Beautiful Monkeys? Twelve Girls?
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#822
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Fri 30/10/2015 02:43:48
Best Protagonist: Baron
Best Plot: Sinitrena
Best Dialog: WHAM
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena
Honorary "Memoirs of an Invisible Man" Award goes to Kconan for the entry he posted but no one can see.
Best Writing Style:
Best Plot: Sinitrena
Best Dialog: WHAM
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena
Honorary "Memoirs of an Invisible Man" Award goes to Kconan for the entry he posted but no one can see.
Best Writing Style:
#823
The Rumpus Room / Re: Happy Birthday Thread!
Fri 30/10/2015 00:38:42
Thanks, guys! And a belated happy b-day to Cat! 
#824
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Tue 27/10/2015 13:37:36Quote from: SilverSpook on Tue 27/10/2015 10:11:23No way, dude! My entry is based on the unappreciated (and admittedly lackluster) later-era Carpenter's "Ghosts of Mars." It's a bit of a misfire of a movie in execution, but I really dig the premise of the movie. Check it out, why not? You might like it.
Ponch - (Based on They Live?)
QuoteAs soon as Ponch has established an early lead, close the voting polls suddenly and without warning. Otherwise, people might come to their senses.
Since I am a n00b contest hoster, what would be a reasonable date to have the votes in by?
#825
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Tue 27/10/2015 02:24:45
No time for your belated shenanigans, B! There's posting afoot! 
The skin gave way. The thin metal file, still attached to the small nail clippers by a cunning little swivel, drew blood. A thin, wet rivulet of red, trickling down the woman's arm, growing larger, flowing faster as the slender hand worked the file deeper into the skin, twisting it, gouging, digging, making the wound larger, defiling. It was a joyous thing, the defilement. This flesh was a hateful thing. Soft. Thin. It yielded easily. These invaders were weak. The bodies were a necessity, but disgusting all the same. A wind blew, making the hair on the woman's head stir. The hair was even more vile than the flesh. Dead and useless, it covered the invader's body in a thin, almost invisible coat. In some places it grew thick, dead cells pushing out of the greasy, flimsy skin. In some places it had been shaved away, likely days before. Now it was sharp, shoving up from the skin, itchy, irritating. Leaving the clippers dangling from the borrowed forearm, the woman's hand reached up, seeking the thick, reddish, looping curls that hung from the scalp. Taking a fistful of the hair, gripping tightly, the woman's knuckles turning white from exertion -- fine muscle control was still an uncertain thing -- she yanked. The hair tore loose with a ripping noise, almost like a rusty zipper. More blood trickled down, oozing from the raw scalp, coloring the graceful neck, staining the collar of the work coveralls the woman wore. The garment was stupid if durable, a form of synthetic fiber meant to mimic the strength of canvas while remaining as lightweight and comfortable as cotton. A true conqueror wore the boiled skin of the conquered. These invaders were as weird and pathetic as their ridiculous clothing. And how much pain they felt! So unnecessary! What use was pain except to serve as notification of injury. Any more was wasteful, distracting.
Another gust of hot wind blew in from the desert, dusting the woman with a light coat of sand where she sat on a cargo crate near a blood-spattered cargo truck. This place had been the scene of a good fight less than an hour before. The corners of the ruined lips pulled back tightly in a parody of a smile. Clotted blood cracked and ruptured. Fresh, wet red droplets fell from the lacerated lips. The woman sat up straight, her chest expanding as she pulled air into her body, filling the fragile, odd, twin bags inside her body, breathing deeply. The atmosphere was thin from inside the invader's body. They had come from another world. A blue speck in the sky where the wind was thicker, wetter, and oceans still crashed and surged, as yet undried by the brutal, killing sun. One day it would claim the blue world as surely as it had the red. The old gods, leering and cackling, willed it. Their thirst could not be denied. The wind would dry the seas there, wither the plants the prey animals relied on, until only bare sands and sharpened teeth remained, and the time of feasting on one another arrived. War would follow, glorious and savage, until nothing but the winds remained.
Rippling and flowing around the woman, the wind coming in from the canyon would bring more death in the nights to come. A host of unseen fighters were borne aloft by it, liberated conquerors looking to claim their share of these invaders. Blood would flow, just as the gods of old demanded, mocking and cruel, so ancient and primal that even the deathless and disembodied furies swirling in the wind could not remember their names.
Throwing her head back, the woman's throat tried to shout jubilantly, tried to make the words, tried to sound the call. But the words came out only half formed, no better than a weakling newborn might do, trying to prove it's worth, hoping to avoid being thrown in the fire, wanting to be seen as useful, desperate to mimic the adults howling under the Great Conqueror's black and red banner, back in the days when the sands still bore their footprints, in the glory days, when they were numerous and warred constantly, and strong, rugged flesh held their unyielding spirits firmly.
The stunted words she made fell away, swallowed by the wind. Unheard by the delicate shells of the woman's cartoonishly externalized ears, the conquerors around her sang, returning her pathetic attempt at a proper howl, mocking the feeble attempt she'd made. She ignored their disdain. They were freshly awakened. They didn't know. They would see. Once they were embodied within these grotesque forms, they would see. And in understanding, they would come to hate this flesh too. But there was no other choice. They were the conquerors who had defeated all the others, but could not best their own dying world. Resting inside their tombs for uncounted aeons, they waited, not knowing what else to do. More time had passed than could possibly be measured by their old calendars. No flesh existed to be eaten. No souls could be gathered. Only waiting. Uncertainty. Darkness. Nothing more.
Then these invaders had come. Frail but plentiful, they had spread their numbers across a world that did not belong to them, raising cities on old battlegrounds -- the only sacred places -- defiling them, disfiguring the sands with beds and gardens and other unimportant things. These weak yet clever creatures with their amazing technology and thin, hot blood were busy laying rail lines across the desert, linking their scattered cities, building their mockery of a nurturing, coddling civilization.
The old conquerors of this world were not a people of nimble minds. They were a people of battle. And there had been no battles for years uncounted. There had been no one to war with. The world had been dead for too long.
But now these strange invaders had come, raising children and livestock (different things, somehow, to these new people) thinking themselves masters of a world they had never earned through battle. They had opened one of the tombs, driven by a curiosity that made little sense to simple, brutal, indomitable minds. They had freed the conquerors. The first ones fell quickly, the faint flickerings of their feeble souls no match for the will of the rested, eager lords of this world. Each invader was a poor, small candle compared to the raging bonfire that erupted, unseen, from the crypt. Grave robbers, they were, not soldiers, and easily overcome. Now their abandoned bodies would be made to serve in the war that had only begun. The invaders would be driven out as the masters rode the winds, retaking this world one small town at time, discarding the bodies as needed, claiming fresh ones along the way, killing and conquering, united under a black and red banner, as in the days of old.
The woman's mutilated face smiled a clotted, rictus grin and studied her strange hands. They would need to hold a weapon if they were going to be of use. Something sharp and jagged, serrated. Metal, if possible. Splintered or pointed bone, blackened in a fire, otherwise.
The hands had five digits apiece. One too many. The hands of the true conquerors, when they'd had them, so very long ago. had sported only four fingers.
Four would do.
The woman pushed the smallest finger of her left hand into her mouth and began to chew.
The skin gave way. The thin metal file, still attached to the small nail clippers by a cunning little swivel, drew blood. A thin, wet rivulet of red, trickling down the woman's arm, growing larger, flowing faster as the slender hand worked the file deeper into the skin, twisting it, gouging, digging, making the wound larger, defiling. It was a joyous thing, the defilement. This flesh was a hateful thing. Soft. Thin. It yielded easily. These invaders were weak. The bodies were a necessity, but disgusting all the same. A wind blew, making the hair on the woman's head stir. The hair was even more vile than the flesh. Dead and useless, it covered the invader's body in a thin, almost invisible coat. In some places it grew thick, dead cells pushing out of the greasy, flimsy skin. In some places it had been shaved away, likely days before. Now it was sharp, shoving up from the skin, itchy, irritating. Leaving the clippers dangling from the borrowed forearm, the woman's hand reached up, seeking the thick, reddish, looping curls that hung from the scalp. Taking a fistful of the hair, gripping tightly, the woman's knuckles turning white from exertion -- fine muscle control was still an uncertain thing -- she yanked. The hair tore loose with a ripping noise, almost like a rusty zipper. More blood trickled down, oozing from the raw scalp, coloring the graceful neck, staining the collar of the work coveralls the woman wore. The garment was stupid if durable, a form of synthetic fiber meant to mimic the strength of canvas while remaining as lightweight and comfortable as cotton. A true conqueror wore the boiled skin of the conquered. These invaders were as weird and pathetic as their ridiculous clothing. And how much pain they felt! So unnecessary! What use was pain except to serve as notification of injury. Any more was wasteful, distracting.
Another gust of hot wind blew in from the desert, dusting the woman with a light coat of sand where she sat on a cargo crate near a blood-spattered cargo truck. This place had been the scene of a good fight less than an hour before. The corners of the ruined lips pulled back tightly in a parody of a smile. Clotted blood cracked and ruptured. Fresh, wet red droplets fell from the lacerated lips. The woman sat up straight, her chest expanding as she pulled air into her body, filling the fragile, odd, twin bags inside her body, breathing deeply. The atmosphere was thin from inside the invader's body. They had come from another world. A blue speck in the sky where the wind was thicker, wetter, and oceans still crashed and surged, as yet undried by the brutal, killing sun. One day it would claim the blue world as surely as it had the red. The old gods, leering and cackling, willed it. Their thirst could not be denied. The wind would dry the seas there, wither the plants the prey animals relied on, until only bare sands and sharpened teeth remained, and the time of feasting on one another arrived. War would follow, glorious and savage, until nothing but the winds remained.
Rippling and flowing around the woman, the wind coming in from the canyon would bring more death in the nights to come. A host of unseen fighters were borne aloft by it, liberated conquerors looking to claim their share of these invaders. Blood would flow, just as the gods of old demanded, mocking and cruel, so ancient and primal that even the deathless and disembodied furies swirling in the wind could not remember their names.
Throwing her head back, the woman's throat tried to shout jubilantly, tried to make the words, tried to sound the call. But the words came out only half formed, no better than a weakling newborn might do, trying to prove it's worth, hoping to avoid being thrown in the fire, wanting to be seen as useful, desperate to mimic the adults howling under the Great Conqueror's black and red banner, back in the days when the sands still bore their footprints, in the glory days, when they were numerous and warred constantly, and strong, rugged flesh held their unyielding spirits firmly.
The stunted words she made fell away, swallowed by the wind. Unheard by the delicate shells of the woman's cartoonishly externalized ears, the conquerors around her sang, returning her pathetic attempt at a proper howl, mocking the feeble attempt she'd made. She ignored their disdain. They were freshly awakened. They didn't know. They would see. Once they were embodied within these grotesque forms, they would see. And in understanding, they would come to hate this flesh too. But there was no other choice. They were the conquerors who had defeated all the others, but could not best their own dying world. Resting inside their tombs for uncounted aeons, they waited, not knowing what else to do. More time had passed than could possibly be measured by their old calendars. No flesh existed to be eaten. No souls could be gathered. Only waiting. Uncertainty. Darkness. Nothing more.
Then these invaders had come. Frail but plentiful, they had spread their numbers across a world that did not belong to them, raising cities on old battlegrounds -- the only sacred places -- defiling them, disfiguring the sands with beds and gardens and other unimportant things. These weak yet clever creatures with their amazing technology and thin, hot blood were busy laying rail lines across the desert, linking their scattered cities, building their mockery of a nurturing, coddling civilization.
The old conquerors of this world were not a people of nimble minds. They were a people of battle. And there had been no battles for years uncounted. There had been no one to war with. The world had been dead for too long.
But now these strange invaders had come, raising children and livestock (different things, somehow, to these new people) thinking themselves masters of a world they had never earned through battle. They had opened one of the tombs, driven by a curiosity that made little sense to simple, brutal, indomitable minds. They had freed the conquerors. The first ones fell quickly, the faint flickerings of their feeble souls no match for the will of the rested, eager lords of this world. Each invader was a poor, small candle compared to the raging bonfire that erupted, unseen, from the crypt. Grave robbers, they were, not soldiers, and easily overcome. Now their abandoned bodies would be made to serve in the war that had only begun. The invaders would be driven out as the masters rode the winds, retaking this world one small town at time, discarding the bodies as needed, claiming fresh ones along the way, killing and conquering, united under a black and red banner, as in the days of old.
The woman's mutilated face smiled a clotted, rictus grin and studied her strange hands. They would need to hold a weapon if they were going to be of use. Something sharp and jagged, serrated. Metal, if possible. Splintered or pointed bone, blackened in a fire, otherwise.
The hands had five digits apiece. One too many. The hands of the true conquerors, when they'd had them, so very long ago. had sported only four fingers.
Four would do.
The woman pushed the smallest finger of her left hand into her mouth and began to chew.
#826
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Mon 26/10/2015 16:27:22
Excellent. I'll get the thing finished on my lunch break today and post it when I get home tonight. 
#827
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Mon 26/10/2015 03:02:54
Any chance of a 24 hour extension? We just got back from a haunted house / zombie paint ball experience. I'm covered in fake blood and welts. Need to shower and then I'm going to pass out.
#828
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Sun 25/10/2015 21:20:57
I'll try to get my story finished and posted before bedtime tonight... 
#829
Completed Game Announcements / Re: Flophouse Hijinks - OROW - Super Swanky Edition
Wed 14/10/2015 17:10:53Quote from: Shadow1000 on Mon 12/10/2015 16:57:56Thanksgiving? In October? What sort of un-American madness is this?!?
Happy Thanksgiving!
#830
The Rumpus Room / Re: *Guess the Movie Title*
Wed 14/10/2015 03:44:22
Herbie the Love Bug: Fury Road?
#831
Completed Game Announcements / Re: Flophouse Hijinks - OROW - Super Swanky Edition
Mon 12/10/2015 01:12:35
On behalf of Team Party Wagon, thanks for playing and glad you enjoyed our game.
#832
The Rumpus Room / Re: Happy Birthday Thread!
Sat 10/10/2015 23:16:42
Peder had a birthday? Happy belated wishes, Peder
#833
General Discussion / Re: Goodbye MAGS
Sat 10/10/2015 23:08:41
Thanks for all your hard work, Atelier. And good luck to Stupot+. Looking forward to the future MAGS+ competitions.
#834
Completed Game Announcements / Re: Flophouse Hijinks - OROW - Super Swanky Edition
Sat 10/10/2015 13:52:13Quote from: Stupot+ on Sat 10/10/2015 07:33:34Thanks! Glad you chose to live on the edge and open the package.
Haha. Brilliant intro. I look forward to playing this [hopefully debugged] edition.
Quote from: slasher on Sat 10/10/2015 07:38:30Once for each mouse button, plus one more as a bonus. You can never have too many clicks!
Database..
-Two-click interface text appears three times
#835
Completed Game Announcements / Flophouse Hijinks - OROW - Super Swanky Edition
Sat 10/10/2015 04:49:09
So there you were, just sitting at your favorite sidewalk cafe, sipping an espresso from a mug of the finest, bluest china. Then suddenly there was the screech of tires, the blare of a horn, a flash of chrome, a glimpse of tacky wood paneling! Mag wheels! Brown paint turtle waxed to a high shine! So many tinted windows! Fuzzy dice hanging from a rear view mirror! A "shit happens" bumper sticker! Espresso squirted from your nose! Finest, bluest china shattered on the concrete! Your chair tipped over! You found yourself on your back, looking up at the sun! There was the unmistakable smell of unleaded gasoline and the aroma of undeserved smugness in the air... and a faint whiff of cow flatulence.
Laying next to you on the sidewalk is a small package, wrapped in brightly colored paper with a big, gaudy bow. A tag taped clumsily to the package bears your name in a childish scrawl drawn with the thick swipes of a purple magic marker.
Do you open the package?
NO:
YES:
That's it! Live on the edge!
Your reward for risking it all and walking on the wild side? The deluxiest version of an OROW game ever, of course
FLOPHOUSE HIJINKS - SUPER SWANKY EDITION
Brought to you by ¡MiteWiseacreLives!, ¿Kconan?, and ©Ponch®
This game somehow won OROW (I can only assume massive voter fraud was involved) and is now available in abloated spiffy extended version that is totally worth your time to download and play again! I promise!
This version includes:
• More (too much?) dialog!
• More animations!
•Full voice acting!
• Blistering guitar solos!
•Gratuitous nudity!
• Fewer bugs and crashes than ever before!
• Cutting edge Left/Right click interface! Taste the future!
•Hours of fun game play!
• Winner of "Best Game" - One Room One Week 2015 (Thanks for taking the bribe,Bulba mysterious benefactor! )
• Made in Canada!
Don't delay! Download your copy now! and experience the escapist fun of worrying about money and trying to keep a roof over your head. It's a great way to distract yourself from your real life problems!
Thanks again to everyone who voted for us!
Laying next to you on the sidewalk is a small package, wrapped in brightly colored paper with a big, gaudy bow. A tag taped clumsily to the package bears your name in a childish scrawl drawn with the thick swipes of a purple magic marker.
Do you open the package?
NO:
Spoiler
A safe decision. Risk taking is for reckless fools, the sort of people who live exciting lives filled with thrills, danger, and many attractive sexual partners. Wisely you have avoided all of that by choosing to go back to your apartment and never leave it again. You are sure to live a long, boring life surrounded by cats and houseplants. Well done, friend. Well done.
[close]
YES:
Spoiler
That's it! Live on the edge!
Your reward for risking it all and walking on the wild side? The deluxiest version of an OROW game ever, of course
FLOPHOUSE HIJINKS - SUPER SWANKY EDITION
Brought to you by ¡MiteWiseacreLives!, ¿Kconan?, and ©Ponch®
This game somehow won OROW (I can only assume massive voter fraud was involved) and is now available in a
This version includes:
• More (too much?) dialog!
• More animations!
•
• Blistering guitar solos!
•
• Fewer bugs and crashes than ever before!
• Cutting edge Left/Right click interface! Taste the future!
•
• Winner of "Best Game" - One Room One Week 2015 (Thanks for taking the bribe,
)• Made in Canada!
Don't delay! Download your copy now! and experience the escapist fun of worrying about money and trying to keep a roof over your head. It's a great way to distract yourself from your real life problems!
Thanks again to everyone who voted for us!
[close]
#836
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - CARPENTARIAN
Sat 10/10/2015 01:43:20
I love John Carpenter. His movies take up most of a shelf in my DVD collection (physical media forevar!!!)
Very tempted by this theme...
Very tempted by this theme...
#837
The Rumpus Room / Re: *Guess the Movie Title*
Thu 08/10/2015 21:21:23
Leviathan? Deep Star Six? Blade Swimmer?
#839
Competitions & Activities / Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - ARCHER (Voting)
Wed 07/10/2015 03:03:52
Character: SilverSpook
Plot: Ibispi
Atmosphere: Ibispi (I'm a sucker for a love story! )
Background World: Baron
Word Choice/Style: Silverspook (I've never seen "rubbernecked" used like that before. It made me smile)
Good entries this month. Well done, everybody!
Plot: Ibispi
Atmosphere: Ibispi (I'm a sucker for a love story!
)Background World: Baron
Word Choice/Style: Silverspook (I've never seen "rubbernecked" used like that before. It made me smile)
Good entries this month. Well done, everybody!
#840
Adventure Related Talk & Chat / Re: BlueCupTools Podcats! Grundislav & ThreeOhFour! Episode 80!
Sat 03/10/2015 18:47:07
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