Slip-N-Slide

cantripgames: Our new Story War prototypes came in today!...

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 19:27:31 -0500

Our new Story War prototypes came in today! They’re beautiful! (Story War is our upcoming card game where 3 to 8 players battle each other using their creative storytelling skills, read more about it here.)

Most of these prototypes are already earmarked as review copies or playtest copies, but we have a few extras that we can give away. I honestly never considered doing a giveaway until I saw them all sprawled out on my coffee table like gold doubloons. So here’s how you can get one:

Reblog this post and tell us in your caption who would win in a battle (set in the Graveyard) between the Goblin and the Manticore? And how would they win?

We’ll read all the reblogs in the notes and mail some prototype copies to the the people who wrote the most creative responses! We only have a handful of extra copies but we might end up giving out more than one if we get a bunch of great responses!

Also, our Kickstarter will be launching at the end of January, so you should follow us if you want to be kept in the loop about that!

PS: If you live in NYC, you can come play test Story War tomorrow!

- Brad

“Your propellors look stupid,” gruffed Manticore.

“At least my face isn’t coming out of a wee-beastie’s mouth,” snapped Goblin.

The pre-fight banter was always the best, thought Goblin. He knew his propellors were dumb, but did Manticore even know his face was lodged in a mouth? “Absurd,” he scoffed.

“Enough,” rumbled a loud, echoey voice. The graveyard had spoken.

Without further to-do Manticore whipped out his tail and snapped several shots in the direction of Goblin. Goblin’s propellors came to life and easily lifted him above Manticore’s fire.

“Bet my props don’t look so dumb now!” crowed Goblin.

He eased himself behind a gravestone, feeling pleased with his escape. Manticore roared.

Goblin’s weapon was ideal for close battle, while the Manticore did his best at a distance. The problem, of course, was how to get close to Manticore without finding himself in the line of the tail.

Directly behind his gravestone (his “hidingstone,” as it were) was a mausoleum. “Aye, that might do the trick,” Goblin chuckled to himself.

His plan was in place none too soon as Manticore threw several shots at his gravestone—the first one giving it a nasty crack, and the second one shattering it completely. Just as the second shot struck, Goblin rose, swinging a grappling hook above his head (he never travelled without his grappling hook—mostly because he thought he looked totally badass with it—he used it as a belt, mostly), and before the pieces of the gravestone had finished rising into the air, his grappling hook latched onto the upper most crevice of the mausoleum.

With a zip-zip his propellors kicked into life again, and he rose, wrapping the loose rope around his body to keep the rope as taut as possible.

“Come back here, you squid!” shouted Manticore, shooting several poorly-aimed shots into Goblin’s (very, very) general direction.

Goblin just chuckled, as he suddenly turned his propellors off and he was falling down to—wait, no! He was falling, yes, but in a specific arc determined by the rope he was on. He was flying right toward Manticore, his Punchy-Dunk-Drunk gun in his hand.

Just as Goblin skimmed over Manticore’s head, he aimed his gun and pulled the trigger.

“Sproing!” said the gun.

“Ugh,” said Manticore, slumping unconscious to the ground.

“Tee-hee-hee,” giggled Goblin.

“Winner is…” rumbled Graveyard—

Except, as Manticore slumped, his tail gun was triggered. (Later scientists would debate how and why it happened—running theory was that he had a manual trigger, perhaps a toenail, though no one could quite figure out which, or how.) The tail just so happened to be pointing right toward Goblin’s head.

It may be just as well that Goblin didn’t even realize he had lost until he was dead. No one wants to watch death in the form of unconscious Manticore shots zooming (in near-death slow-motion) toward your head. So Goblin was spared that.

“Ahem,” rumbled Graveyard. “Ahem. Winner is Manticore.”

I haven’t posted in ages. But, earlier this week I was at a writing workshop and figured...

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 13:02:21 -0500

I haven’t posted in ages. But, earlier this week I was at a writing workshop and figured I’d throw the results up here. The instructor had us write about a half-a-page about an insignificant event that happened within the past 24 hours. The sort of event we’d forget about:

Insignificant Event #1

I’m hungry. This isn’t odd, it’s lunchtime. I pull into the parking lot, worrying about how little money is in my pocket.

I climb out of my car and don’t hit the “lock” button, because I just don’t give a crap. The Subway is advertising their current $5 special in the window—Spicy Italian, perfect. The wait inside isn’t long and I tell the first employee, “Spicy Italian, on Italian.” She starts to make it.

“Toasted?” she asks.

“No thanks.”

And I get shuttled to the next employee. “Lettuce, black olives, pickles,” I say. And she does it. After she puts the pickles on I say, “Could you double the pickles? I like pickles.” She gives me a look and does it. And says, “Pickles are too bitter for me.”

I had no response to that.

____

We had about five minutes to write our half-page. So it’s no great work of literature or anything. But it’s something on paper. The instructor then had us read a short blurb from a novel. After we discussed some of the techniques that author used, the instructor told us to re-write the insignificant event, using those techniques. He told us to not look at our prior write-up of the event.

Insignificant event #2

Car door, closed. Feed move forward. one. Another. Hop on the curb. Window—try not to gawk. Sign in window, cheap subs. In the door, go to the first employee.

“Spicy Italian, on Italian.”

“Her hands pull out a bun. Knife flashes, cuts, and disappears. Meat. Cheese.

“Would you like it toasted?”

“No thanks.”

She turns her attention to the next guy. Employee #2, hair behind ear.

“Lettuce, black olives, and pickles, please.”

Her hands put the ingredients on the bun, here, there, everywhere, except:

“Could you double the pickles?”

She glares—and does it. Double helping on the sub and she says, “Pickles are too bitter for me.”

_______

The cycle repeats itself—the instructor gave us a new piece to read, and told us to once again mimic that style and retell our story without referencing back to either of the other narrations of our event.

Insignificant event #3

The path is simple: out the car door, over the pavement, up a curb, past the wnidowed facade, in through metal doors that require being pulled, up to a counter and down, all while considering questions like; “What kind of sub can I get you?”, and “Would you like that toasted?”, and “What do you want on that?”.

And I watch as they respond to my answers, hands moving across the ingredients, peeling lunch meat and cheese apart, placing them delicately on the bun. I watch pickles being applied, and olives scattered, and lettuce fluffed.

Her hands gloved, her eyes focused, her lips frowning—though I don’t think she was sad.

________

The final style we had to put our even through was a form of poetry. This time we were told to look back at our prior efforts and salvage lines/ideas/whatever from them.

Insignificant event #4

She was sad

Knife flashes

Cuts

I’m hungry

Pickles are too bitter

For her

Peeling lunch meat

She gives me a look

Disppears

Hands gloved

Perfect

Cheap

Try not

To gawk

________

Not impressive writing, I know, but as an exercise it is interesting to see how different styles filter out some information while highlighting other bits of information. It’s something to consider while muddling around with writer’s block.

Being a self-centered bastard, I don't ususally pimp other things on here, but...

Wed, 19 Sep 2012 14:17:04 -0400

Today’s xkcd comic.

In one fell swoop, xkcd won the internet.

Click and Drag

The heck?

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 18:08:30 -0400

I just refreshed my dash, and all of a sudden Tumblr is different.

Random thought.

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 09:43:00 -0400

Every time I click the “Like” button on Tumblr and the number flicks from “42” to “43” I feel like I’ve committed a crime.

A haunting of slender nightmares inwhere windows. (Taken with...

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 20:40:06 -0400

A haunting of slender nightmares inwhere windows. (Taken with Instagram)

The upstep is always hard to chew. (Taken with Instagram)

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 19:43:52 -0400

The upstep is always hard to chew. (Taken with Instagram)

reblorg: Take this transparent png, use it to create something in your favorite image editor, then...

Tue, 14 Aug 2012 09:33:00 -0400

reblorg:

Take this transparent png, use it to create something in your favorite image editor, then upload it as a photo reply here. Creators of our five favorites by noon Tuesday will receive a prize pack of Tumblr goodies.

If you post your creation, be sure to tag it #reblorg.

The Waltz of Everyday

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 15:58:00 -0400

This is a short sketch I wrote after reading John Green and David Levithan’s Will Grayson, Will Grayson, which has one of the better fictional portrayals of depression that I’ve read.

Ricky stand in front of the mirror. The strange image stares back. Feelings of self-loathing and a desperate mind-clogging sense of hate floods his mind, causing his inner-dialogue to spazz out, delivering a bevy of indictments:

“You’re Worthless.”

“You’re a Failure.”

“How could Anyone love you?”

“You’re such a Waste of oxygen.”

He sits down on the edge of the bathtub and squeezes his eyes shut. There is a prescription out there that would help temper the voices, help him to feel normal. But he can’t afford the pills. He won’t even be able to buy food for the next few days and will be living on Icy-Pops and canned fruit salad. No, pills are out of the question.

Inhaling deep he recites the words his counselor taught him: “I am good. People like me. I get good grades. People value me.”

“Yeah right,” says his cynical inner voice.

He kind of agrees, but he’s got to admit that consciously talking himself up—even just a bit—allows the self-loathing to subside just enough that he can stuff it back into the realm of subconscious. With a deep breath he stands.

This is Ricky’s morning. It’s also sometimes his lunch. It’s often his evening. His pre-bed ritual.

It keeps him looking normal on the outside. Sometimes he can even fool himself into thinking he is normal. It has kept him from considering suicide for at least three weeks. It has kept him from searching for the least painful methods of dying on the internet for at least two months.

It’s allowed him to think he can ask a girl out. Maybe he can meet a girl and then ask her out. But Ricky don’t meet girls anymore. Every female he works with is at least twice his age. Everyone at church either married really young, or is thrice his age, or is in the middle of thinking that God wants them to focus on Him, or they frown a lot. He is not attracted to frowning.

How do the poor saps like Ricky who make it out of college single find people their age to meet? He guesses the internet, but he don’t have internet at his apartment. Food is more important, and even then the bank account is dry.

His ten-year high school reunion is coming up. This will probably be his chance to interact with females all summer. Maybe Ricky will encounter an old crush. They’ll have a couple of drinks and go off to a dark corner to catch up on the last ten years. And she will give him her phone number and he will have a debate when he gets home on how long he should wait to call her, because everyone says to wait three days so you don’t look desperate—and you don’t want to wait too long or you’ll seem uninterested—but what he’ll do is say, “Fuck games” and just call her the next day, damn it.

At least that’s how he hopes it happens, because who knows if there will be a fifteen year reunion to re-meet girls. He’ll find himself up shit-creek without an outhouse to piss in.

They make it sound so easy in the books and movies. It can’t be that simple. Girls just don’t press up against guys so they can gaze into their eyes and they’ll realize he’s in love and she’s in love and they’ll just fall in love forever, happily ever after—! That’s pretty much how it happens in the books and movies. Ricky has studied how it happens in fiction and it’s pretty much impossible in real life.

Which has him wondering how on earth normal people fall in love in real life and there must be something innate within them that knows what to do and what to say when. Ricky lacks this. Somewhere along the line he knows he fucked up and God said, “Your punishment is foreveralone.”

And then He forgot about him.

And now he’s doomed to foreveralone in a society which celebrates love and sex and people walking down the street holding foreverhands while he sits on the bus with his leg propped on the seat in front of him listening to whatevermusic on his headphones and wonder whatthefuck happened to his life.

When did he break? And when did that break result in making every waking moment feel like he is living in shitstorm?

Something, somewhere went seriously wrong. So wrong that even friends have him pegged as foreveralone and never say things like, “I met this girl I think would be perfect for you,” or “I have this cousin who wants me to set her up on a blind date and I thought of you.”

And he refuses to ask. It’s not entirely pride which holds him back from reminding his friends that he’s on the market—though there is a touch of that. But it’s more that he hate the idea of making them feel obligated.

Oh God! Ricky caresses his temples as pain shoots through his eyes. “I am a good person. People like me. My parents still love me.”

“Yeah right.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“My family loves me. I get along with most people. I am funny. I play guitar. Jesus loves me, this I know.”

“Yeah right.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Crossing his fingers.

And hoping to die.

-By Jacob Gehman

A continuation of assholery

Sat, 28 Jul 2012 13:15:00 -0400

Monads scratch at Lebanese thinkcrocks.
Signifying with significance unparalleled
by the signs of the lusty Queen that princes
observe unseen, every thought a Peter Pan fantasy.

Shocked by a modicum of royal elegance—
dresses swishing and top-caps tipping,
a farce of pithy facades presenting the expected.
The dragons in the basement ignored, but never forgot.

-By Jacob Gehman

Commemorating my return from the dead with a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, and shitty poem.

Sat, 28 Jul 2012 12:49:00 -0400

Rickety bedspreads usurp Panama’s cagey claptrap,
fountains flipping pancakes and gusts—
over and under, precipitation of the blusts.

Blanket residue lingers on eyedew liddrops,
classass wonderment at the descriptor’s tainted affair—
a parched perthink of blatant curmudgeonly.

Padded barcell, perchance future foretell, listless godspell,
Little, miniature examples of accented blights—
Manouverment beside tire-flattened bodice of venison.

-By Jacob Gehman

Well, that didn't last long...

Sat, 19 May 2012 22:25:48 -0400

I was really enjoying the whole “instagram” thing, but horror of horrors, my iDevice has disappeared without a trace, so I am now without an Instragraming photo-capable dohickey.

Life.

(Cue withering sigh.)

Maurice Sendak

Tue, 08 May 2012 21:17:36 -0400

I don’t think it is too horribly out of line to say that Maurice Sendak had a fairly big influence on my childhood. I suppose most people cite Where The Wild Things Are—and rightly so. But what I consumed perhaps most frequently and connected with most intimately were the Little Bear books.

Written by Else Holmelund Minarik, Sendak was merely the illustrator. “Merely”. HA—!

This image, perhaps more than any other, is iconic of my childhood. It’s a simple drawing of simple characters, at least compared to the explosion of grotesquery and awesomeness of the monsters from Where The Wild Things Are, but Little Bear is infused with such a magnificent personality.

Look at how Little Bear is posed, with his hat, the way his left foot is tipped—just so!, the way he’s gazing up at his mother with that little wave.

It is a great series of books, one which I still recommend people read—even if it is just aloud to their kids before bed.

Rest in Peace, Maurice.

That moment when the world stops. (Taken with instagram)

Tue, 08 May 2012 21:02:00 -0400

That moment when the world stops. (Taken with instagram)

Ghostly spiders know the quickest way to terror.

Tue, 08 May 2012 20:37:00 -0400

Ghostly spiders know the quickest way to terror.

City life anxiety overwhelms the stoutest of soul. (Taken with...

Mon, 07 May 2012 22:41:52 -0400

City life anxiety overwhelms the stoutest of soul. (Taken with instagram)

It’s not so much the mirror as the mistakes.

Mon, 07 May 2012 20:44:00 -0400

It’s not so much the mirror as the mistakes.

Celestial bodies threaten boxial gestation.

Sat, 05 May 2012 21:14:09 -0400

Celestial bodies threaten boxial gestation.

Shaking minds building shaking hands. (Taken with instagram)

Sat, 05 May 2012 21:01:20 -0400

Shaking minds building shaking hands. (Taken with instagram)

Flies renounce the heave. (Taken with instagram)

Sat, 05 May 2012 15:37:07 -0400

Flies renounce the heave. (Taken with instagram)