★ | lazy coding  | don't post!

Discussion in 'THE TEST CHAMBERS' started by Lycanthus, Aug 18, 2016.





  1. { lazy code }

    not much to see here. i just dump pretty things i'm working on for later reference.
    if you use/edit something, please drop me a note on my profile.
    you don't need to credit me, but i just want a heads up so i don't go like "wtf someone stole my code"

    thanks!

    full width text
    patterns
    colorpicker
    color lovers
    coding hell
    placehold.it

    C O L O R S
    #c8ec21



     
    #1 Lycanthus, Aug 18, 2016
    Last edited: Aug 29, 2016




  2. { symbols }



    A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
    a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
    ① ② ③ ④ ⑤ ⑥ ⑦ ⑧ ⑨ ⑩ ⑪ ⑫ ⑬ ⑭ ⑮ ⑯ ⑰ ⑱ ⑲ ⑳
    ⑴ ⑵ ⑶ ⑷ ⑸ ⑹ ⑺ ⑻ ⑼ ⑽ ⑾ ⑿ ⒀ ⒁ ⒂ ⒃ ⒄ ⒅ ⒆ ⒇
    ⒈ ⒉ ⒊ ⒋ ⒌ ⒍ ⒎ ⒏ ⒐ ⒑ ⒒ ⒓ ⒔ ⒕ ⒖ ⒗ ⒘ ⒙ ⒚ ⒛
    → ↦ ⇉ ↪ ↳ ↱ ↬ ↠ ↣ ↝ ⇥ ⇝ ⇒ ⇢ ⇨ ➸ ☛ ☞
    ← ⇇ ↜ ↞ ↢ ↤ ↩ ↫ ↰ ↲ ↵ ⇤ ⇦ ⇐ ⇜ ⇠ ☚ ☜
    ↥ ↑ ⇈ ⇑⇡↟⇧ ☝ ↧ ↓ ↡ ↴ ⇊ ⇓ ⇣ ⇩ ☟ ↖ ⇖ ↸ ↗ ⇗ ✐
    ↘ ☈ ✎ ☇ ⇘ ⇙ ↙ ↶ ↷ ↻ ↺
    ⊰ ⊱ ⊀ ⊁ ⋞ ⋟ ⋘ ⋙❛❜❝❞【】〖〗►◄ ◢ ◣
    ◥ ◤ 「 」『』⊂ ⊃ ( ){ }[ ]< > "'`
    ╔══════════════╗ ╚══════════════╝
    ┏━━━━━━━━━┓ ┗━━━━━━━━━┛
    ▀ ▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ ▉ ▊ ▋ ▌ ▍ 〓 ███ ▌║ ░ ▒ ▓ ■ □ ☰ ☱ ☲ ☳ ☴ ☵ ☶ ☷
    ✱ ✲ ✳ ❃ ❂ ❁ ❀ ✿ ✾ ✽ ✼ ✻ ✺ ✹ ❅ ❆ ❇ ❈ ❉ ❊ ❋ ❖❄
    ☀ ☂ ☁ ✵ ✴ ❄☽☾ ☼ ☃ ☄ ☾ ☽ ❄ ☇ ☈ ⊙ ☉ ℃ ℉ ° ❅ ✺ ϟ
    ✸ ✷ ✶ ✩✫✬✭✮✯✰✪☆ ★ ⋆ ✢ ✣ ✤ ✥ ❋ ✦ ✧ ✩ ✪ ✫ ✬ ✭ ✮ ✯ ✰ ✡ ✱ ✲ ✳ ✴ ❂ ✵ ✶ ✷ ✸ ✹ ✺ ✻ ✼ ❄ ❅ ❆ ❇ ❈ ❉ ❊
    ✗✘✓ ✔ ☐ ☑ ☒ ✕ ✖ ⊕ ⊖ ⊗ ⊘ ⊙ ⊚ ⊛ ⊜ ⊝ ⊞ ⊟ ⊠ ⊡
    。 ゚ ✉ ✈ ❦ ❧☭ ♈ ☮ ☯☻ ☺ ◕ ☉ Θ ㊝ ⊙ ◎ ♋ ☡ ☢ ☣ ☤ ☥ ☦ ☧ ☨ ☩ ☪ ☫ ☬ ☭
    ♔ ♕ ♖ ♗ ♘ ♙ ♚ ♛ ♜ ♝ ♞ ♟ ۩ ۞❣ ♃ ♄ ♅ ♆ ♇ ♈ ♉ ♊ ♌ ♍ △ ▲ ◇ ◆ ■ □ ▽ ▼
    ♎ ♏ ✐✌ ๑ # @ & * ¥ ♈ ♉ ♊ ♋ ♌ ♍ ♎ ♏ ♐ ♑ ♒ ♓
    ✄ ✂ ✁☎ ☏ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭♀ ♂¢ £♨ ☢ ☠☮ ☯ ♋ ☣ ☤ ☥ ☦ ☧ ☨ ☩♥ ❥ ღ ♥♠ ♡ ♢ ♣ ♤ ♥ ♦
    Ⓐ ☭ ✯ ☪ ☫ ✡ ☮ ✌ † ☨ ✞ ✝ ☥ ☦ ☓ ☩ ☯ ☧ ☬ ☸ ✡ ♁ ✙ ♆ ♔ ♕ ♖ ♗ ♘ ♙ ♚ ♛ ♜ ♝ ♞ ♟
    ┄ ┅ ┆ ┇ ┈ ┉ ┊ ┋ ⋮ ⋯ ⋰ ⋱ ─ ━ │ ┃┌ ┐ ┍ ┑ ┎ ┒ ┏ ┓ └ ┘ ┕ ┙ ┖ ┚ ┗ ┛
    ┞ ┟ ┢ ┡ ┦ ┧ ┩ ┪ ┣ ┫┝ ┥┠ ┨├ ┤
    ┬ ┭ ┮ ┯ ┰ ┱ ┲ ┳ ┴ ┵ ┶ ┷ ┸ ┹ ┺ ┻ ┼ ┽ ┾ ┿ ╀ ╁ ╂ ╃ ╄ ╅ ╆ ╇ ╈ ╉ ╊ ╋ ╌ ╍ ╎ ╏
    ═ ║ ╒ ╓ ╔ ╕ ╖ ╗ ╘ ╙ ╚ ╛ ╜ ╝ ╞ ╟ ╠ ╡ ╢ ╣ ╤ ╥ ╦ ╧ ╨ ╩ ╪ ╫ ╬ ╭ ╮ ╯ ╰ ╱ ╲ ╳ ╴ ╵ ╶ ╷ ╸ ╹ ╺ ╻
    ≡ ≢ ≣ ≤ ≥ ≦ ≧ ≨ ≩ ≭ ≮ ≯ ≰ ≱ ≲ ≳ ≴ ≵ ≶ ≷ ≸ ≹ ≺ ≻ ≼ ≽ ≾ ≿
    ⊀ ⊁ ⊂ ⊃ ⊄ ⊅ ⊆ ⊇ ⊈ ⊉ ⊊ ⊋ ⊏ ⊐ ⊑ ⊒ ⊢ ⊣ ⊤ ⊥ ⊦ ⊧ ⊨ ⊩ ⊪ ⊫ ⊬ ⊭ ⊮ ⊯
    ⊰ ⊱ ⊲ ⊳ ⊴ ⊵ ⊶ ⊷ ⊸ ⊹ ⊺ ⊻ ⊼ ⊽ ⊾ ⊿ ⋀ ⋁ ⋂ ⋃ ⋄ ⋅ ⋆ ⋇ ⋈ ⋉ ⋊ ⋋ ⋌ ⋍
    ⋎ ⋏ ⋐ ⋑ ⋒ ⋓ ⋔ ⋖ ⋗ ⋚ ⋛ ⋜ ⋝ ⋞ ⋟ ⋠ ⋡ ⋢ ⋣ ⋤ ⋥ ⋦ ⋧ ⋨ ⋩ ⋪ ⋫ ⋬ ⋭
    Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ Ⅼ Ⅽ Ⅾ Ⅿ ⅰ ⅱ ⅲ ⅳ ⅴ ⅵ ⅶ ⅷ ⅸ ⅹ ⅺ ⅻ ⅼ ⅽ ⅾ ⅿ
    ▲ ▼ ◀ ▶ ◢ ◣ ◥ ◤ △ ▽ ◿ ◺ ◹ ◸ ▴ ▾ ◂ ▸ ▵ ▿ ◃ ▹ ◁ ▷ ◅ ▻ ◬ ⟁ ⧋ ⧊ ⊿ ∆ ∇ ◭ ◮ ⧩ ⧨ ⌔ ⟐ ◇ ◆ ◈ ⬖ ⬗ ⬘ ⬙ ⬠ ⬡ ⎔ ⋄ ◊ ⧫ ⬢ ⬣ ▰ ▪ ◼ ▮ ◾ ▗ ▖ ■ ∎ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ ▌ ▐ ▍ ▎ ▉ ▊ ▋ ❘ ❙ ❚ ▀ ▘ ▝ ▙ ▚ ▛ ▜ ▟ ▞ ░ ▒ ▓ ▂ ▁ ▬ ▔ ▫ ▯ ▭ ▱ ◽ □ ◻ ▢ ⊞ ⊡ ⊟ ⊠ ▣ ▤ ▥ ▦ ⬚ ▧ ▨ ▩ ⬓ ◧ ⬒ ◨ ◩ ◪ ⬔ ⬕ ❏ ❐ ❑ ❒ ⧈ ◰ ◱ ◳ ◲ ◫ ⧇ ⧅ ⧄ ⍁ ⍂ ⟡ ⧉ ○ ◌ ◍ ◎ ◯ ❍ ◉ ⦾ ⊙ ⦿ ⊜ ⊖ ⊘ ⊚ ⊛ ⊝ ● ⚫ ⦁ ◐ ◑ ◒ ◓ ◔ ◕ ⦶ ⦸ ◵ ◴ ◶ ◷ ⊕ ⊗ ⦇ ⦈ ⦉ ⦊ ❨ ❩ ⸨ ⸩ ◖ ◗ ❪ ❫ ❮ ❯ ❬ ❭ ❰ ❱ ⊏ ⊐ ⊑ ⊒◘ ◙ ◚ ◛ ◜ ◝ ◞ ◟ ◠ ◡ ⋒ ⋓ ⋐ ⋑ ⥰ ╰ ╮ ╭ ╯ ⌒ ⥿ ⥾ ⥽ ⥼ ⥊ ⥋ ⥌ ⥍ ⥎ ⥐ ⥑ ⥏ ╳ ✕ ⤫ ⤬ ╱ ╲ ⧸ ⧹ ⌓ ◦ ❖ ✖ ✚ ✜ ⧓ ⧗ ⧑ ⧒ ⧖ _ ⚊ ╴ ╼ ╾ ‐ ⁃ ‑ ‒ - – ⎯ — ― ╶ ╺ ╸ ─ ━ ┄ ┅ ┈ ┉ ╌ ╍ ═ ≣ ≡ ☰ ☱ ☲ ☳ ☴ ☵ ☶ ☷ ╵ ╷ ╹ ╻ │ ▕ ▏ ┃ ┆ ┇ ┊ ╎ ┋ ╿ ╽ ⌞ ⌟ ⌜ ⌝ ⌊ ⌋ ⌈ ⌉ ⌋ ┌ ┍ ┎ ┏ ┐ ┑ ┒ ┓ └ ┕ ┖ ┗ ┘ ┙ ┚ ┛
    ⟪ ⟫ ⦀ ⦁ ⦂ ⦃ ⦄ ⦅ ⦆ ⦇ ⦈ ⦉ ⦊ ⦋ ⦌ ⦍ ⦎ ⦏ ⦐ ⦑ ⦒ ⦓ ⦔ ⦕ ⦖ ⦗ ⦘ ⦙ ⦚ ⦛ ⦜ ⦝ ⦞ ⦟ ⦠ ⦡ ⦢ ⦣ ⦤ ⦥ ⦦ ⦧ ⦨ ⦩ ⦪ ⦫ ⦬ ⦭ ⦮ ⦯ ⦰ ⦱ ⦲ ⦳ ⦴ ⦵ ⦶ ⦷ ⦸ ⦹ ⦺ ⦻ ⦼ ⦽ ⦾ ⦿ ⧀ ⧁ ⧂ ⧃ ⧄ ⧅ ⧆ ⧇ ⧈ ⧉ ⧊ ⧋ ⧌ ⧍ ⧎ ⧏ ⧐ ⧑ ⧒ ⧓ ⧔ ⧕ ⧖ ⧗ ⧘ ⧙ ⧚ ⧛ ⧜ ⧝ ⧞ ⧟ ⧡ ⧢ ⧣ ⧤ ⧥ ⧦ ⧧ ⧨ ⧩ ⧪ ⧫ ⧬ ⧭ ⧮ ⧯ ⧰ ⧱ ⧲ ⧳ ⧴ ⧵ ⧶ ⧷ ⧸ ⧹ ⧺ ⧻ ⧼ ⧽ ⧾ ⧿ ∀ ∁ ∂∃ ∄ ∅ ∆ ∇ ∈ ∉ ∊ ∋ ∌ ∍ ∎ ∏ ∐ ∑ − ∓ ∔ ∕ ∖ ∗ ∘ ∙ √ ∛ ∜ ∝ ∟ ∠ ∡ ∢ ∣ ∤ ∥ ∦ ∧ ∨ ∩ ∪ ∫ ∬ ∭ ∮ ∯ ∰ ∱ ∲ ∳ ∴ ∵ ∶ ∷ ∸ ∹ ∺ ∻ ∼ ∽ ∾ ∿ ≀ ≁ ≂ ≃ ≄ ≅ ≆ ≇ ≈ ≉ ≊ ≋ ≌ ≍ ≎ ≏ ≐ ≑ ≒ ≓ ≔ ≕ ≖ ≗ ≘ ≙ ≚ ≛ ≜ ≝ ≞ ≟ ≠ ≡ ≢ ≣ ≤ ≥ ≦ ≧ ≨ ≩ ≪ ≫ ≬ ≭ ≮ ≯ ≰ ≱ ≲ ≳ ≴ ≵ ≶ ≷ ≸ ≹ ≺ ≻ ≼ ≽ ≾ ≿ ⊀ ⊁ ⊂ ⊃ ⊄ ⊅ ⊆ ⊇ ⊈ ⊉ ⊊ ⊋ ⊌ ⊍ ⊎ ⊏ ⊐ ⊑ ⊒ ⊓ ⊔ ⊕ ⊖ ⊗ ⊘ ⊙ ⊚ ⊛ ⊜ ⊝ ⊞ ⊟ ⊠ ⊡ ⊢ ⊣ ⊤ ⊥ ⊦ ⊧ ⊨ ⊩ ⊪ ⊫ ⊬ ⊭ ⊮ ⊯ ⊰ ⊱ ⊲ ⊳ ⊴ ⊵ ⊶ ⊷ ⊸ ⊹ ⊺ ⊻ ⊼ ⊽ ⊾ ⊿ ⋀ ⋁ ⋂ ⋃ ⋄ ⋅ ⋆ ⋇ ⋈ ⋉ ⋊ ⋋ ⋌ ⋍ ⋎ ⋏ ⋐ ⋑ ⋒ ⋓ ⋔ ⋕ ⋖ ⋗ ⋘ ⋙ ⋚ ⋛ ⋜ ⋝ ⋞ ⋟ ⋠ ⋡ ⋢ ⋣ ⋤ ⋥ ⋦ ⋧ ⋨ ⋩ ⋪ ⋫ ⋬ ⋭ ⋮ ⋯ ⋰ ⋱ ⋲ ⋳ ⋴ ⋵ ⋶ ⋷ ⋸ ⋹ ⋺ ⋻ ⋼ ⋽ ⋾ ⋿ ✕ ✖ ✚






     
    #2 Lycanthus, Aug 18, 2016
    Last edited: Aug 18, 2016




  3. { reserved }

    beep boop





     
  4. s l i d e . o n e


    The clock struck twelve. Lilya Diallo listened to the bells chime, counting the seconds between each one. One, two, three, ring. One, two, three. She loved the bells. When she heard them, she could imagine the fireplace she and her sister gathered around in their childhood. The blistering cold under the tent. Huddling under blankets with what little clothing they had. And telling stories. Her sister loved to tell stories, she remembered. Stories crafted with the delicate artistry of a weaver, each thread a sentence and each sentence a world in which magic lived, thrived, and flourished. Places where their kind roamed free without fear. Where people danced upon staircases of water, walked cinder roads and their every breath spoke of life.

    s l i d e . t w o


    In Koel, things were different. They lived in the outskirts before, in the slums that evaded the clergy’s watchful eye. But further inland, things changed— structures sprung out of the permafrost like trees, pointing their jagged edges towards the sky, as if threatening it to never fall apart. They seemed to lean forward, over her when she walked the streets. It reminded her of how the clergy looked when she was small— tall men, pale as death, dressed in long black robes. She hated Koel with all her heart. She hated the footsteps of soldiers, the sound of cavalry making their rounds. The silence. The occasional cry. She hated the ground on which their king walked, each step damning the dirt beneath it. And oh, how she hated the king.

    s l i d e . t h r e e


    In Koel, things were different. They lived in the outskirts before, in the slums that evaded the clergy’s watchful eye. But further inland, things changed— structures sprung out of the permafrost like trees, pointing their jagged edges towards the sky, as if threatening it to never fall apart. They seemed to lean forward, over her when she walked the streets. It reminded her of how the clergy looked when she was small— tall men, pale as death, dressed in long black robes. She hated Koel with all her heart. She hated the footsteps of soldiers, the sound of cavalry making their rounds. The silence. The occasional cry. She hated the ground on which their king walked, each step damning the dirt beneath it. And oh, how she hated the king.

     

  5. ◤ ♛│∎∎∎  CHARACTER NAME
    ≡ age  ≡ gender  ≡ ethnicity   ≡ mbti   ≡ role   ≡ etc.



    [​IMG]
    text :
    this is a sentence. elaborate here. look at that. more text. amazing.​

    text :
    this is a sentence. elaborate here. look at that. more text. amazing.​

    text :
    this is a sentence. elaborate here. look at that. more text. amazing.​

    text :
    this is a sentence. elaborate here. look at that. more text. amazing.​



    ⧉⬚  SECTION

    The clock struck twelve. Lilya Diallo listened to the bells chime, counting the seconds between each one. One, two, three, ring. One, two, three. She loved the bells. When she heard them, she could imagine the fireplace she and her sister gathered around in their childhood. The blistering cold under the tent. Huddling under blankets with what little clothing they had. And telling stories. Her sister loved to tell stories, she remembered. Stories crafted with the delicate artistry of a weaver, each thread a sentence and each sentence a world in which magic lived, thrived, and flourished. Places where their kind roamed free without fear. Where people danced upon staircases of water, walked cinder roads and their every breath spoke of life.

    In Koel, things were different. They lived in the outskirts before, in the slums that evaded the clergy’s watchful eye. But further inland, things changed— structures sprung out of the permafrost like trees, pointing their jagged edges towards the sky, as if threatening it to never fall apart. They seemed to lean forward, over her when she walked the streets. It reminded her of how the clergy looked when she was small— tall men, pale as death, dressed in long black robes.

    She hated Koel with all her heart. She hated the footsteps of soldiers, the sound of cavalry making their rounds. The silence. The occasional cry. She hated the ground on which their king walked, each step damning the dirt beneath it. And oh, how she hated the king.


     
    #5 Lycanthus, Aug 19, 2016
    Last edited: Aug 26, 2016
  6. [​IMG][​IMG][​IMG]
    cascade
     
  7. [​IMG]
    cascade
    some words or lyrics can go here * status * text * etc.
    One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. "What's happened to me? " he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn't get into that position.

    However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before. "Oh, God", he thought, "what a strenuous career it is that I've chosen! Travelling day in and day out. Doing business like this takes much more effort than doing your own business at home, and on top of that there's the curse of travelling, worries about making train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people all the time so that you can never get to know anyone or become friendly with them. It can all go to Hell! " He felt a slight itch up on his belly; pushed himself slowly up on his back towards the headboard so that he could lift his head better; found where the itch was, and saw that it was covered with lots of little white spots which he didn't know what to make of; and when he tried to feel the place with one of his legs he drew it quickly back because as soon as he touched it he was overcome by a cold shudder. He slid back into his former position. "Getting up early all the time", he thought, "it makes you stupid. You've got to get enough sleep. Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury.

    For instance, whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning to copy out the contract, these gentlemen are always still sitting there eating their breakfasts. I ought to just try that with my boss; I'd get kicked out on the spot. But who knows, maybe that would be the best thing for me. If I didn't have my parents to think about I'd have given in my notice a long time ago, I'd have gone up to the boss and told him just what I think, tell him everything I would, let him know just what I feel. He'd fall right off his desk! And it's a funny sort of business to be sitting up there at your desk, talking down at your subordinates from up there, especially when you have to go right up close because the boss is hard of hearing. Well, there's still some hope; once I've got the money together to pay off my parents' debt to him - another five or six years I suppose - that's definitely what I'll do. That's when I'll make the big change. First of all though, I've got to get up, my train leaves at five. " And he looked over at the alarm clock, ticking on the chest of drawers. "God in Heaven! " he thought. It was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forwards, it was even later than half past, more like quarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not rung? He could see from the bed that it had been set for four o'clock as it should have been; it certainly must have rung. Yes, but was it possible to quietly sleep through that furniture-rattling noise? True, he had not slept peacefully, but probably all the more deeply because of that. What should he do now? The next train went at seven; if he were to catch that he would have to rush like mad and the collection of samples was still not packed, and he did not at all feel particularly fresh and lively. And even if he did catch the train he would not avoid his boss's anger as the office assistant would have been there to see the five o'clock train go, he would have put in his report about Gregor's not being there a long time ago. The office assistant was the boss's man, spineless, and with no understanding. What about if he reported sick? But that would be extremely strained and suspicious as in fifteen years of service Gregor had never once yet been ill. His boss would certainly come round with the doctor from the medical insurance company, accuse his parents of having a lazy son, and accept the doctor's recommendation not to make any claim as the doctor believed that no-one was ever ill but that many were workshy. And what's more, would he have been entirely wrong in this case?
     
    #8 Lycanthus, Aug 29, 2016
    Last edited: Aug 29, 2016
    • Like Like x 1
  8. [​IMG]

    One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. "What's happened to me? " he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls.

    A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn't get into that position.

    However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before. "Oh, God", he thought, "what a strenuous career it is that I've chosen! Travelling day in and day out. Doing business like this takes much more effort than doing your own business at home, and on top of that there's the curse of travelling, worries about making train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people all the time so that you can never get to know anyone or become friendly with them. It can all go to Hell!"

    He felt a slight itch up on his belly; pushed himself slowly up on his back towards the headboard so that he could lift his head better; found where the itch was, and saw that it was covered with lots of little white spots which he didn't know what to make of; and when he tried to feel the place with one of his legs he drew it quickly back because as soon as he touched it he was overcome by a cold shudder. He slid back into his former position. "Getting up early all the time", he thought, "it makes you stupid. You've got to get enough sleep. Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury. For instance, whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning to copy out the contract, these gentlemen are always still sitting there eating their breakfasts. I ought to just try that with my boss; I'd get kicked out on the spot.
     
    • Love Love x 1
  9. A PLACE OF NOTHING //
    img dump for gfx b/c i don't wanna save them

    more

    Show Spoiler


    https://d1hw6n3yxknhky.cloudfront.net/024685625_prevstill.jpeg

    http://www.macleans.ca/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/MAC03_OIL_CAROUSEL.jpg

    http://media.gettyimages.com/videos/slow-motion-water-drip-black-background-video-id104554100?s=640x640

    https://res.cloudinary.com/crowdpac/image/upload/v1/posts/ffbb5a4nokuzylwo5kzh.jpg

    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]


     



  10. a



    place



    of



    nothing


    Consider these words for a moment. Take a second, entertain these thoughts just for a little while; we implore you.
    We have something we'd like to say.

    One:

    Dreams can dredge up the most painful things. What this means for each and every person is different. Some of us have our demons— the fears and insecurities that hide in the dark recesses of our minds. The anxieties that eat away at the fringes of our consciousness and hover over every waking moment of our lives. For others, this is not so; for them, their pain is locked away, tightly wound around memories of a time long gone. A kind of ache that echoes all the more as you replay them in your head over and over and over again. The familiarity of a voice or a smell that takes you back to things that were, but are no longer.

    Whatever these things are, we can't run from them. You can't escape from yourself.


    Two:

    Every day is a day like any other. You go about your business, do the things you're meant to do, take part in daily trivialities, then you go to bed. It's cyclic; a part of life expected and normalized to the point of automation. Maybe you have your grievances with this. Maybe you're perfectly fine with being another cog in the machine. Maybe you just want a nice car, a nice house, and a nice nuclear family in a nice suburb. Or maybe this is not your reality. Maybe you're an adventurer from a distant land, travelling the countryside in search of adrenaline. Maybe you're the lowest caste in a system that's built to screw you over. Maybe you rebel against these systems. Or maybe you're the despotic leader perpetuating them.

    Then, maybe none of these things apply to you at all.

    Whatever the case, every day is the same like any other. You live within your reality just as you did all the years of your life.

    One day, this changes.


    Three:

    It starts with a dream. A dream seemingly benign in nature, yet something catches your attention:
    Everything is in monochrome.

    This alone doesn't spark any warning signs. The dream continues. You see things. Familiar things. Maybe your family, your friends, your enemies, your perpetrators, your victims. Maybe places you've been— places you've etched into your memories for one reason or another. As your consciousness becomes fully immersed, things start to change— for the worse. You hear those voices all too clearly, whether it be the sweet little nothings from your one and only or the hoarse, cracking voice of someone about to die— you hear them loud and clear, as if time brought you back for that very moment for the sole purpose of remembering. Every minute detail is reproduced in painstaking accuracy. So much so you can even feel every surface, texture, and touch; each moment a hyper-realistic sensory overload that threatens to rip the very seams of your thoughts limb by limb, fissuring, breaking, collapsing. Your own personal hell of a nightmare where you're the guest of honor. Where your weaknesses are the masterpiece we all clamor to see. Everything, for you and you alone.

    Yet it does not stop there.
    The noise ceases. Everything freezes.
    Then, you see it. Bright red against greyscale backdrops:
    An apple.


    Four:

    You know where this is going.
    The oldest sin in the book lies within the flesh of a fruit. Yet no matter how many times the story's told, it all ends up the same:
    Once again, the serpent appears. If not in scale and bone, perhaps in the face of another. After all, is it not said that the devil wears the mask of god?

    Sweet words implore you, ask you something you've asked yourself again and again: What would you do for a second chance?

    You take a bite into the fruit of fate, then, suddenly, the dream vanishes around you.
    You find yourself awake beneath a starless sky.

    This is where your story continues.



    I.
    dreams​
    in which a nightmare begins.​
     
    #11 Lycanthus, Sep 9, 2016
    Last edited: Sep 9, 2016


  11. I.
    dreams​
    in which a nightmare begins.​
    Consider these words for a moment. Take a second, entertain these thoughts just for a little while; we implore you.
    We have something we'd like to say.

    One:

    Dreams can dredge up the most painful things. What this means for each and every person is different. Some of us have our demons— the fears and insecurities that hide in the dark recesses of our minds. The anxieties that eat away at the fringes of our consciousness and hover over every waking moment of our lives. For others, this is not so; for them, their pain is locked away, tightly wound around memories of a time long gone. A kind of ache that echoes all the more as you replay them in your head over and over and over again. The familiarity of a voice or a smell that takes you back to things that were, but are no longer.

    Whatever these things are, we can't run from them. You can't escape from yourself.


    Two:

    Every day is a day like any other. You go about your business, do the things you're meant to do, take part in daily trivialities, then you go to bed. It's cyclic; a part of life expected and normalized to the point of automation. Maybe you have your grievances with this. Maybe you're perfectly fine with being another cog in the machine. Maybe you just want a nice car, a nice house, and a nice nuclear family in a nice suburb. Or maybe this is not your reality. Maybe you're an adventurer from a distant land, travelling the countryside in search of adrenaline. Maybe you're the lowest caste in a system that's built to screw you over. Maybe you rebel against these systems. Or maybe you're the despotic leader perpetuating them.

    Then, maybe none of these things apply to you at all.

    Whatever the case, every day is the same like any other. You live within your reality just as you did all the years of your life.

    One day, this changes.


    Three:

    It starts with a dream. A dream seemingly benign in nature, yet something catches your attention:
    Everything is in monochrome.

    This alone doesn't spark any warning signs. The dream continues. You see things. Familiar things. Maybe your family, your friends, your enemies, your perpetrators, your victims. Maybe places you've been— places you've etched into your memories for one reason or another. As your consciousness becomes fully immersed, things start to change— for the worse. You hear those voices all too clearly, whether it be the sweet little nothings from your one and only or the hoarse, cracking voice of someone about to die— you hear them loud and clear, as if time brought you back for that very moment for the sole purpose of remembering. Every minute detail is reproduced in painstaking accuracy. So much so you can even feel every surface, texture, and touch; each moment a hyper-realistic sensory overload that threatens to rip the very seams of your thoughts limb by limb, fissuring, breaking, collapsing. Your own personal hell of a nightmare where you're the guest of honor. Where your weaknesses are the masterpiece we all clamor to see. Everything, for you and you alone.

    Yet it does not stop there.
    The noise ceases. Everything freezes.
    Then, you see it. Bright red against greyscale backdrops:
    An apple.


    Four:

    You know where this is going.
    The oldest sin in the book lies within the flesh of a fruit. Yet no matter how many times the story's told, it all ends up the same:
    Once again, the serpent appears. If not in scale and bone, perhaps in the face of another. After all, is it not said that the devil wears the mask of god?

    Sweet words implore you, ask you something you've asked yourself again and again: What would you do for a second chance?

    You take a bite into the fruit of fate, then, suddenly, the dream vanishes around you.
    You find yourself awake beneath a starless sky.

    This is where your story continues.

     
    #12 Lycanthus, Sep 9, 2016
    Last edited: Sep 9, 2016