My little experiment has grown and I'm quite happy with the success so far If you aren't watching the StyleOverSubstance account yet, do so! I opted not to put a poll on my page every day once I got more people playing.
The first round was largely proof of concept, and I tweaked the rules in accordance with what I learned. Basically, I put a cap on guesses and provide a list of writers from the start. As the moderator, I'll no longer comment on wrong answers - as someone who answers all comments, it kinda bugs me, but it can't be helped
Each round is going to be two weeks long, so this one will end on October 6th. Round two is already nearly full, though I have a few slots left! I'll be taking a two week break between rounds to distribute prizes and allow players time to write something; the next round will start on October 27th.
It's been a week. Lots of running around with Russ, getting him where he needs to be. I took him to the pumpkin patch, where he got to pet the animals, climb a mountain of hay, ride a train, play in the bouncehouse, hayride - everything but get a pumpkin
Climbing Hay Mountain
Inside the maze, which was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside.
Riding the train.
Feeding some goats.
I'd like to take him again when it gets cooler, and get him a pumpkin. It was a bit early to be carting one of those home.
Afterward, I took him to my parent's house - he stayed the night there, then they took him camping the next day.
The only way to eat a hot dog.
I stayed at my parents house to watch the dog, so I had a good break. Unfortunately, I couldn't enjoy it - I had a panic attack that morning, and it stuck with me all day and into the next. I was having trouble breathing that morning because this time of year kicks up my allergies; usually this isn't a thing that would bother me, but it triggered the attack this time. I realized today that I left my meds at their house, and I also had a fever.
But I went and got my pills anyway, and have felt better since taking one. Fever isn't gone, but I can tell it's lowered. I still haven't really felt like eating today; I made myself eat a piece of chicken and some macaroni, but was having to choke it down by the end.
When I'm not with Russ or too frustrated by my issues, I've been playing a lot of games. I finished Phoenix Wright vs Professor Layton not long ago. I'm currently in the middle of Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice, and already have Dual Destinies waiting for me when I'm done. I bought The Stanley Parable on Steam, and realized it wasn't the vertigo in Portal 2 that made me feel ill; I just can't stomach first person games. At least, not for very long.
Nichrysalis introduced me to Kentucky Route Zero, which looks interesting enough to be my next purchase, though I'm also considering Dear Esther. Arguments for either side are being heard. He also gave me Three Fourths Home a while back, which is a good story, but extremely minimal - almost the entire screen is white, and it kills my eyes. I've also tried to find some visual novels online, but that proved useless.
All these games and I still make up my own
Come play my game! Guess the author! Discover new writers! Win points, bookmarks, and the admiration of your peers!
Love Letter Contest
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Best Friend Contest
The Writer's Smile Project
To Love a HedgehogI
A hedgehog in the winter,
straw against the wind.
While the heart is warm
its feet are cold.
A hedgehog all alone,
his heart is full of love,
overflowing like sun with warmth,
in the blistering cold.
But to love a hedgehog
is a task for none.
As his love is felt
through the tips of spines.
One day a fox came by
underneath her failing fur
there was hidden heart of gold.
Warm and kind - despite the cold.
“Little hedgehog”, said the fox,
“you straw against the wind
why are you alone
in this uncaring cold?”
“Dear fox” replied our little friend
“My heart is warm
with dreams of love
I don't feel the cold.”
“But little one! What is love
without a friend?
My fur is scant and failing,
but it's warmer than the snow!”
“Go away... my love is pain
felt through the tips of spines
drawing blood; precious warmth
red against the silent snow.”
“But love is pain...
the pain we share together”
and thus they cuddled
Chain-writerI go through pens like
some people go through cigarettes,
holding each between two fingers
and wringing them for ink
until they're spent
and I'm back to Office Depot,
at the register with another pack.
Every time I un-cap a pen
and watch words billow from it
as I exhale all my migraines,
all I can think about is
how absolutely perfect this feels.
When you're a chain-writer
all you care about are those moments
between poems or stories or
whatever it is you write,
when there is nothing else on earth
but you and your 5-pack of pilots.
I can quit whenever I want to,
but I never want to quit.
ConnectionsI rifle through the vinyls, letting my touch linger on each one before moving on. They all feel cold and lifeless, inhuman and unfeeling. I can sense a faint call in the base of my brain, a plea for companionship. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, trying to pinpoint where it's coming from. My hand hovers over the bin to my right before I reach in, my movements cautious. My fingers glide against a cover, and this one feels different than the others. I pull it out, sliding the case off and turning the record in my hands. It's old, and I can see the lines where its previous owner placed the needle. Some parts are denser than others where the song was played hundreds of times.
The cashier looks at me strangely when I bring it to the front, no doubt wondering why I didn't get any of the vintage, mint condition, collectible records. She asks whether I want a bag and I decline, opting to carry the vinyl close to my heart as I walk home. The sky above is grey, and I can smell an oncoming
Becoming the ProtagonistI'm finding you in the margins of my notebooks,
doodled along the borders of my thoughts,
and the deja vu knocks the wind from my lungs.
Because I hate that you could organize my life
By the people I have fallen for.
I hate that I could write my autobiography in boy-chapters, boy-stages.
Researchers would have a field day looking through my notebooks and journals and notes,
Putting my memories into little boxes on a timelines.
I hate that there would be a different name on every box,
And I hate that you would be a chapter in my book.
It's not that I hate you.
I FAR from hate you.
But shouldn't the story of my life
be about me?
I don't want my life to be lived through others.
I don't want to be remembered by who I liked,
And what I did to impress others.
I want to remember what I did for me.
I will write my story not in boy-chapters,
But in lessons and failures.
With chapters entitled
"Honesty" "Lying" "Tears"
"Laughter" "Friendship" "Love"
I hate that I am so insecure
That I resort to
look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
Tapsi let roseflesh brush his dead forehead from my lips.
i kept my sickness at bay, let the alter girl pray
in her solemn face, stripper heels, unhidden hips,
fingering the sweet thickness of cinnamon incense.
"God is nigh."
there stood his quiet coffin, sugared with oregano from home,
sinking to sleep at the feet of the greediest stone he'll know.
and the trumpeter Tapped crescendos into a world of proudest crows,
low-tide irascibility, and the unmistakable tyranny in the slowly rising fall
of his lung, breathing
"day is done, gone the sun" like it lived beneath the breadth of his
carcinogenic sun. Beneath his stars and the sky, God is nigh.