JeffreyJabs, The Reader
I'm working on a horror sci-fi adventure storygame right now, but it is a very longterm project, so don't get too hyped just yet.
If you need any help with any of your writing, just let me know through message and I'll see what I can do. Just don't ask about how to use advanced editor options.
If you need something to read, try Edgar Allen Poe's Masque of the Red Death, Stephen King's Dark Tower series, A Clockwork Orange, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or any of Lovecraft's short stories.
Don't forget to stay active - it'll keep you out of the really dark places most of the time.
Recent PostsDirty Bay (The Whiteboard) on 9/3/2017 1:48:17 PM
The island does exist, but it's ridiculously small, so it's only used for induction ceremonies, marooning, and other such formalities. The real Special Intelligence Headquarters are definitely on mainland Dirty Bay, so yes, it's mostly a clever little lie.
As another note, 'Gold Devil' is the founder of Dirty Bay. He is blessed by Frog, the predominant local deity, and rumors circulate that the Devil wanders the streets and taverns of Dirty Bay under an anonymous identity. M'adam, the founder of Freinham, is most definitely dead by unknown causes.
Dirty Bay (The Whiteboard) on 9/3/2017 12:08:15 PM
Dirty Bay is stretched out like a leer and appears to be eating a smaller, circular island next to it known as Great Freinham, which contains a pompous, overly educated, and wimpy civilization nearly incapable of defending from the pirates. This is where hipsters go to take Sociology courses and whatnot. In the past, though, there have been great battles between the two islands, and perhaps a new ruthless military commander will arise to pump some life back into Freinham's great fleet. The current leadership of Great Freinham includes their wimpy military general, Arnold "Bullfrog" Tonsils, the chancellor, and Whiny Gregory.
Dirty Bay (Collaborative Content) on 9/3/2017 11:59:38 AM
If one were to look at a map of the sea about these places, one would see an island shaped like a perfectly round circle with only a few tufts of greenish hair sticking out (fault of the artist, most likely, who was shot), and another island stretched out like a dirty leer or, perhaps, a banana, in such a way that the latter appears to be eating the most noble, perfectly formed and blessed island that is The Center of the Known Universe, known by the common folk as Great Freinham and by the pirates as Greasy Fat Hog.
Needless to say, the island that appears to be eating the most favored and blessed of all islands is that belonging to the Gold Devil himself. It is said that, in the beginning, Frog created M'adam and the Gold Devil. He showed to them the world he had created, and he told them that anything they wanted on this world they could have. Gold Devil, when he heard that there were no wenches to have yet, took the most vile and putrid of all the islands and named it "Dirty Bay." M'adam, as snooty and full of hot air as a chimney, claimed Great Freinham. And thus Frog grinned, for he knew that he had created something so devious and so awful that he could sadistically grin whenever one of the poor souls trapped in his world cried out to the heavens for Frog to save him from his horrible fate. Some ask if Frog actually exists, and one can find proof of his existence on a stone tablet nestled at the edge of the universe on an island full of enormous jumping and cannibalistic snakes with legs, but of course no one has ever visited that island.
Ever since then, the pirates of Dirty Bay have preyed on the innocent civilians of Freinham, and only now the greatest minds of the island gather to find a way to defeat the pirates once and for all.
"Gentlemen, I believe the answer is perfectly simple," said a grotesquely plump man standing in front of a blackboard before a crowd of bespectacled and highly anemic men with a long floppy ruler in his hand. "We shall debate these pirates to death, and because they have never partaken in the esteemed Sociology courses of this island, they will be momentarily baffled by our knowledge and thus forced to retreat back to their sinful hellholes and inns and other such unlit places of the earth."
"Arnold," whined another, "how do we know they won't grow angry at us for their own ignorance?"
"Why, we'll graciously throw a few of our chickens over to their ship so that they can vent their frustration on such weak and pliable objects of affection."
"Yes, but- but-"
"What is it, Gregory?" bellowed Arnold "Bullfrog" Tonsils.
"But Arnold, what if the chickens drown? Our sailors aren't quite good at this er... ‘throwing,’ I think they call it, due to all the statistical logistics handling courses we force down their throats."
"Well, they're going to have to; we don't have any other options."
"Aren't we supposed to be making up-"
"SILENCE!" yelled a stately man, dressed in a red coat with sparkling badges on his uniform, just entering the room. "It's clear that all this fiddling with "new ideas" and such will not save us. I propose that we continue our current code of conduct with pirates and immediately surrender all objects of value to the pirates in the hope that our goodness will eventually prevail and these savages will accept the higher callings of civilization."
"Pfft, what an idjut," said a man dressed in ragged clothing and sneering like a madman at every comment there uttered.
"What did you say?" growled the Bullfrog.
"Oh, nothin', Cap'n."
"Let me see your credentials," declared the military commander.
After a bit of a fuss, the anemic men pinned down the greasy savage and snatched a small piece of parchment tucked in one of his pockets.
"Says here he works at the 'Special Intelligence Collection Division of Strategic Wealth Reclaiming at Sea,' located on a small island between this one and Dirty Bay," hooted the messenger boy.
Everyone was immediately impressed at the man's professional experience. Obviously, the man's speech did not accurately reflect the depth of “special intelligence” hidden behind his lazy, drunken eyes.
"Well, if yer done insp-ect-in' this old fella, Rickety Rick would like to make an exit."
The men watched as a great man made his way for the exit, two soft pillow doors that swung open easily and slammed as the staggering man went through them.
The commander solemnly added, "Companions, I have only known two such noble men in all of my existence, and they both impressed on me the great strength of spirit and mind which I had never seen before in the most learned of men. They are attractive like magnets, and you will always immediately recognize them. The first was Townsend Rowe, who tragically died in a rowing accident last fall. I am disgraced by our treatment of this man."
The rest sat down quietly as a reed flute played off in the distance before being cut short by a brief round of gunfire and bloodthirsty yet joyful hollers echoing throughout the island.
"Marmalade, anyone?" piped the butler, who had only now entered the room and uncovered a bountiful platter of toast.
A Pungent Puzzle on 8/30/2017 6:55:33 PM
Personally, I think that either slapstick or sarcasm is the lowest form of comedy.
Will that be death by firing squad, cannon, injection, or assassination?
A Pungent Puzzle on 8/30/2017 3:19:20 AM
Nice! You got it!
A Pungent Puzzle on 8/30/2017 1:02:59 AM
Nope, that's not it. Good try, though. The answer should click. Also, for future reference, people should give their reason (like you did) so that I can tell they're not just guessing.
A Pungent Puzzle on 8/30/2017 12:52:52 AM
Inspired by the first chapter of The Dryad's Riddle (which, by the way, is awesome), I have decided to share a riddle I made up a while ago.
You are a detective working for a police agency in downtown Brooklyn. While you lounge in your office, putting off paperwork, a cop rushes up to you with a clothespin on his nose to tell you, after a few unsuccessful attempts and a handwritten note, that a naturally smelly criminal has smuggled 100 pounds of bratwurst and has now escaped the crime scene.
With the nose of a hound dog, you track the criminal through the streets of Brooklyn, past dumpsters with rotten fish carcasses spilling out, street vendors with sweaty shirt stains, and unclean bathrooms with graffiti on the walls. Finally, you find yourself in a strange, whitewashed room with the ventilation set up so that the remarkably rank stench you've been tracking flows equally from all directions.
Thus you cannot determine which of the 5 doors in front of you to open by merely using your nose. Each door has a wooden letter on it, one with an "M," one with an "N," one with an "O," one with a "P," and the last one with a "Q." If you open the wrong door, the criminal will know that you're there and run out through one of the other doors in the building. If you take too long, you might pass out.
Which door should you open to keep your job?
If you don't want to ruin the riddle for everyone visiting this thread, you should either answer the riddle through private message, black out your text like this so that the answer can be seen by selecting/highlighting the text, or content yourself with the knowledge that you have solved the riddle.
Writing Prompts: Tétartos on 8/22/2017 6:54:48 PM
Nah, this is decent.
I don't know if it's what you were going for, but I found it pretty hilarious at parts. The way he just casually leaves and tells his secretary to clean up is priceless. Also, where did you come up with the name Charon van Donk?
It's pretty funny that he quits his job over an entirely unscheduled appointment with some random guy who just waltzes in and starts making conversation about books while the psychologist continues to ask why he's there. The "patient" then courteously informs the psychologist of his own suicide. How has this guy survived for so long? His two personalities are completely hopeless!
Writing Prompts: Tétartos on 8/22/2017 1:17:19 AM
Alright, here you are. I probably wrote too much and bent the rules, but whatever. I'd like a number 9 criticism with a side of fries, please. 1, 2, 3, Action:
One finds comfort in the room of a therapist, but mine has become a private Hell.
At the time of the incident, it had been a gloomy eve following a shower that mildewed the curtains and left me sopping wet as I trudged into my warmly lit office. On the walls, I had pictures of ancient family homes and children eating ice cream. I had soothing textures that patients could grab onto in times of internal peril, clocks that did not tick, and windows of light, silky fabrics that let but sparse light into the room. On the floor was a large throw rug with a spiraling pattern.
Perhaps the only disturbing artifact was a painting of a wolf that I kept in such a position so that only I could see it unless my patient turned around. It was a large gray wolf, with hair sticking out of its back like hay from a bale and a tail that hung low to the mossy ground. It bared its teeth menacingly before skin that scrunched up around its beady red eyes.It was a reminder to me of the savagery hidden within any animal spirit with the will to survive, even when the clock behind the eyes does not function, does not tick to the time.
That evening I had a singular visitor, one of whom the local townsfolk said had turned into a madman who turned on himself and on others. I myself was a fond follower of Freud's practices of psychoanalysis, and I knew I could crack the code of this man's complex. I knew all about the man, who was a struggling fur trader in these parts, and whose father had served in the Civil War around half a century ago. His name was, as I recall -
"Excuse me?" I blurted, alarmed.
"Name's Roelf Higgins, pleased to meet you, sir."
"Oh, of course, of course. I was only a little startled, but - hold on - why did you not wait outside until sent for?"
Here, the young man sitting before me cringed to a deep violet color and bowed his head.
"Oh, sorry sir, most definitely, I did not mean to bother you. If you please, I will just take up my things now and leave, really, if I cause you so much trouble."
A nice enough man, I thought. I promptly waved away his apologies and offered him a cup of tea.
"Oh, thank you kindly. I shan't be so greedy, though. You have some things to tell me?"
"Yes, It's about the matter of your skinning off the top of someone's arm during the white seal fur auction yesterday afternoon."
A blank face stared back at me. "I'd better leave, sir. You've been gracious to me, but it seems there's been a mistake."
"And why would that be?"
"I never did such a thing," he replied, with the bluest and most innocent eyes I have yet seen on this Earth.
I quickly scribbled a few notes in my pad. Yes, memory repression is natural, but this is... well, so short term. I looked up again.
"Mr. Roelf, why exactly have you come to my office on this Wednesday evening?"
"Roelf, sir? Why, me name's ne'er been Roelf, silly name it is. Name's Filch Diggory.I been walkin' along here and I thought a to myself that Mr. Jeremy might be wantin an addition to this fine rug 'ere," he announced, patting the floor with a veined hand.
"I got me some bear furs, mountain cat furs, deer furs, rabb-et furs, why, I even got some fine wolf furs. Just let me know, Mr. Jeremy, and I'll bring a cart right here, right'a to your own doorstep."
I looked at him again. It was the same face, sure, but something was different. Something had changed. I could see it in his lusting eyes, a hungry blue, steel around the rims and gleaming like a bar of gold.
"What do you say, pal? Wanna buy? Wanna buy? C'mon, I got a family to feed."
"Mr. Diggory, if that is what you call yourself, quiet down. Yesterday, whether or not you will admit it, you viciously attacked a disgruntled auction participant. I am here to find out why.Now, I want you to tell me about your father. How would you describe your relationship with him?"
And here his face changed again. It shriveled up around the nose, picked up around the cheeks to stretch out a leering smile, and creased in the forehead.The eyes turned an amorphous, dull gray.
"Oh,fa-ther,"he sang in a lilting voice.
Something about this new form chilled my heart and stopped my blood from flowing for seconds. A disorder that changed the very nature of the man, left him with only seconds of solace as a self. Something had cleaved him, something had torn the rage from the greed, the greed from the placid innocence, the purity from -
"Father always wanted his way, didn't he? Wanted me to clean the horses, clean the rifles, sell the heirlooms. 'Hurry, Roelf. Hurry,' he would say. 'No one's got time for you, little brat. See these spots on the floor? And you haven't sold in a week? Intolerable. I ought to beat you.' "
Here he stood up and picked up the heavy oak chair casually and lunged forward. But he dropped it, and it splintered on the ground as I grimaced.
"No, don't do it, please, he's not father, he wouldn't understand," a pure voice reached out from tortured lungs.
He lurched to the other side of the room. "The eye, I can see, watching me, just like father always did, always disapproving, always seething."
Here I saw him looking down toward the rug, the beautiful spiral rug whose black center stared up at all in the room and saw even the primal rage hidden within my heart. Its black terror reverberated into the upper darkness of my abysmal room.
"Please, let's leave now, sir, you've been kind, you've been-"
"Selfish, isn't he? And naive. Thinks he can see inside us. Thinks he can understand the heart, billowing like a great stain on this earth, a cancerous-"
"Good man, you are, thanks for the tea, thank you kindly, just don't forget to send a letter soon," and he was about to leave the room daintily when he bellowed “Shut up!”, picked up a clock from the wall, smashed it on the ground, and began to rip at his own throat with the jagged end of the wooden pendulum.
His eyes bugged out as the sliver pierced deeper into his pale, dainty skin. And a voice retched out from the cavern of his mouth.
"Furs for sale, kind gentleman. Furs for sale, cheap!"
Right before my eyes, two figures began to diverge from the one, just like when you squint your eyes and try to see double. There were two Roelfs, one digging the pendulum into the squealing one's throat, and the oppressor had changed again; he was snarling; he was a wolf; he was sinking his teeth into his own neck.
As I watched silently in horror, my mouth ajar, one was left bleeding on the floor while the wolf snarled at me.I snatched a loaded pistol from the very bottom drawer of my desk, and even as the wolf pounced at me a shot went off. Powder fell like perverse snow onto my now-stained rug, which had beheld all, witnessed all that had occurred. And now on the floor there was but one body lying, destitute and ripped to shreds.
A very sincere message to my fellow homo sapiens. on 8/16/2017 1:46:08 AM
Yeah, it's about this guy speaking to the church of euthanasia to outline some of his core beliefs. The picture is of some kind of alien that this guy supposedly listened to.
He first establishes his anti-humanism, meaning that he does not believe that humans are the only good species out there - stuff isn't good because we like it. We're also a cancer to other species and unto ourselves.
He then spouts a bunch of gibberish about perspectives, watches, and communism before finally clueing us in on his environmentalism. In conclusion, in order to save the Earth, more humans must die so that other humans can have plenty of trees, rivers, and fish. He blames efficiency for the state of the Earth.
Oh! And the way to solve "efficiency" (probably producing as much stuff as possible, using up Earth's resources) is by actually eating other humans, killing yourself, killing your children, and having unsafe sex.
My own note: these are solutions primarily to overpopulation (which is a myth), not industrial waste (efficiency).