Our new Indie Games subforum is now open for business in G&T. Go and check it out, you might land a code for a free game. If you're developing an indie game and want to post about it, follow these directions
. If you don't, he'll break your legs! Hahaha! Seriously though.
Our rules have been updated and given their own forum
. Go and look at them! They are nice, and there may be new ones that you didn't know about! Hooray for rules! Hooray for The System! Hooray for Conforming!
This is a short, dark, gruesome little poem I made up on the spot a few days ago. I edited it briefly to smooth out the edges. What do you all think?
Alone in the darkness, the children cry, awake even in sleep. The priest bears them as his cross, those he calls "lost sheep".
Screws drive into their fingers as they cry. Their only sin was to question, "Why?".
The priest turns each twist with his tool, the spiral rod which spares no fool. His ecstacy at each coil is wild, his motto ever "spare the rod, spoil the child".
He licks his dagger fangs with every scream, their nightmares are his favorite dream. In silence he laughs with malice and worse, with his tongue he recites bible verse.
When his sermon finished with "Amen, peace", he would cut them up and bless every piece. Gold crosses were stuck into their hearts, holy water submerging other parts.
Tonight's slaughter would be his last, for a demon would haunt him from his past. The orphan he called "the one that got away", came back this full-moon night to play.
A small blade in the child's hands, he leapt from blackness with fatal demands.
His dagger struck the priest hard and fast, the reverend's breath to be his last.
He saw what he thought were heaven's gate, the destiny he denied many a child's fate. The facts, however, was quite clear; his guess to the truth wasn't near.
The fire on his hands told reality bright; the lie was in the snow-colored light. The flames of hell...BURN...WHITE.