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My second entry, where I have disregarded the word-count for syllable-count, instead, under my FWC-certified poetic license:

HIGH COUP


17-syllable version:

Spoiler

Abraham spoke out,
Slavery needing crushing,
His face growing grim.

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34-syllable version:

Spoiler

Trump sat, TV on,
Ass-groove of sofa fitting,
His face all agrin.

His tin soldiers fought,
Crushing, doubting their reloads,
As the slaves pushed in.

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The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity

600-word version:

Spoiler

      So, there I was, recently dead, at the doors of hell.  The gatekeeper, a guy with each half of his two heads slewing off in magma eruptions of boiling flesh, for whatever sins he had committed in his long-ago life, pushed a flier into my hand.  I read it:

"WELCOME TO HELL.  WE APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS.  YOUR FIRST TASK:  FOR EVERY PIECE OF LITTER YOU THREW AWAY IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, YOU MUST PICK UP ONE BILLION.  NO TONGS ALLOWED.  YOU CAN ONLY BEND FROM THE SPINE.  AND YOU MUST KEEP COUNT."

      I scanned down to the bottom of the page.  I had thrown away 1674 pieces of garbage, anywhere from burger wrappers to cigarette butts, it seemed. 

      So, I started down the edges of parks and roads they had set out for me:

      "One... Two... Three...," my back already hurt, but I continued on through, stuffing bits of trash into the bottomless bag, "two-hundred-and-five... two-hundred-and-six," until I finally lost count around the three-thousand mark.

      So, I started over.  I got to just before five-hundred-thousand the next time, if I remember right, before I miscounted on an orange peel and the demon overseers dragged me screaming back to the start with their many, many limbs.

      Forever later, not having had a single bite of food or drop of drink in several millennia, I miscounted "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-two," when it should have been "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-three."

      They dragged me back to the start, again.  Fuck, my back hurt as I began over: "One... Two... Three... Four... Five...."  I once got up above a trillion after a million or so more attempts, before I flubbed a number again.  I think it might have been on, "One trillion, three-hundred and sixty-five billion, nine-million and forty-five thousand, three-hundred and seventy-one."  That time I flubbed it by misspeaking the "billion" part as "sixty-fife" instead of "sixty-five" through a slip of my parched tongue, for fucks sake.

      Now, I'm on my something-billionth or trillionth run.  So many runs before this ended just because of me saying "Fuck this!" or "Screw you!" in the early hundred-millions or billions, back when I was a newbie and thought I didn't care if this ever ended or not.

      But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single line:

      "One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."

      The demon overseers gather in on me, flaming tentacles racing across the tarmac, hot bubbling asphalt in their wake, their millions of eyes intent on me, as I finally utter, "One trillion six hundred forty-seven billion," flawlessly.

      A guy I'd spoken briefly with a few million times, in passing, flies by above, dragged across the flaming sky on the impossible wings of his captors, giving me a thumbs-up and shouting down something I can't hear, but smiling.

      He's happy at least, and I am, too, as an icy spider-claw hands me the next letter of instruction.  It reads:

"HELL HERE, AGAIN.  MUCH LOVE.  YOUR SECOND TASK:  FOR EVERY PERSON YOU EVER LIED TO, YOU MUST TELL A BILLION OTHERS ONE UNIQUE AND ABSOLUTE TRUTH.  NO DOUBLING UP!"

      I turn around and there's a line of people right in front of me, reducing off into the distance.  I tell the first lady, "Coffee is good for you in moderation."

      The line shuffles and reforms.

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1200-word version:

Spoiler

      So, there I was, recently dead, at the doors of hell.  The gatekeeper, a guy with each half of his two heads slewing off in magma eruptions of boiling flesh, for whatever sins he had committed in his long-ago life, pushed a flier into my hand.  I read it:

"WELCOME TO HELL.  WE APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS.  YOUR FIRST TASK:  FOR EVERY PIECE OF LITTER YOU THREW AWAY IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, YOU MUST PICK UP ONE BILLION.  NO TONGS ALLOWED.  YOU CAN ONLY BEND FROM THE SPINE.  AND YOU MUST KEEP COUNT."

      I scanned down to the bottom of the page.  I had thrown away 1674 pieces of garbage, anywhere from burger wrappers to cigarette butts, it seemed. 

      So, I started down the edges of parks and roads they had set out for me:

      "One... Two... Three...," my back already hurt, but I continued on through, stuffing bits of trash into the bottomless bag, "two-hundred-and-five... two-hundred-and-six," until I finally lost count around the three-thousand mark.

      So, I started over.  I got to just before five-hundred thousand the next time, if I remember right, before I miscounted on an orange peel and the demon overseers dragged me screaming back to the start with their many, many limbs.

      Forever later, not having had a single bite of food or drop of drink in several millennia, I miscounted "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-two," when it should have been "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-three."

      They dragged me back to the start, again.  Fuck, my back hurt as I began over: "One... Two... Three... Four... Five...."  I once got up above a trillion after a million or so more attempts, before I flubbed a number again.  I think it might have been on, "One trillion, three-hundred and sixty-five billion, nine-million and forty-five thousand, three-hundred and seventy-one."  That time I flubbed it by misspeaking the "billion" part as "sixty-fife" instead of "sixty-five" through a slip of my parched tongue, for fucks sake.

      Now, I'm on my something-billionth or trillionth run.  So many runs before this ended just because of me saying "Fuck this!" or "Screw you!" in the early hundred-millions or billions, back when I was a newbie and thought I didn't care if this ever ended or not.

      But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single word, my future on the line:

      "One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy ... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."

      The demon overseers gather in on me, flaming tentacles racing across the tarmac, hot bubbling asphalt in their wake, their millions of eyes intent on me, as I finally utter, "One trillion six hundred forty-seven billion," flawlessly.

      A guy I'd spoken briefly with a few million times, in passing, flies by above, dragged across the flaming sky on the impossible wings of his captors, giving me a thumbs-up and shouting down something I can't hear, but smiling.

      He's happy at least, and I am, too, as an icy spider-claw hands me the next letter of instruction.  It reads:

"HELL HERE, AGAIN.  MUCH LOVE.  YOUR SECOND TASK:  FOR EVERY PERSON YOU EVER LIED TO, YOU MUST TELL A BILLION OTHERS ONE UNIQUE AND ABSOLUTE TRUTH.  NO DOUBLING UP!"

      I turn around and there's a line of people right in front of me, reducing off into the distance.  I tell the first lady, "Coffee is good for you in moderation."

      The line shuffles and reforms.

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Ah, I think maybe the "write the same story again with double the words" might be better as an additional challenge, rather than mandatory. Maybe it could decide tiebreakers if it comes down to that?

Because, I for one, will NOT be writing the same story twice. Honestly, I can't imagine anything more tedious. Even writing the long version first and then paring it down to half means so much planned filler that it makes my head spin.

EDIT: After my initial response, I see there are ways to make this work and for it to be interesting for both the writer and the reader. All good. (The double-story part might still work better as an optional step, though)

Sorry, I'm the straggler. Here's my votes:

Spoiler

1st: ABC on the Line by Sinitrena
2nd: The Intern by glurex

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One brief note:

Spoiler

I really expected Sini's story to end with the kids going away to play at the fair, and the teacher having to break up four of them lined up at a shooting gallery because passers-by where laughing... and the C,F,K, and U students going away confused at why they got called out.

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['Come as is']

COME AS IS

Spoiler

      The sign on the seedy motel placard was hard to read, the neons behind it buzzing and blinking.  What Simon could make out read: "Faux Reunion", but there was a dark line between, where the tubes must have fizzled.  He had no idea what a reunion of foxes meant.  Whoever planned this was a moronic speller.  Or probably one of those arts graduates trying to do everything in French.  Looked like fucking French for "fox".
    He got his wife and kids out of the car.  Had to slap Jason round the head a bit.  Seven years old and still reaching back, whining for his plushie to take with him: "Mr. Winton"; what kind of name was that for a kid's stupid support toy?
    "Aw, grow up, you little fuck," Simon said, missing the final slap as his kid ducked.  Had his dad's sports' reflexes, at least.  Simon's eyes almost attempted pride, but then he looked over at where his daughter was headed and shouted, "FUCK, Fiona!  The retard's getting away!"
    He turned away from his wife scrambling across the tarmac, chasing down Lia, and back to the motel itself.  The drive-in reception window was dark.  Probably run by immigrants.  Only eight o'clock and already slacking off.  Turning his head on its pillar neck, he saw that the main entrance was lit up, though.  Between rows of dark windows, the entrance to the motel's conference hall was ablaze with light.  Was it even too much light?  Were those two extra spotlights on either side, running off a droning petrol generator somewhere out back, his tradie ear asked him, even needed?
    As his wife finally roped in his daughter behind him, and the probably gay son of his raced ahead, Simon walked down the cobbled path between the spotlights and into the hallway leading to the school reunion.
    Behind the family, across the cracked, weed-ridden parking lot, the "Faux" at the top of the motel's sign turned off, and the darkened neon row below it came on.  The complete sign now read: "Foe Reunion".

                                                                                                                                                  ***

      Roth sat in the cracked, moldy chair of the control nest he had built after buying the abandoned motel site.  After ten years of planning, and a vast swath of inherited McMillen fortune, the third victim of his revenge cycle was here.  The first two, Greg Stavros and Lakey Wilbury, had already been dealt with.  Over the blue-and-white feed of the security monitor, Roth saw the child dash by. 

                                                                                                                                                  ***
 
    Simon called out, "Hang up, Jason!" down the crumbly, moldy corridor, starting to feel worry.  It was mainly the smell.  Three decades of money entrusted to a classmate should have resulted in at least a slightly better place than this.  The hallway spilled out into the motel's conference hall.  Jason was shouting back ahead, somewhere through the darkness, "Hey, dad, there's no one else here yet!"
    Simon took out his phone and tried to remember how to turn on its flashlight to look for his son, real worry starting to growl in his heart.  Then the lights came on, anyway.

                                                                                                                                                  ***

    Taking his clunched knuckles off the rows of switches he'd pushed up, Roth looked down over the deck of his elevated room.  The floodlights he'd had installed, around the corners of what had once been a disco back in the '80s, fixated the arriving family in four overlapping ovals. 

                                                                                                                                                  ***

    Simon whipped around, looking for where his wife and kids were, protective instincts kicking in, but the blazing lights blinded him.  Putting a forearm over his brow, he peered around, and shouted, "Fi!  Where's our kids?!"
    "I can't find 'em, hun!" came back her desperate-sounding call.
    Simon put his heels under him and ran out of the fanlights.  His eyes adapted slowly to the dark of the corners, but he quickly found Jason curled up under the shelf of a crumbling DJ table.  The kid was bawling, mumbling, "mr. winton... mr. winton...," drooling snot from his nose.  That hurt Simon's heart.  The damn kid wasn't even calling for him.
    "Can't find Lia!  Have you?!" Fiona yelled back from the dusty darkness beyond the stabbing lights.
    "NO!"

                                                                                                                                                  ***
   
    "Who are you, mister?" a small, high voice from behind Roth said.
    He spun his chair around.  In the doorway of his nest of hate he saw a little girl.  She had pee running down from her cut-off jeans, into her tiny sneakers. 
    Roth looked into her face, so earnest and small, and said, "I'm just some guy that got angry, sweetie.  Go back downstairs.  I'll turn off the lights."
    He pulled his fingers back down the switches.
    She left.  They'd done better than his other guests.
    "Yeah, 'Come as is', indeed," Roth said, looking over those words on his invite list, at the names remaining below, as the family fled back to their car.

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My votes, for now, feedback later:

Spoiler

CaptainD: 3pts
Stupot: 2pts
Sinitrena: 1pt

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HOW MY THREE-DAY VACATION TURNED INTO MUCH MORE

Spoiler

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Congratz, soulstuff. And cheers for the good word!

I was very conflicted between both the choices, as both were very cool and fun and well made, but went with:

Spoiler

Weaving Time by Soulstuff. While both games had excellent endings, the moment that tipped my scales very, very slightly in this game's direction was the mood meter jumping up to 200% when the partner got home. That was an inspired and charming touch!

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This is getting worse.

It's getting horrifying.

UNBELIEVABLE! They aren't going to bring the wrongly deported man, Kilmar Abrego Garcia, back to America. Instead, they are going to let him rot in a hellhole prison, where he will probably die. That's pure evil.

Tied with this for first place in despicable news: Trump has said that he is open to sending American-born citizens to the same El Salvador mega-prison. So that's how he plans to get away with concentration camps to put anyone he doesn't like in: he can't build them on American soil, too many people would notice. He'll just outsource them to other countries where they will be out of sight out of mind. They are still death camps, though.

This is how he makes his Reich in a less obvious way than Hitler.

Is this okay, America? Can you look at all this and go along with it? Wake the fuck up, America.

And, I'm not talking about violence here. You just need to stop doing what this evil man says. Doing so may delegitimize the office of president and a new system may have to be formed.

But, it might be time for that. When one man can seize control like this, and disobey the system without consequence, then the system you have isn't working anyway.

Voting (sorry for the delay), not sure if I will be able to find the time to do feedback:

50 words:

Spoiler

After the Month No Werewolves Came by RootBound

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200 words:

Spoiler

Lesion by Rootbound

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500 words:

Spoiler

There's No Taste Like Home by Stupot

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Overall favorite:

Spoiler

After the Month No Werewolves Came by RootBound

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Here is the sixth of my entries. 50 words category.

2:31:15

Spoiler

    I was in a bicycle shop waiting on a repair when I saw a monitor on the wall. It said, "This monitor will disappear in 2:31:15".  The seconds were counting down.  I came back a day later.  It was gone.  The staff had no idea what I was talking about.
 

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@cat

Let's Talk About Anal Sex

Spoiler

The name says it all - it is indeed educational, but there is hardly any gameplay. I like the dialog between the two guys but I'm irritated that one of them just gave the guy with STD a blow job without a condom.

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Spoiler

Cheers for the feedback, mate! The bit about him having an STD was supposed to be him joking. Part of his personality is supposed to be a tendancy for shock/gross-humor. He doesn't really have a disease, but perhaps that was not obvious from the text. I will see if this was an issue for others and make an edit after the contest, if so. Because, yeah, ICK!

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Here is the fifth of my entries. 200 words category.

Leaving Home

Spoiler

      The thrust under the richest man's on the planet's ass thrilled him.  Finally, after dredging through the bullshit of economic systems that were below his intelligence, he was leaving this shithole of a planet.  The rocket snapped off its first phase, headed back to land on the doomed Earth he had escaped.  He had his hands gripped to the armrests, with a grin on his face.

      Docking went without a hitch.  He floated from his Dragon capsule out into the first hallway of the spacecraft he had duped the current administration into building.  It was beautiful.  The walls were white, and chopped along with just the kind of little lunchbox-sized modules displaying green-scrolling data that he would need.

    Seated in his commander chair, looking out through the convex glass fronting the kilometers-long craft behind him, he gave the final command to ignite the engines, and pulled the upload headset down over his cranium.

    "Commence upload of consciousness?" asked the computer in the middle-school-crush voice he had chosen.

    "Make it so," he replied, the badass.

    Five million years later, he asked the AI the same question over again: "Am I still the poorest being in the universe?"

    "Still no detectable currency."
 

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Here is the fourth of my entries. 50 words category.

Backlot to the Future

Spoiler

     The thrill of my life was riding the backlot-tour tram at Universal Studios back in nineteen-eighty-five and seeing Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd in their iconic roles. Then the tram rounds a corner, cloaks, takes off, and the eighty-eight-miles-an-hour rush.  I recommend this tour to anyone here in twenty-forty-five.
 

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Anyway, I've disabled 3 of the entries, leaving one single entry active.

I could download the game using the link in the message in this thread, but not via the link provided on the game page. (Possibly unless I was interested in upgrading to premium.)

Cheers, guys. The website kept giving me an error message every time I hit upload, so I assumed it hadn't worked. Eventually gave up.  I will look into it in a bit.

UPDATE: SHOULD BE WORKING NOW

So, I made something that kind of looks like a game, in my spare time, just because the idea for it popped up in my head the day I saw the theme of this MAGS round.

It's very spare, and was supposed to be much more than it is, but time ran out, so here it is:

DISCLAIMER:

Spoiler

As it says on the AGS game page, this game contains explicit sexual language.

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Let's Talk About Anal Sex



Despite the bluntness of the title (which is not misrepresentative of the content), I did strive to present a story about two people in love who are openly talking about taking the next big step in their relationship. The overall aim of the game is also educational, including some honest and open information about the topic.

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD

Here is the third of my entries. 200 word category.

Gatekeepers of Smoking

Spoiler

    Fuck, wherever I go, it's the same:  the local cafe has a smoking room, but they make it as uncomfortable as fucking possible.  There's no tables or chairs.  And you can't even take your coffee in.  A cig and a coffee, right?!  It's supposed to be a set!  Ever the rebel, I take my coffee in anyway.  Halfway through my rebellion, a shaved-head barista pops in and tells me the rules. 

    It's getting even worse, years later:  It's raining, so I get under an awning and pop a light.  A security guard comes out with his massive ginger mustache and tells me to piss off.  Can't smoke here, he says.

    Decades later, a nurse comes out and catches me lighting up a cig on the balcony of the fucking hospice I paid good money to be in.  Fuck her platted blue braids as she puts the oxygen mask back over my mouth and forces me back to my room.

    An indeterminable time later, I am standing at golden gates.  A bald man, another with a huge red mustache, and a lady with blue braids are waiting with white-feathered wings spread.  In unison, they say, "We tried to warn you."

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Here is the second of my entries. 200 words category.

Guarding Gay

Spoiler

     I was bullied all through high school by rednecks.  Trevor Haines was their leader.  No matter where I went, same class or not, he was there with his pack of inbreds.  They would shove me and pull my long '70s hair, screaming "Fag!" in my face.  Fuck them, though.  I wasn't gonna cut my hair for no one!  I wasn't even gay.
   
    College was better.  Long hair was cool there!  I graduated out of Utah State and a black suit was waiting for me even almost before our mortarboards hit the ground.  I was recruited into the FBI pretty much there and then. 

    I grew old in the service, to the impossible age of fifty.  The reason I'm now writing this is because of a gay pride rally.  There had been credible terrorist chatter picked up over Intel networks:  Some gay-hater planning to gun down a speaker. 

    I stood there, by the stage, scanning for the shooter, and that's when I saw him:  Trevor-Fucking-Haines, ducking backstage, reaching into his redneck denim jacket.  I drew down and plugged him.  The screams at me killing him haunt me here in my prison cell.  He'd been reaching into his jacket for his speech.

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