, a re-working of Man and the Earth, and an event where time itself is affected (and - oh horror of horrors! - with no Bureau influence), it likely represents all of the things that the Containment Bureau loathes.

Forgive me for my tiresome ramblings, but I jolly well had to take some new notes on the story, myself, and thought it may be of some interest and answer a few questions.

Baron

  • Mittens Serf
  • Not-so-Evil Banana Dictator
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • Best Innovation Award Winner 2011, for the concept and management of SWARMAGS
    • I can help with voice acting
    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #11 on: 26 Oct 2019, 03:49 »
Nice stories folks.

Best Writing Technique: I'm going with Sinitrena here by a razor thin margin.  Excellent use of imagery (shadows that had danced before in mirrors and nooks now went to sleep in the darkness; ...the breeze in the storm of her mind) is sometimes marred by unimaginative excess (...the blood running through her veins could outpace a cheetah).  There were numerous typos and preposition swaps: the the threads, doubts sat in, sat to the feet, passed the staged, through towards her....).  But this is tempered by a strong story design with a cynical beginning, followed by revelation, followed by the ultimate revelation in the awesome twist ending.  Reiter's story also had some powerful phrases, especially based on strong choice of words: ...curtain have (sic) fallen on what was free, wild, hideous and beautiful; forth came the Rainbow hosts, beautiful and nebulous and resplendent.  But his (her?) story suffered from a density of content that made especially the first half extremely difficult to decipher.  I take a bit of liberty mashing some terms together, but if the Fallen Wyrm had only protected against the Deplorable Signs on the Oak of Agonies, couldn't he Alpha-All-Father then Sing-Shape the Egg Beyond Time into a Radiant Risen Omega World-Mother on the Bridge-Beyond-Bridges with a smidge of Prismatic Grace upon the Limitless Keystone?  :P  However, given that real religious texts come across as just as baffling without careful parsing, and given that that section of the story was identified as a sedition against progress religious text by the Containment Bureau, I suppose the confusing way that the Emissary of the Endless Moth conveyed his message was justified.  Yet, this is a story competition, and that was a bit of a hard slog in places, so point goes to Sinitrena.  :)

Best Character(s): My vote again goes to Sinitrena, by default since Reiter's story lacked any kind of character development.  This is not to diminish the powerful arc of character development in Sinitrena's work: Harusech's faith journey is quite ambitious and well-executed, and the layers of Ktosep's character is impressive given the brevity of his part in the story.
 
Best Revelation: This category is truly agonising to decide.  I thought Sinitrena's revelation of the revelation was brilliant and powerful, but I also was impressed by the infinite complexity of the divine as expressed by Reiter.  I think in the end I'm going to have to (by a hair) vote for Sinitrena, simply because she clearly communicated a nuanced and layered revelation in a clever but heartbreaking manner.

WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #12 on: 26 Oct 2019, 23:22 »
Whelp, voting deadline is at hand, and it looks like Sinitrena is the winner.
The always cordial Baron came in second place, and our newcomer Reiter was left with the third place with their first entry (though I kinda liked their theme the best of the bunch...)

Congratumalations to all!

I look forward to seeing what theme Sinitrena comes up with for the coming fortnight! See you all in the next thread.  ;)
« Last Edit: 27 Oct 2019, 11:38 by WHAM »
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU

Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
    • I can help with translating
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #13 on: 26 Oct 2019, 23:45 »
Whelp, voting deadline is at hand, and it looks like Baron is the winner.

I respectfully have to disagree (unless you added your own votes and forgot to post them).  (wtf)

WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #14 on: 27 Oct 2019, 00:18 »
I admit nothing, and especially not to writing down my vote-count in an excel so that Baron GIVING the vote was marked as having RECEIVED his own votes.
Good grief, this is what I get for setting the deadline at midnight! :D

Sorry folks, and yes, SINITRENA is crowned the winner!
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU

Baron

  • Mittens Serf
  • Not-so-Evil Banana Dictator
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • Best Innovation Award Winner 2011, for the concept and management of SWARMAGS
    • I can help with voice acting
    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #15 on: 27 Oct 2019, 02:19 »
Whelp, voting deadline is at hand, and it looks like Sinitrena is the winner.
The seasoned Sinitrena came in second place, and our newcomer Reiter was left with the third place with their first entry (though I kinda liked their theme the best of the bunch...)

I respectfully have to disagree.  Yeah, sure, it might not have been my best story.  But to hand first and second place to Sinitrena?  Wow.  I mean, wow.  That's just low, man....    ;)

Sinitrena

  • Mittens Serf
  • Wheel of Fate
    • I can help with translating
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • Sinitrena worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #16 on: 27 Oct 2019, 10:50 »
LOL, poor WHAM, so dedicated to do his duty, yet so tired...

Congratulations Baron and Reiter for two wonderful stories.

I hope to see you all in the next round!

WHAM

  • WHAMGAMES
    • I can help with AGS tutoring
    • I can help with play testing
    • I can help with scripting
    • I can help with story design
    • I can help with translating
    • I can help with voice acting
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that won an AGS Award!
    •  
    • WHAM worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition: God
« Reply #17 on: 27 Oct 2019, 11:39 »
Aaaa! Why am I like this!?  :~(
I promise to do better in writing than I do in hosting!  :-D
My Fortnightly Writing Competition collected works
https://goo.gl/VUQbzU