5/5/2011

11/17/2025 8:59 AM

24543

11

3 wins / 13 losses

Lauded Sage Exemplar

Behold my profile.
There's, uh, nothing here right now. Someday I should probably find a balance between the old text wall, and...this. (she drew my avatar you know!)

>DEVOTION

A Stack of Cats

You are a man on a mission. The cats, they must be stacked.

A puzzling math and logic game I made just to put some of the scripting practice I've been doing to use. Have fun and please let me know if you encounter any bugs.

Should be solvable by middle schoolers, or those with same basic level of intelligence as a middle schooler.

Agent of Order

Orbiting a barren planetoid in a system full of nothing just past the edge of the frontier, The Last Outpost is just another refueling station. Strategically important, true, but on a routine stop you never expected to spend longer than a couple hours there, let alone a couple of days fighting for your life...

There are five epilogues, but some may be difficult to discover. Note that actions have consequences, but not always immediate ones. (And if you just need an End Game link, go play around with the probe.)

Facts About the Planet and the Solar System

A compilation of some little known facts about the solar system, as well as the debunking of a few myths.

In addition to the scientific explanations, there's a small story dramatizing it all.

Hopefully young readers will find this fun as well as educational. :)

(Might not be the greatest story ever written, but consider this: it got me 200 points.)

Inseparable

It doesn't matter what they say...

Jack the Bean Counter

KOBOLD KEBABS

For Endmaster's 4th Prompt Contest. The story must involve a cooking competition.

Love is for the Birds

...and the squirrels. Sort of.



Written in six hours, for no other reason than to avoid consignment to the SHAME pit after my other Romance contest entry didn't want to cooperate.

Now You Gotta Deal With This S***

A tale told in verse. A text from your sister requesting a pick up from a party leads to a night of strangeness.

Inspired by Bucky's ballad contest. Though...I wouldn't call this a ballad. I'm not sure what I'd call it, actually, other than exceedingly stupid, and fun to write.

(Don't pay any attention to the scores, they're just for me to track which endings reviewers get.)

Read My Stories or Die!

HATE.

THE PURITY AND INTENSITY OF MY HATE IS LIKE A THOUSAND MERCILESS, UNQUENCHABLE SUNS.

AND YET, I ONLY NEED ONE...


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silver Horn, Silver Hooves

When the weather is fine, you've been coming to this grove to drink from the pool for centuries now. Today, you meet a stranger and hear a story that changes all that...



A fairy tale adventure.

Another Damn Wolf Story

unpublished

Character Creator

unpublished

A list of storygames with substantial effort put in, all written in the last couple of years and sorely in need of ratings and reviews.

A modernized guide to the forums. The path to internet popularity and happiness, and a few CYS specific do's and don'ts.

I believe Mystic already won the first round with Asuna.

A children's book about wizards is far too advanced for him. But anyhow, he's been srnt (or Sent) on his way again. He might be an okay noob in another 4-5 years if he can just stop pissing in the well.

Unanimous vote in the Discord anyway. Harper, wait until you're 12 or 13 and try again. Right now you're only stacking your legacy with some pretty cringe material you'll later regret. (Just ask Chris.) And if you start spamming again I may have to contact Mrs. Scott, thanks for providing her info btw.

You really thought this was a good idea?

I was just waiting for someone to point out you can type the date in.

I almost want to see how disastrous a Thunderdome duel would look, but there's no way to make that remotely fair or anonymous since there's no one else around that bad at formulating simple thoughts into English. I will say though, right now he annoys me less than Blister did. So that's something? I guess? As long as he doesn't get the thread diarrhea again. Everything else aside though I think he's just way too young to be in the site. Can't really fathom why he was being allowed unsupervised on the internet long enough to make that many accounts to begin with. (It was way more than 80.)

Bring your bricks and guillotines and vote here!

Story C: The streets were teeming with rats as they scurried to and fro across the lanes. From the nooks and crannies behind the fromageries, to the steaming hot and poorly ventilated annexes of the boulangeries situated alongside the Rue de Rivoli, they came frantically scampering, their claws scratching against the Parisian sidewalks, driving passerby helter skelter. As the rats began their exodus, sprinting across the road, cars swerved and people cursed. The serene order that hung in the air like a silky thread, barely maintained by the traffic lights and the patient commuters, who, in a matter of a few hours, would soon be replaced by stressed parents rushing their progeny to school, employees haplessly smashing their car horn as they gesticulate frantically, cursing everything from the forefathers of the driver of the car ahead of them, to the state of Parisian society, broke in the matter of a second. As if a spell hung in the air shattered, scattering thousands of shards of glass, so too did the rats send the streets of Paris into a veritable storm of madness and chaos. No one quite knew what exactly had caused the rats to act in such an odd and peculiar manner, but as the rats glanced back, although no one could possibly know what exactly was on these frightened rats’ minds, it was clear that something terrible was afoot. As the horde approached the crossroads of the Rue Saint-Honoré and Rue de Castiglione, demarcating the end of the cats’ territory, the speed of their flight seemed to relax imperceptibility, although they kept their sense of urgency as they continued to navigate the streets. Early morning commuters jumped, dropping their coffees, their morning routines disturbed by this animalian commotion, the rats weaved around the cars, buses, and motos, heading for the opening of a particularly unremarkable manhole, its cover shabbily and hastily placed over the hole, as though the Parisian sewage workers were working on a late night repair and miraculously forgot to close the grate for this particular manhole. A saving grace for our fleeing rats, for though this particular manhole may look unremarkable to the human eye, it actually leads to an extensive network of subterranean tunnels leading directly to where these rats need to go. Inside the tunnels, the crisp and cool morning air replaced by a dank fog that seems to permeate the very cobblestone walls and moss-covered gravel that comprise the underground itself, the rats stopped for a moment, raising their heads to eagerly sniff the air, searching for clues. As though they all collectively arrive at a decision, the rats unerringly made a sharp left, then right, then right, then north, then left, then left, then beneath the false ceiling, around the stalactite, left again, right, and finally up, skidding across the tiniest cropping of a rock that somewhat resembles a ramp when you think about it, to reach the entrance. The entrance to the catacombs of Paris, a yawning maw that seemed to loom over the rats, made them pause for a bit. As though they were on the verge of stepping off a cliff, like the human bungee jumper, who makes a leap of faith into the unknown, somehow blindingly trusting that the thin wiry cord would save them, so too did the rats hesitate, their whiskers trembling as the one in the lead tentatively extended a paw into the darkness. And as if he made up his mind, he suddenly jumped, headfirst into the darkness, and broke into a run, the rest of the herd soon following, all thoughts of terror swiftly abandoned by the immediate necessity of flight. The caverns were damp with moss and lichen, and the rats make their way hesitatingly, as they gaze upon the macabre imagery decorating the caverns. Miles upon miles of human skulls decorate the catacombs, embedded deep within the walls of the entombed tunnels, as though they had existed there since the dawn of time. Finally resting, the rats scattered, migrating in small groups to settle in different tunnels, resting after the mad dash. Petit Titou, a spotted young ratling, with whiskers that trembled whenever there was a high wind, he found a particularly appetizing block of gruyére cheese, or he was particularly unsettled, which happens more often than not, approached his mother, Lillian, who was busy clearing aside an alcove with particularly grisly neck bones for them to stay in. “Mama, why did we come here? It’s dark and damp, and I feel strange omens looming over me. I don’t like this place. It feels like the ghost of man haunts each inch of this place.” “As the prophet foretold, so it shall be, my son. We are the children of the dark, and we follow the one who sees the lights.” “What are the lights, Mama?” “They are… well, I can’t exactly describe them, but I assure you, they are very much real.” “Well, have you seen them before?” “No.” “Who is the one who sees the lights?” “Monsieur Boulangerie.” “Why?” “Nobody knows. But it perhaps has something to do with his strange countenance”. “What… what do you mean by that? I have never laid eyes on him yet?” “You’ll know him when you see him. He… isn’t exactly like the rest of us. And stop talking to yourself, the other rats already think you’re crazy enough as it is.” Petit Titou blinked. Before his eyes, the female rat with the spotted brown fur who looked like him vanished, as though his mother had only been a figment of his imagination this whole time. Strange. Most peculiar. Ever since their mad dash, Titou’s memories had been led astray. As he ran through the tunnels, he saw cavernous jaws hanging agape, the opening to the tunnel entrance a grinning skeletal mouth, its maxilla forming the ceiling, with stalactite-like teeth hanging from above, and mandibles forming the floor of the entrance. As if walking into the mouth of the corpse, Titou saw water that flowed sluggishly along in subterranean rivers, looking like saliva gushing from the mouth. And as the passed through to the maze, he swore he saw a strange epiglottis like structure, a hanging corpse of a man, with the bones slick with dripping calcium carbonate, hardening upon the bones to give a calcified appearance, of spikes jutting outward, forming demonic horns. His paws began to tremble and he felt sweat form upon his brow. Through the corner of his eye, he saw the bone take root, sprouting as if it were a plant, forming strange geometric fractals that seemed to expand and contract, humming with a strange resonance. Titou shuddered, snapping off the parasitic growth upon his brow with his right paw only to find that more bone nodules took its place. They jutted outward in jagged spikes, continuing to grow inexorably. He must find Monsieur Boulangerie without delay. He started forward, and rats who were previously chatting animatedly, discussing their recent flight, matters of foraging, the effect of the dreaded gas and other important subjects. But upon seeing him, and his strange crown, the rats parted the way, and Titou hurried on. He finally found what he was looking for in the upper east corner of their little collection of caverns. A bearded man sat meditating, hovering over a strange chalk drawing of a pentagram. The man seemed to be vibrating in and out of existence, his features alternatively shifting in and out of the light. But despite this strange shifting, the gentleman seemed to be perfectly at ease, casually eating a piece of bread as he stared at the drawing. Petit Titou could not possibly discern what it exactly was that he was looking at, but whatever it was seemed to please him greatly. He took a hearty bite out of his piece of bread. Petit Titou cautiously crept up to the strange man. “Monsieur Boulangerie?” The man turned. “Yes, who’s asking?” “It’s me, Petit Titou. I was told that you were the one who could see the lights. Is that true?” Monsieur Boulangerie shrugged. “Well, it depends on who’s asking”, he said, scratching his head as he did so. “I was told about you by a voice inside my head. Does that make me special?” Titou says, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice. He wasn’t sure exactly why he was confessing this to a total stranger, especially to a human who definitely did not belong in the catacombs, sitting perfectly calmly among a large band of rats. Then again, nothing on this day made much sense, so perhaps this was merely par for the course. As if he were merely waking up from a long nap, Monsieur Boulangerie descends to the floor with ease, his limbs folding outwards from the lotus position he was in, briefly distorting and extending as if they were rubber bands, only to land heartily on the floor, their dimensions rapidly returning to same measurements they were, as though Monsieur Boulangerie really was the flesh-and-blood man he seemed to be. He bends down, looming over Petit Titou. He seemed much larger up close. “As long as you believe it to be true, down to your dying breath.” “So what do I do now?” “What do the lights show you?” Petit Titou closes his eyes. As though they arose unbidden, from the depths of his subconsciousness, he saw visions of shadowy cat-like figures emerging from the shadows of their caverns. Their fangs dripped with blood, and he saw his friends screaming, frantically running just like they did this morning, only this time, they were grabbed by sharp claws, shaken viciously with a fury that seemed to come from the depths of hell. And as his friends gasped, the yellow fangs loomed over them, the last thing they would ever see before their spines were snapped, and the life slowly left their eyes. Petit Titou gasped. He opened his eyes, and knew what must be done. It seemed that the Lights moved in accordance to his desires, for as he waved his paws, gesticulating this way and that, shadows emanated from the tips of his claws. Like a wisp of fog emerging from the genie’s lamp, the smoke coalesced into ethereal feline forms, slowly solidifying into eyes that shone like fire, whiskers that seemed to vibrate even when there was no breeze, and strangely, horns of bone jutting out from their eyebrows at the exact same spot as Titou. The cats charged the crowd and pandemonium ensued. “Cats!!! Run for your lives!” The rats that sounded the alarm dashed towards the exits, only for the exits to shimmer and then disappear, reappearing a few feet away. Like Sisyphus on his doomed quest to roll the boulder up the hill, the hapless rats, chased by their phantom foes, ran on, desperately hoping for a reprieve, only for the cycle to repeat itself. And as the mound of rats began to writhe, scratching and clawing among each other, attempting to get far away from the maddening crowd, whiskers began to fly, as the rats scratched the very skin off their backs. Their claws gouged, and as the last rat gasped, bleeding from his eye socket with his claws embedded in the viscera of two other rats, Petit Titou laughed and laughed. With his final breath, he stared at the blinking lights and the shadow cats, which slowly flickered out of existence, carried away by the wind.