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Leo & Leah: A Love Story Review
I don't mind the vague spoiler-ish stuff. And yeah, there are moments where I wanted to parody the whole "rescue the princess" plot. The situations keep getting absurd but you have to keep going.
I made Leo silent because I wanted people to pay attention to the secondary characters. Also, most silent protagonists are basically just vessels for the player. Usually, they don't do things the player doesn't expect... which I didn't want to be the case here. There's also a lot of NPC's who also talk about love and the sub-plots that Leo gets involved in are sometimes related to love (Zinn and Zara and Queen B, Chapter 4, the two birds).
I sorta aimed to have a "wind-down" effect coming down to the end, especially with the music. While it's upbeat in the beginning, the tempo is slowly being reduced until it's just a hum by the last chapter. Same with other aspects of the story and environments. I guess I put more thought into this than I am willing to admit.
I made Leo silent because I wanted people to pay attention to the secondary characters. Also, most silent protagonists are basically just vessels for the player. Usually, they don't do things the player doesn't expect... which I didn't want to be the case here. There's also a lot of NPC's who also talk about love and the sub-plots that Leo gets involved in are sometimes related to love (Zinn and Zara and Queen B, Chapter 4, the two birds).
I sorta aimed to have a "wind-down" effect coming down to the end, especially with the music. While it's upbeat in the beginning, the tempo is slowly being reduced until it's just a hum by the last chapter. Same with other aspects of the story and environments. I guess I put more thought into this than I am willing to admit.
Leo & Leah: A Love Story Review
You signed up just to write a rave review? Uh-oh! People might think you're me!
Concerning the review, I agree with the gameplay section, especially the Marsh backtracking. Even when I was testing, this was a hassle for me and I admit, I added it for unnecessary "padding". But I was expecting people to use the Fading Smile move through the Marsh parts if they got frustrated. But yeah, that was a bad move since I made this game with the intention of "fun".
Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed what I had to offer! And thanks for the review.
Concerning the review, I agree with the gameplay section, especially the Marsh backtracking. Even when I was testing, this was a hassle for me and I admit, I added it for unnecessary "padding". But I was expecting people to use the Fading Smile move through the Marsh parts if they got frustrated. But yeah, that was a bad move since I made this game with the intention of "fun".
Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed what I had to offer! And thanks for the review.
What's the new Featured Game?
World's Dawn is pretty nice game and very overlooked. It also has a decent amount of custom graphics. Unfortunately, it's just a demo.
Heirs of Techcatl is however a beautifully drawn and well-done custom game.
Shenshetta - Air RPG is another great, overlooked complete game that was released this year.
Eyes Without a Face and Rubi won their respective events (I think) so those would be good choices too. It depends if you guys have a certain "rotation" of styles and platforms for Featured Game. Like one month, you'll do RPG Maker, one month Game Maker, etc. Idk.
Heirs of Techcatl is however a beautifully drawn and well-done custom game.
Shenshetta - Air RPG is another great, overlooked complete game that was released this year.
Eyes Without a Face and Rubi won their respective events (I think) so those would be good choices too. It depends if you guys have a certain "rotation" of styles and platforms for Featured Game. Like one month, you'll do RPG Maker, one month Game Maker, etc. Idk.
Makerscore
Leo & Leah: A Love Story
Thanks a lot. And yeah, use any resource you want. Most of them are just ripped or minor edits, anyway. The final boss music is a portion of "The Storm" by Yanni.
The Screenshot Topic Returns
post your picture
author=benos
Are you that guy from Sigur Ros
Look at 0:37 holy shit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rltDyTu8rV4
Leo & Leah: A Love Story
The Repenters
It's set in Trinidad so the narrative is written in West Indian/Caribbean broken English, which is a sort of on-and-off dialect/mixing up of grammar that most people talk here, even when talking eloquently. I don't know how awkward it comes off to someone who hasn't heard it. But if it really does seem inconsistent, I'll have to change it up a little.
I might take your advice and put it in third person, though, as first person in this dialect may be kind of confusing. But so many prominent Caribbean writers have done it (with little international fame, of course), I wanna see if I can pull it off.
And adding an element of "childishness" is my thing, man :D I know that part might not be everyone's cup of tea. Thanks a lot for reading and all the crits!
I might take your advice and put it in third person, though, as first person in this dialect may be kind of confusing. But so many prominent Caribbean writers have done it (with little international fame, of course), I wanna see if I can pull it off.
And adding an element of "childishness" is my thing, man :D I know that part might not be everyone's cup of tea. Thanks a lot for reading and all the crits!
The Repenters
This is the beginning of a novel I was working on before, but put on hiatus. I am planning to resume it eventually. I've actually showed it to no one before, so I don't know what to think about it. If you have time to read it, please do.
NOTE - You might think some things are grammatical errors, but it's really just written in Trini broken English.
I was listening to this while I wrote this chapter.
CHAPTER ONE - "The House does always win."
Strangers. Only strangers. That is the number one rule I set for myself to avoid hurting Mouse. Only strangers, I remind myself. And it have nothing more perfect than perfect strangers.
"I does just come out here when my family acting up at home, you know?" the girl says. She keeps facing forward, too shy to make eye contact with me. But not too shy to hint at the follies of she broken home. She keeps staring out over the hill, at the town and the highway below. Headlights shuffle across like tiny glowing ants. Or like broken lanterns being slowly shifted across tethers by some shadowy dynamo.
I don't bother to ask her how she family does act up because, one way or another, all families does act up the same. Somebody always thinking somebody is their own private Kunta Kinte, and then Kunta Kinte always plotting a rebellion. "I come here for the breeze," I say, with a smile.
In the darkness, I imagine a tiny rise in her cheekbones as she says, "How come I never see you before, boy? You come here plenty?" But the truth is, in this darkness, it really too dark to see any feature of this girl face.
I respond, "Only when I feel like taking some breeze."
"How often is that?"
"Not as often as your family does act up, it seem."
This time I can see her teeth. I shift a little closer to her, though not nearly so close enough for her puffy mane of curls to sweep against my shoulder. I turn my head to look at the single dreary dirt road leading up to this hill. Then to the sedges that huddle around a decaying tree trunk. A wind blows a column of foliage into the air. One of the small leaves hook onto her locks. Before she could even react, I reach my hand and pick it out. In the same moment, my fingernails brush against her scalp.
Her eyes wince. She give a slight shudder. I pull my hand away and crumple the leaf, cracking the main vein in half between my thumb and index. As close as I am to her now, the girl is still a slender smoky blue silhouette, only outlined by the pale yellow light of a single streetlamp, arching a distance behind her. Her face â€" an antumbra with no natural illumination to tincture the browns and pinks inside.
The wind has started to activate a nearby screaking. Another wind blows, dragging a small cloud of dust with it.
"You want to be alone?" I ask her.
She remains still, her chin tipping slightly upward to the heavens. Lost in her mind. Some fantasy of a better life, maybe. Star-gazing. Star-skipping. Star-sailing. Whereas I accept that it go always just be stars and breeze to me, perhaps she perpetually trying to experience a diamond in a twinkle and the Holy Ghost in each acrid night zephyr. "No," she says in a wistful murmur, "I good right here." Funny. I smell rum on her breath. Along with a tinge of marijuana. Though she don't really seem drunk or high. Just lost.
"You should talk if you want to talk," I say.
She shaking her head. "No," she says, "That not necessary."
"I doh mean to me," I say, "Talk to yourself. Out loud. Tell yourself some nice things."
"You want people to think I crazy?" she says amidst a befuddled laugh. She turns to me. I turn to her. Her face looking like a solar eclipse. I wondering if she seeing my face as the same. As a black hole. A faceless man urging soliloquy. Jesus Christ.
"What people, girl?" I say, "I is the only one here. And I is the one telling you that you should do it."
She laughs. "I not in the habit of doing that."
"Is a real romantic evening," I say, "You should take yourself out to do some Latin dancing. Get your feet movin', it go get the endorphins going."
She laughs again, turns her head away and ignores me. "I quite fine, thank you. But I appreciate the effort, eh."
"You good? Because you sound like the island sinking."
She lets out a nervous giggle. "I sounding like that?"
"Yes. And it have me very concerned."
She pauses, turning to me again. Another wind blows and the low screaking from before resumes. For some reason, I feel the bench contracting and suddenly, I sitting right next to her. "Even if you just playing the ass," she says, "It feel good to hear someone say that. Without the usual, annoying tone of condescension, you know?"
"Yes, I know."
"You think it does get better after a certain point?"
I raise my index and rotate it. "The world is spinning. Like one of them roulette tables. All you could do is place your bets and watch the li'l ball click and clack against the red and black and wait to see the outcome."
"You don't think we have no control over any of it?"
"The ball? No. But you could control how much you bet."
She asks, "How much you does bet?"
"Different people bet different."
"No," she says, "How much you does bet?"
"Me? Betting is not a big part of my life, nah."
The bench shrinks more. The screaking sounds again.
"What you mean?"
"Me, I want to be the croupier. I want to be the man who spinning the wheel, arranging the chips."
"I always figure the croupier woulda be God."
"Nah, God just own the casino. He doh spin the wheels. God just chilling in he office, with He shirt unbuttoned and He belly showing. He holding them big fat cigars between he teeth. He know all the chips go back to Him eventually. Cos', no matter how yuh want to cut it, the House does always win."
"The House does always win," she repeats. She clicks her tongue. The gruff barking of a dog sounds from somewhere down the tract. It slowly echoes. I bat a mosquito away from my arm and my sudden movement startles her a little. But she quickly regains her composure, looking back over the crawl of headlights below. "How you think someone could get to that level? To be the croupier, I mean," she asks me.
I answer, "I think they does instantly become one at the exact moment they figure out how to be one. You have to be able to turn that wheel no matter how much the people risking. It have no hesitating if a person put their life, their children, their soul on the line. It have no hesitating, even knowin' that person could destroy another human life just by you turnin' that wheel. But three things remain certain, eh. The wheel must spin. The ball is random..."
"...and the House does always win," she finishes with a sustained hum.
I smile and pause. I slouch. "I think it does get better. When I think 'bout small things like cutting cucumbers and melongene and sipping some tea in the morning, all the other shit could just wash away. Things probably never really as bad as we perceive them. Not like we is all caterpillars in waiting to turn into butterflies. Things could be much worse."
She scoffs and bends over, her elbows on her knees. She hangs her head down as if she is going to vomit. "I not saying you dunno what you talkin' bout. But I dunno what you talkin' bout. It hard to imagine worse situations for me right now."
I click my tongue. "If you say so, you say so."
"Nobody believe me," she says, "They look from the outside and they don't see the cuckoo's nest. They see the big house but not the broken home. Nobody believe me. They just see the roof over the head." She pouts and stands up, kicking some dirt up. She stamping the ground. Blades of grass crunch beneath her soles.
She still nothing but a silhouette. An antumbra. A breeze ruffling them curly locks, having them flutter like thick black ribbons in front of her face. Her palms raised and already balled up into tight fists ready to punch the air or some other silliness like that. "You can't go through life like that," I tell her, "Thinkin' that somebody owe you something."
Her calmness comes abrupt. She unclenches her fists and hunches over, dizzy. A wind blows, initating the screaking once again. I get up from the bench and put my palm on her back. Even this close, her face is still veiled in a shadow. She throws her arms around me and presses her forehead against my chest hard enough to feel like a head-butt to the sternum. I cough. I half-expect her to sob but she just lay there for ten seconds, scraping the back of my shirt, before letting go of me.
"When you get home," I tell her, "Plant your feet 'gainst a nice cool wall and take a long nap."
The screaking sounds. I turn my head to notice the swing in the vicinity. The seat dangling back and forth, as if some phantom child moped on it. Going screak screak with each graze against the corroded steel and paint. "Come," I say. I grab her hand and walk her over to the swing.
"You have a cigarette?" she asks. Her voice light, almost in delirium.
"No," I lie.
She sits on the swing and I get behind her. She positions herself and holds on to the ropes. I give her a light push. "You real weird, boy," she tells me. I sense the affection in her tone. I push her again. She says, "You better than my friends, oui. They woulda just run away by now. Everybody hate me, you know?"
"Well, I don't hate you."
I push her again.
"Yeah, but you don't know me."
"I know," I say. I push.
"It would be nice to get married here, eh?"
"Marriage should be someplace pure. Is kind of dirty here. The grass need cutting. And too much dog-shit."
"Fitting for my life then, eh? Walk down an aisle of knee-high grass and dog-shit." She laughs.
I say nothing. I push. She goes quiet. I push again.
"It feel good to have someone not just walk away when I get like this," she says, her tone solemn. "I glad you not an ant. A drone."
I smile. I push her. Two stray dogs scamper past, chasing some ghost. "This right here," she says, laughing, "This is a damn adventure for me right here. This probably the most interaction I had with anybody in a while."
I push. "Positive interaction?"
"Yes."
"Tell me more 'bout the dog-shit wedding you want to have."
She laughs. "Okay." I push her twice while she is still thinking. "It go have to be raining. Like we talking 70% humidity and up."
I push.
"All the guests would get wet."
I push a little harder.
"Then they go all leave, you know?"
I push a little harder. She speaks louder.
"Because with the place humid like that and all that dog-shit like that, they decide it just not worth it."
I push a little harder. She grips the ropes tight as she arcs up and down.
"None of it!"
I push a little harder.
"We would have a runaway groom!"
I push harder.
"Oh, fuck my virgin life! Fuck it to hell!" she screams in delight.
I push my hardest.
"My life is shit!" she yells, "Just kill me now!"
I reach for the butcher knife in my pocket. I step aside. I hold it, arm extended, blade forward. She arcs down and connects with it. I pull the knife out and stab her again. And again. And again. Then I cut her throat.
The dogs scamper past again, still chasing the ghost, always two steps behind it.
NOTE - You might think some things are grammatical errors, but it's really just written in Trini broken English.
I was listening to this while I wrote this chapter.
CHAPTER ONE - "The House does always win."
Strangers. Only strangers. That is the number one rule I set for myself to avoid hurting Mouse. Only strangers, I remind myself. And it have nothing more perfect than perfect strangers.
"I does just come out here when my family acting up at home, you know?" the girl says. She keeps facing forward, too shy to make eye contact with me. But not too shy to hint at the follies of she broken home. She keeps staring out over the hill, at the town and the highway below. Headlights shuffle across like tiny glowing ants. Or like broken lanterns being slowly shifted across tethers by some shadowy dynamo.
I don't bother to ask her how she family does act up because, one way or another, all families does act up the same. Somebody always thinking somebody is their own private Kunta Kinte, and then Kunta Kinte always plotting a rebellion. "I come here for the breeze," I say, with a smile.
In the darkness, I imagine a tiny rise in her cheekbones as she says, "How come I never see you before, boy? You come here plenty?" But the truth is, in this darkness, it really too dark to see any feature of this girl face.
I respond, "Only when I feel like taking some breeze."
"How often is that?"
"Not as often as your family does act up, it seem."
This time I can see her teeth. I shift a little closer to her, though not nearly so close enough for her puffy mane of curls to sweep against my shoulder. I turn my head to look at the single dreary dirt road leading up to this hill. Then to the sedges that huddle around a decaying tree trunk. A wind blows a column of foliage into the air. One of the small leaves hook onto her locks. Before she could even react, I reach my hand and pick it out. In the same moment, my fingernails brush against her scalp.
Her eyes wince. She give a slight shudder. I pull my hand away and crumple the leaf, cracking the main vein in half between my thumb and index. As close as I am to her now, the girl is still a slender smoky blue silhouette, only outlined by the pale yellow light of a single streetlamp, arching a distance behind her. Her face â€" an antumbra with no natural illumination to tincture the browns and pinks inside.
The wind has started to activate a nearby screaking. Another wind blows, dragging a small cloud of dust with it.
"You want to be alone?" I ask her.
She remains still, her chin tipping slightly upward to the heavens. Lost in her mind. Some fantasy of a better life, maybe. Star-gazing. Star-skipping. Star-sailing. Whereas I accept that it go always just be stars and breeze to me, perhaps she perpetually trying to experience a diamond in a twinkle and the Holy Ghost in each acrid night zephyr. "No," she says in a wistful murmur, "I good right here." Funny. I smell rum on her breath. Along with a tinge of marijuana. Though she don't really seem drunk or high. Just lost.
"You should talk if you want to talk," I say.
She shaking her head. "No," she says, "That not necessary."
"I doh mean to me," I say, "Talk to yourself. Out loud. Tell yourself some nice things."
"You want people to think I crazy?" she says amidst a befuddled laugh. She turns to me. I turn to her. Her face looking like a solar eclipse. I wondering if she seeing my face as the same. As a black hole. A faceless man urging soliloquy. Jesus Christ.
"What people, girl?" I say, "I is the only one here. And I is the one telling you that you should do it."
She laughs. "I not in the habit of doing that."
"Is a real romantic evening," I say, "You should take yourself out to do some Latin dancing. Get your feet movin', it go get the endorphins going."
She laughs again, turns her head away and ignores me. "I quite fine, thank you. But I appreciate the effort, eh."
"You good? Because you sound like the island sinking."
She lets out a nervous giggle. "I sounding like that?"
"Yes. And it have me very concerned."
She pauses, turning to me again. Another wind blows and the low screaking from before resumes. For some reason, I feel the bench contracting and suddenly, I sitting right next to her. "Even if you just playing the ass," she says, "It feel good to hear someone say that. Without the usual, annoying tone of condescension, you know?"
"Yes, I know."
"You think it does get better after a certain point?"
I raise my index and rotate it. "The world is spinning. Like one of them roulette tables. All you could do is place your bets and watch the li'l ball click and clack against the red and black and wait to see the outcome."
"You don't think we have no control over any of it?"
"The ball? No. But you could control how much you bet."
She asks, "How much you does bet?"
"Different people bet different."
"No," she says, "How much you does bet?"
"Me? Betting is not a big part of my life, nah."
The bench shrinks more. The screaking sounds again.
"What you mean?"
"Me, I want to be the croupier. I want to be the man who spinning the wheel, arranging the chips."
"I always figure the croupier woulda be God."
"Nah, God just own the casino. He doh spin the wheels. God just chilling in he office, with He shirt unbuttoned and He belly showing. He holding them big fat cigars between he teeth. He know all the chips go back to Him eventually. Cos', no matter how yuh want to cut it, the House does always win."
"The House does always win," she repeats. She clicks her tongue. The gruff barking of a dog sounds from somewhere down the tract. It slowly echoes. I bat a mosquito away from my arm and my sudden movement startles her a little. But she quickly regains her composure, looking back over the crawl of headlights below. "How you think someone could get to that level? To be the croupier, I mean," she asks me.
I answer, "I think they does instantly become one at the exact moment they figure out how to be one. You have to be able to turn that wheel no matter how much the people risking. It have no hesitating if a person put their life, their children, their soul on the line. It have no hesitating, even knowin' that person could destroy another human life just by you turnin' that wheel. But three things remain certain, eh. The wheel must spin. The ball is random..."
"...and the House does always win," she finishes with a sustained hum.
I smile and pause. I slouch. "I think it does get better. When I think 'bout small things like cutting cucumbers and melongene and sipping some tea in the morning, all the other shit could just wash away. Things probably never really as bad as we perceive them. Not like we is all caterpillars in waiting to turn into butterflies. Things could be much worse."
She scoffs and bends over, her elbows on her knees. She hangs her head down as if she is going to vomit. "I not saying you dunno what you talkin' bout. But I dunno what you talkin' bout. It hard to imagine worse situations for me right now."
I click my tongue. "If you say so, you say so."
"Nobody believe me," she says, "They look from the outside and they don't see the cuckoo's nest. They see the big house but not the broken home. Nobody believe me. They just see the roof over the head." She pouts and stands up, kicking some dirt up. She stamping the ground. Blades of grass crunch beneath her soles.
She still nothing but a silhouette. An antumbra. A breeze ruffling them curly locks, having them flutter like thick black ribbons in front of her face. Her palms raised and already balled up into tight fists ready to punch the air or some other silliness like that. "You can't go through life like that," I tell her, "Thinkin' that somebody owe you something."
Her calmness comes abrupt. She unclenches her fists and hunches over, dizzy. A wind blows, initating the screaking once again. I get up from the bench and put my palm on her back. Even this close, her face is still veiled in a shadow. She throws her arms around me and presses her forehead against my chest hard enough to feel like a head-butt to the sternum. I cough. I half-expect her to sob but she just lay there for ten seconds, scraping the back of my shirt, before letting go of me.
"When you get home," I tell her, "Plant your feet 'gainst a nice cool wall and take a long nap."
The screaking sounds. I turn my head to notice the swing in the vicinity. The seat dangling back and forth, as if some phantom child moped on it. Going screak screak with each graze against the corroded steel and paint. "Come," I say. I grab her hand and walk her over to the swing.
"You have a cigarette?" she asks. Her voice light, almost in delirium.
"No," I lie.
She sits on the swing and I get behind her. She positions herself and holds on to the ropes. I give her a light push. "You real weird, boy," she tells me. I sense the affection in her tone. I push her again. She says, "You better than my friends, oui. They woulda just run away by now. Everybody hate me, you know?"
"Well, I don't hate you."
I push her again.
"Yeah, but you don't know me."
"I know," I say. I push.
"It would be nice to get married here, eh?"
"Marriage should be someplace pure. Is kind of dirty here. The grass need cutting. And too much dog-shit."
"Fitting for my life then, eh? Walk down an aisle of knee-high grass and dog-shit." She laughs.
I say nothing. I push. She goes quiet. I push again.
"It feel good to have someone not just walk away when I get like this," she says, her tone solemn. "I glad you not an ant. A drone."
I smile. I push her. Two stray dogs scamper past, chasing some ghost. "This right here," she says, laughing, "This is a damn adventure for me right here. This probably the most interaction I had with anybody in a while."
I push. "Positive interaction?"
"Yes."
"Tell me more 'bout the dog-shit wedding you want to have."
She laughs. "Okay." I push her twice while she is still thinking. "It go have to be raining. Like we talking 70% humidity and up."
I push.
"All the guests would get wet."
I push a little harder.
"Then they go all leave, you know?"
I push a little harder. She speaks louder.
"Because with the place humid like that and all that dog-shit like that, they decide it just not worth it."
I push a little harder. She grips the ropes tight as she arcs up and down.
"None of it!"
I push a little harder.
"We would have a runaway groom!"
I push harder.
"Oh, fuck my virgin life! Fuck it to hell!" she screams in delight.
I push my hardest.
"My life is shit!" she yells, "Just kill me now!"
I reach for the butcher knife in my pocket. I step aside. I hold it, arm extended, blade forward. She arcs down and connects with it. I pull the knife out and stab her again. And again. And again. Then I cut her throat.
The dogs scamper past again, still chasing the ghost, always two steps behind it.
Games - Tester
Games - Other
