Oh yeah, because Falgwia is just a hotbed of radicalism in Northern Europe. It's so terrible in fact there was a recent assassination attempt on the two Muslim families who happen to live in Falgwia.The Count wrote:Or the "Falgwian United Taliban" and their theme issue "Brother Osama Remembered" (translated to Falgwian, of course).Eddy wrote:Perhaps I should make a sample front page for a newspaper issued by whatever left wing party Falgwia has. Maybe an issue of the Falgwian Social Democrat decrying American consumerism taking hold.
Creativity of the day
Re: Creativity of the day
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Nortaneous
- Sumerul
- Posts: 4544
- Joined: Mon Apr 13, 2009 1:52 am
- Location: the Imperial Corridor
Re: Creativity of the day
Oh god I've started drawing shit based on inane Facebook garbage
Siöö jandeng raiglin zåbei tandiüłåd;
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
Re: Creativity of the day
I wrote a short story!
-----------------------------
Scenes from a Waffle House at 1 a.m.
The wind roared over the vast, cool plains of North Dakota that night; the little desolate town of New Stockholm stood silent, its few inhabitants taking a rest from their little run-down lives in their little run-down houses on little run-down beds, save for one exception: the local Waffle House.
New Stockholm’s other restaurants, its seedy motel and even its general store had left with the prairie wind, but the Waffle House had not. The truckers came in off the interstate from Billings east to eat a greasy plate of scrambled eggs and bacon consisting more of fat than of meat, and they never left. The night shift was a constant fixture as well: two widows named Phyllis and Wendy who had nowhere else to seek employment and a teenage good-for-nothing by the name of Zachary whose meth habit required him to hold down some sort of a job until he could start his own lab. The greasy spoon's lightened beacon of squares spelling out WAFFLE HOUSE stood as a monument to the vast wastes around it, as inviting and visible as the Pharos and as impenetrable as the Pyramids, commanding the inhabitants of New Stockholm to look on their own works-- their general stores, their farms and their little houses, many of which had long since fallen into neglect--and despair. Nobody of any consequence wanted to live in New Stockholm; only the elderly, abandoned by progress, clung to its homesteads.
Nobody, that is, save for four people. On any given night at the New Stockholm Waffle House, beside truckers named Jimbo making passes at Phyllis and Zachary shooting up a portion of the personal stash he kept in the long-since decommissioned charity donations box, there also sat four people with typewriters at a table long since reserved for them, as it was most nights. They were an incongruous sight next to the caffeine-addled truck drivers: a man in his late teens in a beret, a turtleneck and jeans, another man of the same age in a wool cap and a pipe, a woman in her early twenties with short dark hair and sunglasses, and a fashionably dressed man in tight jeans about a decade older than the rest of them. The first three wrote various pieces and just barely managed to scrape by; the fourth too often chipped in to make their ends meet, since he had a steady job writing pornographic novels with titles like The Italian Billionaire's Pregnant Secretary for middle-aged upper-class women.
"Stephan," the man in the beret said to the man in the pipe, "did you ever get that article on rural poverty and collectivization for that underground Communist mag written?"
"I'm working on it now," he replied. "I have to actually go out into the town to do research on the people here to write it well, which I don't feel like doing..."
"Do you ever go out during the day?" interjected the woman.
"I crash at Carl's place during daylight hours, you know that," he said, pointing to their older companion. "Besides, I've got that novel I'm working on."
"Your magnum opus?" asked Carl.
"You betcha," he said, pulling out what appeared to be a 500-page manuscript. "This is Part One. You've never seen it, so I'll pass it around- though I think Millie's seen some preliminary drafts."
"I hated it."
"You might not now."
There was silence for about half an hour as the others leafed their way through it, marking it up in places, and generally having quizzical looks. At the end of it, Carl looked up.
"Stephan," he said quietly, "I write romance novels for a living- bad ones, but romance novels nonetheless- and I can tell you right now nobody will buy this, nobody will publish this, nobody will read this and it'll be fifteen hundred pages of your life that you'll never get back. It's as dry as War and Peace and about twice as long. I mean hell, man," -he pointed to a section he had marked out with pencil- "you spend seventy pages just on this guy's thoughts over the period of an hour. Joyce can pull it off, but you can't. This isn't even a tale of tragic love, it's a tale of tragic...tragic..." He stared at it for a minute. "This is a tale of tragic sexual repression or something. Look, crushes are fine, for emo kids who write poetry, but you can't make novels out of them..."
"More coffee, Wendy, keep it coming," shouted Stephan. "Rhys?"
"Carl's right. You're not fifteen anymore, Stephan. You need to make a living. Do what Carl does. Write stuff you can make money from, even if you're not that fond of it. I mean, pfft,"--at this he flipped through the manuscript, "you take-- hold on, what's this?"
He pulled out a piece of paper that was very sparsely marked up compared to the rest of the manuscript.
"'I dedicate this book to Millicent Alison Tylor, in whose presence I have spent night after coffee-fueled night writing this Proust-scale monument to limerance.' Well well, Stephan..."
"That-that wasn't supposed to be there! And in any case," he said, with a definitive tone of voice, as if this were the last word, "I was going to edit it to be more subtle."
Millie stared at him for a few seconds, and finally broke down in tears.
"I can't, Stephan."
"Millie..."
"I CAN'T, STEPHAN! I'M NOT INTERESTED, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU WRITE!" With that she stormed out of the Waffle House and got a hitchhike with a trucker. Stephan stood outside in the gale the rest of the night and went to sleep only when Carl took him back home at 5 am.
At 7 that night, when they got back to the House, they were greeted by Rhys, with the news that, having thought better of the matter, Millie had tried to get out of the truck and walk back to the Waffle House; a few hours in she was hit by a pickup on the interstate and that was the end of that.
Stephan looked at the floor for a few minutes lost in thought, then put a quarter in the jukebox, chose "Sweetheart like You", and walked over to where he'd put his manuscript and typewriter. He tore up the dedication page and started to type anew.
"I dedicate this book to Millicent Alison Tylor, in whose memory I have spent night after coffee-fueled night..."
-----------------------------
Scenes from a Waffle House at 1 a.m.
The wind roared over the vast, cool plains of North Dakota that night; the little desolate town of New Stockholm stood silent, its few inhabitants taking a rest from their little run-down lives in their little run-down houses on little run-down beds, save for one exception: the local Waffle House.
New Stockholm’s other restaurants, its seedy motel and even its general store had left with the prairie wind, but the Waffle House had not. The truckers came in off the interstate from Billings east to eat a greasy plate of scrambled eggs and bacon consisting more of fat than of meat, and they never left. The night shift was a constant fixture as well: two widows named Phyllis and Wendy who had nowhere else to seek employment and a teenage good-for-nothing by the name of Zachary whose meth habit required him to hold down some sort of a job until he could start his own lab. The greasy spoon's lightened beacon of squares spelling out WAFFLE HOUSE stood as a monument to the vast wastes around it, as inviting and visible as the Pharos and as impenetrable as the Pyramids, commanding the inhabitants of New Stockholm to look on their own works-- their general stores, their farms and their little houses, many of which had long since fallen into neglect--and despair. Nobody of any consequence wanted to live in New Stockholm; only the elderly, abandoned by progress, clung to its homesteads.
Nobody, that is, save for four people. On any given night at the New Stockholm Waffle House, beside truckers named Jimbo making passes at Phyllis and Zachary shooting up a portion of the personal stash he kept in the long-since decommissioned charity donations box, there also sat four people with typewriters at a table long since reserved for them, as it was most nights. They were an incongruous sight next to the caffeine-addled truck drivers: a man in his late teens in a beret, a turtleneck and jeans, another man of the same age in a wool cap and a pipe, a woman in her early twenties with short dark hair and sunglasses, and a fashionably dressed man in tight jeans about a decade older than the rest of them. The first three wrote various pieces and just barely managed to scrape by; the fourth too often chipped in to make their ends meet, since he had a steady job writing pornographic novels with titles like The Italian Billionaire's Pregnant Secretary for middle-aged upper-class women.
"Stephan," the man in the beret said to the man in the pipe, "did you ever get that article on rural poverty and collectivization for that underground Communist mag written?"
"I'm working on it now," he replied. "I have to actually go out into the town to do research on the people here to write it well, which I don't feel like doing..."
"Do you ever go out during the day?" interjected the woman.
"I crash at Carl's place during daylight hours, you know that," he said, pointing to their older companion. "Besides, I've got that novel I'm working on."
"Your magnum opus?" asked Carl.
"You betcha," he said, pulling out what appeared to be a 500-page manuscript. "This is Part One. You've never seen it, so I'll pass it around- though I think Millie's seen some preliminary drafts."
"I hated it."
"You might not now."
There was silence for about half an hour as the others leafed their way through it, marking it up in places, and generally having quizzical looks. At the end of it, Carl looked up.
"Stephan," he said quietly, "I write romance novels for a living- bad ones, but romance novels nonetheless- and I can tell you right now nobody will buy this, nobody will publish this, nobody will read this and it'll be fifteen hundred pages of your life that you'll never get back. It's as dry as War and Peace and about twice as long. I mean hell, man," -he pointed to a section he had marked out with pencil- "you spend seventy pages just on this guy's thoughts over the period of an hour. Joyce can pull it off, but you can't. This isn't even a tale of tragic love, it's a tale of tragic...tragic..." He stared at it for a minute. "This is a tale of tragic sexual repression or something. Look, crushes are fine, for emo kids who write poetry, but you can't make novels out of them..."
"More coffee, Wendy, keep it coming," shouted Stephan. "Rhys?"
"Carl's right. You're not fifteen anymore, Stephan. You need to make a living. Do what Carl does. Write stuff you can make money from, even if you're not that fond of it. I mean, pfft,"--at this he flipped through the manuscript, "you take-- hold on, what's this?"
He pulled out a piece of paper that was very sparsely marked up compared to the rest of the manuscript.
"'I dedicate this book to Millicent Alison Tylor, in whose presence I have spent night after coffee-fueled night writing this Proust-scale monument to limerance.' Well well, Stephan..."
"That-that wasn't supposed to be there! And in any case," he said, with a definitive tone of voice, as if this were the last word, "I was going to edit it to be more subtle."
Millie stared at him for a few seconds, and finally broke down in tears.
"I can't, Stephan."
"Millie..."
"I CAN'T, STEPHAN! I'M NOT INTERESTED, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU WRITE!" With that she stormed out of the Waffle House and got a hitchhike with a trucker. Stephan stood outside in the gale the rest of the night and went to sleep only when Carl took him back home at 5 am.
At 7 that night, when they got back to the House, they were greeted by Rhys, with the news that, having thought better of the matter, Millie had tried to get out of the truck and walk back to the Waffle House; a few hours in she was hit by a pickup on the interstate and that was the end of that.
Stephan looked at the floor for a few minutes lost in thought, then put a quarter in the jukebox, chose "Sweetheart like You", and walked over to where he'd put his manuscript and typewriter. He tore up the dedication page and started to type anew.
"I dedicate this book to Millicent Alison Tylor, in whose memory I have spent night after coffee-fueled night..."
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Radius Solis
- Smeric
- Posts: 1248
- Joined: Tue Mar 30, 2004 5:40 pm
- Location: Si'ahl
- Contact:
Re: Creativity of the day
Posts that don't belong here extirpated.
Please stop making stupid busywork for mods by replying to that kind of bait, people.
Please stop making stupid busywork for mods by replying to that kind of bait, people.
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TomHChappell
- Avisaru
- Posts: 807
- Joined: Wed Dec 28, 2005 2:58 pm
Salmoneus thinks this is vindictively offensive.
.
Last edited by TomHChappell on Fri Aug 12, 2011 12:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Creativity of the day
Not true; material on the internet is protected by copyright.TomHChappell wrote:I really liked that. I think it's good. You could have gotten it published if you hadn't posted it here first.dhokarena56 wrote:I wrote a short story!
-----------------------------
Scenes from a Waffle House at 1 a.m.
The wind roared over the vast, cool plains of North Dakota that night; the little desolate town of
....
I have spent night after coffee-fueled night..."
Re: Creativity of the day
you have, however, published it by putting it on here. publishers do not generally like to publish already-published material because they already have enough not-already-published material to consider published.dhokarena56 wrote:Not true; material on the internet is protected by copyright.
also, he is pandering to you.
Re: Creativity of the day
just delete it, your editor doesn't have to know.
... waits till poster becomes famous author
... writes blackmail letters
... ???
... profit !!!
... waits till poster becomes famous author
... writes blackmail letters
... ???
... profit !!!
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TomHChappell
- Avisaru
- Posts: 807
- Joined: Wed Dec 28, 2005 2:58 pm
Salmoneus thinks this is vindictively offensive.
.
Last edited by TomHChappell on Fri Aug 12, 2011 12:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Creativity of the day
Shara is at it again. All Xhaimeran translations by yours truly.
http://www.sharacreations.com/skulls-bones-2787609
http://www.sharacreations.com/skulls-bones-2787609
"Khal malenol akher venkhasa!"
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vampireshark
- Avisaru
- Posts: 738
- Joined: Thu Dec 04, 2008 7:02 pm
- Location: Luxembourg
- Contact:
Re: Creativity of the day
- Ilian Ballot.png (51.92 KiB) Viewed 3824 times
- Ilian IJD1000 Stamp.jpg (35.48 KiB) Viewed 3824 times
What do you see in the night?
In search ofvictims subjects to appear on banknotes. Inquire within.
In search of
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Aurora Rossa
- Smeric
- Posts: 1138
- Joined: Mon Aug 11, 2003 11:46 am
- Location: The vendée of America
- Contact:
Re: Creativity of the day
The first is a ballot and the second is a stamp. Unfortunately the file names give them away.vampireshark wrote:Guess the purposes of these.
"There was a particular car I soon came to think of as distinctly St. Louis-ish: a gigantic white S.U.V. with a W. bumper sticker on it for George W. Bush."
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vampireshark
- Avisaru
- Posts: 738
- Joined: Thu Dec 04, 2008 7:02 pm
- Location: Luxembourg
- Contact:
Re: Creativity of the day
There are more specific purposes of those than that which you have stated.Eddy wrote:The first is a ballot and the second is a stamp. Unfortunately the file names give them away.vampireshark wrote:Guess the purposes of these.
What do you see in the night?
In search ofvictims subjects to appear on banknotes. Inquire within.
In search of
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Nortaneous
- Sumerul
- Posts: 4544
- Joined: Mon Apr 13, 2009 1:52 am
- Location: the Imperial Corridor
Re: Creativity of the day
Arve and Kannow language icons for the CBB.
Siöö jandeng raiglin zåbei tandiüłåd;
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
Re: Creativity of the day
I have to say, those language icons really annoy me. Especially the sodding conlang flag.
But we don't have as many translation challenges on this board... wat do???
But we don't have as many translation challenges on this board... wat do???
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Nortaneous
- Sumerul
- Posts: 4544
- Joined: Mon Apr 13, 2009 1:52 am
- Location: the Imperial Corridor
Re: Creativity of the day
Yeah, it took me a long time to realize that the conlang icon isn't supposed to be Jabba the Hutt.
Siöö jandeng raiglin zåbei tandiüłåd;
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
Re: Creativity of the day
If the icons were like, 50x50 squares instead of uselessly small circles, that would probably be a lot cooler. Oh well.
My creativity; I messed with a photo of a friend.
My creativity; I messed with a photo of a friend.
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Nortaneous
- Sumerul
- Posts: 4544
- Joined: Mon Apr 13, 2009 1:52 am
- Location: the Imperial Corridor
Re: Creativity of the day
Yeah. It doesn't help that four-pointed stars are used in most of my concountries' flags, and those are hard as hell to fit into 15x15 circles. The Kett icon turned out horribly and I'm not sure how to get it to look less shitty:Zoris wrote:If the icons were like, 50x50 squares instead of uselessly small circles, that would probably be a lot cooler. Oh well.
Siöö jandeng raiglin zåbei tandiüłåd;
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
nää džunnfin kukuch vklaivei sivei tåd.
Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei. Chei.
Re: Creativity of the day
Came up with a bunch of French names for a story I'm working on. They are the 11 siblings of Bernard Bardot and Annaliese von Hortenau.
1. Jean-Baptiste Bardot
2. Antoine-Fréderic Bardot
3. Jeanne-Louise Bardot
4. Jacques-Michel Bardot
5. Marie-Josèphe Bardot
6. Marguerite-Anne Bardot
7. Sophie-Élisabeth Bardot
8. François-Pierre Bardot
9. Jean-Noël Bardot
10. Rose-Catherine Bardot
11. Nicolas-Guillaume Bardot
1. Jean-Baptiste Bardot
2. Antoine-Fréderic Bardot
3. Jeanne-Louise Bardot
4. Jacques-Michel Bardot
5. Marie-Josèphe Bardot
6. Marguerite-Anne Bardot
7. Sophie-Élisabeth Bardot
8. François-Pierre Bardot
9. Jean-Noël Bardot
10. Rose-Catherine Bardot
11. Nicolas-Guillaume Bardot
Re: Creativity of the day
I finally got my T-Shirts designed. Buy this one of the Riemann Hypothesis or this Finnegans Wake-themed one. Since it's the first/last sentence, you can wear it either backwards or forwards.
Re: Creativity of the day
I don't like either, sorry. The first one yells GEEK the second is FAR too long. In fact even the first is FAR too long for a t-shirt.dhokarena56 wrote:I finally got my T-Shirts designed. Buy this one of the Riemann Hypothesis or this Finnegans Wake-themed one. Since it's the first/last sentence, you can wear it either backwards or forwards.
Re: Creativity of the day
are you doing that on purpose.Viktor77 wrote: the second is FAR too long. In fact even the first is FAR too long for a t-shirt.
Re: Creativity of the day
You can't usually reverse T-shirts, actually; normally they are designed to fit the body with such features as coming slightly further up the back of the neck than the front. You would find it uncomfortable to wear backwards.dhokarena56 wrote:I finally got my T-Shirts designed. Buy this one of the Riemann Hypothesis or this Finnegans Wake-themed one. Since it's the first/last sentence, you can wear it either backwards or forwards.
Re: Creativity of the day
That went right over your head.finlay wrote:You can't usually reverse T-shirts, actually; normally they are designed to fit the body with such features as coming slightly further up the back of the neck than the front. You would find it uncomfortable to wear backwards.dhokarena56 wrote:I finally got my T-Shirts designed. Buy this one of the Riemann Hypothesis or this Finnegans Wake-themed one. Since it's the first/last sentence, you can wear it either backwards or forwards.