Florence From The Stars

Zoey S

Cloé Veilleux

Jade Ludo

Sam Lövstad

transgamedev community

Dani Masiglat

Sam Becker

English

The soup is alive. The soup is angry. It wants revenge...

Frozen, trapped in plastic, stuck at the back of your freezer - the soup bitterly plots its' revenge.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. But to the soup leftovers, freezing and forgotten in the freezer, this expression would take a whole new meaning! Yes! Its revenge would be the stuff of legend! Surely, scientists would create a new measuring unit in its honor!

With a sense of purpose, you remove the frosty soup from the fridge, and peel back the plastic cover. You retrieve a large spoon and begin to dig it into the frozen broth. Unless they knew, the target of your revenge will be none the wiser to its frozen state until it's too late.

Chips of crystalline minestrone melt on the bench as you hack at the frigid soup like a cryptozoologist unearthing an alien corpse from an ice cave.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, and when the sound of something metallic rings through the air, it's bon appétit time.

You took a bite, not one thought about the consequences. Maybe there are none? Then you turn around, and see eyes on you, devastate eyes. You stop chewing a few seconds, but then your eyes change and you stare back while checking faster and faster.

You swallow, noting that it actually tasted pretty good. You look up, and the eyes on you are more curious, now, from a creature you don't recognize. While it felt a little hostile before, it sure doesn't now.

Instead it looks upon you with a sad, knowing pity, staring into your soul. Slowly, its eyes begin to bleed. Not blood. Soup. You fall to your knees and your lips tremble, something bubbling up and dribbling down your chin. The soup. Perhaps there were consequences after all...

Minestrone at Midnight

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MJ Newman

Leaf Let

Sean King

Barry, or Bazza to his mates, was a duck. An actual duck. The beak, the feathers and the webbed feet. His favourite activities were digging holes, swimming and bringing untimely demises to worms. Unlike more ducks, Barry had a secret.

Barry the duck was not really a duck at all. Yes, maybe his external appearance was certainly duck-like in nature. He walked like a duck, he talked like a duck, but no - Barry was not actually a duck. What was Barry then, if not a duck? Well... Barry couldn't really say for sure.

As Barry was growing up, he started to feel that 'duck' was just a label - something that had been grafted onto him by others. Just because he had a bill, webbed feet and a propensity for quacking, SOCIETY had made assumptions about his identity. Barry hated being called a duck.

And yet, here he was, sticking out like a sore thumb in this wretched Yearly Duck Convention. And why? Because Jen asked him - and as much as Barry hated being a duck, he was in love with Jen. He'd dive into a duck-filled pond for them. And that's just what he did.

Many people have complained about the ethics of the annual duck dive, citing countless papers on how it was in fact abusive to the ducks, an invasion of their delicate native ecosystems, or financially irresponsible. The DuckCon organisers, in response, called them all 'quacks'.

But even the duck activists and environmental scientists could not begin to fathom the true depths of DuckCon's sinister agenda. The organizers of the duck dive had another purpose. For long ago, in the secret recesses of duck territory, they had discovered a place of dark power.

In this place, the power of every waterfowl could be unlocked. A duck could enter the cavern and leave more graceful than any swan and more vicious than any goose. The organizers of DuckCon felt that the ducks had been maligned for too long, and it was time for them to take over.

They gather all the boss ducks and set up a meeting to discuss what they can do to take over. Could and should they use DuckCon as a front for the bigger scheme of things, or should they go about a more direct approach?

The various duck lords debated for hours before a conclusion was drawn. Turns out, it's almost impossible --unheard of even-- for a bunch of ducks, to agree on anything. Especially winning with a two-thirds majority! Their decision? They would twist DuckCon to their evil deeds...

What they weren’t counting on was Barry. Barry the Duck, that knew he wasn’t a duck. In his heart he was a Swan. The exact fowl which could stop the evil plan. 

Tune in next week for a brand new episode of ‘What the Duck!’

What the Duck

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Colleen P

Gideon Grinberg

Quirky Bean

It was 11:46am. You'd think the world would end at a more appropriate time, as the last rays of the sun touched the land at dusk or maybe when a full moon was high in the sky. But no, just before lunch it was. At least the end of the world wasn't the end for us.

It's quite a shame really, that in these last few moments, you don't find yourself enjoying the stereotypical Hollywood apocalypse activities. No sipping a refreshing beverage, reclined on a semi-comfortable seat, while you watch the sun collapse in on itself. None of that.

Instead, all you get to enjoy is the head-spinning, gut-wrenching sensation of falling to your impending doom. As you soar towards imminent and letal ground contact, you wonder why your life isn't flashing before your eyes. And suddenly, something halts your fall.

You take a moment to try and take stock of the situation. Not only were you certain you had reached terminal velocity already, but a sudden stop should have been no better than hitting the ground. You open your eyes only to realize you are still in mid-air. Did time stop for you?

"This can't be real." you say out loud. "How could it not be?" a voice answers.
"You just had to open your mind enough to seen what is possible to do."
"No this HAS to be a dream, or a hallucination or anything really? You know?"
"It sure looks real to me." the voices answers.

"As real as the blinding darkness of the sun, as real as the spectres slipping between the shadows of consciousness. Accept it. Accept your new reality. Maybe then you can start to mould it." The voice rasps on as the scene around you warps and melts into a distant, awful memory.

A rising feeling of existential dread blooms in your chest as everything slowly drips away. Soon there is nothing. Tears streak your cheeks. You howl into the empty black; nothing comes. Time passes. Fear deforms into perplexed grief. How can you accept what you can't understand?

Your skin cracks, dry as forgotten papier mache. With each flake that scatters to the ground a wisp of empty air escapes into the noise, leaving you hollow and fragile. It takes days, or years, or seconds, but ultimately there is nothing left of you. Was there anything before?

You begin to wander, and soon, you begin to forget. What you looked like, what your name was, where you were from- all gone to the wind. All that you know is that you are trapped here.

As you keep on wandering, you see a light. A beautiful, singular light just through a corridor. You walk towards it, excited that you've found a way out.

You keep walking towards the light, the exit. But... it doesn't get any closer. You start to speed up your pace, slightly worried. Is the exit getting further away?

Squinting now at the pinprick of light now dwindling in size, your walking pace develops into a jog, and then a sprint. You need to get closer, you need to leave - but it's no use. The light flickers momentarily before vanishing entirely. You are left in a void of darkness.

...

It's now been hours. 

Hours since your hope to exit this gloomy place dwindled before your eyes. You can't see anything. Your stomach rumbles. The floor is too hard to curl up and sleep, and you're cold.

Suddenly, a call. It's coming from your left! You're not alone!

You muster the strength to stand and turn where you think the call came from. It's hard to tell, as it was but a single call in pitch blackness. Out of better options, you opt to investigate. You start tiptoeing your way forward, away from safe and familiar, and into the unknown.

You stop tiptoeing and take longer steps, and just keep going and going. The darkness doesn't seem to end but there, in a far far distance, you see an odd, purple light.

You continue towards the purple glow, footsteps seemingly vanishing into nothing when suddenly your legs start to follow them, swallowed by the very darkness which shifts imperceptibly around you. You're now falling, tumbling down into the light as it steadily grows and grows.

For an imperceptible amount of time, all you perceive is purple. You feel it in your skin. You smell lilacs and taste ripe plums. Your movement is constant; the odd sense of travelling through solid colour. It feels like being in a lift, your stomach being pushed into your chest.

Finally, you are freed, hands pushing through into fresh air followed by the rest of your being. The moon shines brightly onto your iridescent purple scales, the air cool. With one, and then two, beats of your powerful wings, you take into the night sky, born anew.

Dani Masiglat
@danimasiglat

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