Game Review: Elegy For A Dead World

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A game that allows you to weave the story and bask in all its glory.

 

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Shape your reflections into stunning verse or prose, it’s all about how freely the thought flows.

 

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Explore the world of Shelly’s Ozymandias with all his hubris, Byron’s Dream… or Keat’s epiphany of his finite time in this world

 

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Don’t try to escape from the landscape but take it all in

 

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Never look twice at the same image with the same eyes

 

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Share your thoughts with players from all over the world and read their stories as well

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First I’ve seen of its kind, hope I’ll find some more

8.5/10

Charmolypi

Existence In A Nutshell

You sit there in the epicenter of the interrogation room beneath a suspended light. Your thoughts are at a standstill. You tell yourself that there is nothing of importance to see on the other side of the one way glass. Nothing that matters to condemned men such as yourself, anyway.

Summoning every last ounce of courage, you walk up to the mirror and make faces like the childlike   Mr. Bean you are  at the people standing perplexed on the other side of the screen. Satisfied, and with a similar smile to Caspar the friendly ghost on your face, you sit back down on the last of the musical chairs.

Metallica had a song for this moment, they called it ‘Ride The Lightning’. Which is why the lyrics, “Who made you God to say, ‘I’ll take your life from you!’?” was looping endlessly in your head. Fortunately, your spirit wasn’t as broken as the prison system or the justice system so it was bearable.

They weren’t able to forgive you, but you saw past your faults and knew that you were merely human, and to err is human, so you forgave yourself. The only forgiveness that matters.

ventriloquists would have a tough time imitating the wail that was sung by your vocal chords when the lightning struck.

All your feelings and memories filled to the brim with hope, regret, repentance, everything that made you- you, they were all gone in a flash, just at the flick of a switch, erased like a bad satirical cartoon sketch in a second rate newspaper.

 

A Tear For Yesteryear

Life is a collection if not recollection of memories

Yesteryear with its temporal moments is a sentient story

And here we find ourselves, a year later

There have been ups and downs like in an Elevator

Another birthday to celebrate,

Although happiness has a predilection to hastily dissipate

It’s important to focus on the journey and not the ‘checkmate’

Enjoy the experience, gone is the past tense

Victory day arrives, let the commemoration commence!

“don’t ask why, just buy!”

Written by:

Anindita Farzana, Class XI, Section Green.

You’ve watched enough Carat-Lane adverts to know that having a metastable carbon allotrope strapped across your wrist will make you feel like a Goddess. That you can’t possibly be someone’s best friend unless you both wear the same brand of over-priced jeans. Your fondness for your pet insists upon you having its portrait etched onto your flesh. How can a home possibly be a home without crystal sculptures conspicuously displayed throughout the living room? Your womanhood is defined by the size of your nail-varnish collection

Pink, pink, pink? No! Salmon, amaranth, cerise.

You convince yourself there’s a difference.

That your luscious, vibrant nail lacquer is more than just an embellishment

It’s more than just a choking hazard.

You convince yourself that it defines you somehow.

You convince yourself that it’s not the symptom of an ever-abiding affliction

Eating away at your soul You feign satisfaction.

Attempt to deceive yourself into believing that you will inevitably be content

But you just can’t help it.

You can’t neglect the numbness.

You can’t evade the realization of the fact that you are hollow.

That every bargain, crotched top, red-wine tinted pair of oxford shoes

Is just another excavation. “Mum” My mother awakens at the crack of dawn to make my breakfast

She lets me lick the residual batter off the bowl whenever she makes her warm, fudge brownies

She recites “Kajla didi”, every night, to help me fall asleep

Or she would have, I guess, had she been breathing

Or, perhaps not

Perhaps she would have done none of those things. I suppose I’ll never know

Perhaps she would have adored irises as much as I do Perhaps she would have taught me how to ride a bike

Perhaps she would have admonished me for my white lies

Perhaps she would have been my best-friend

Perhaps she would have taken me up to the rooftop To while away our hours

Counting stars glimmering in the night’s glorious sky

I suppose I’ll never know.

My father is a religious man

He once told me that people could chose the length of their subsequent lives shortly before birth

Why on earth then, did she, not choose live a little longer Why couldn’t she force her vitals to work? Why did she choose to abandon me? Maybe, someday, I’ll know.

“Mrs. Haider”

Mrs. Haider has her thick, lustrous head of hair wrapped into a bun roughly equal ,in size, to a melon

She had not run the mile since the passing of her husband.

The secret to her survival, as a widowed mother of five

Lies in the batting of her eyelashes, in her unblemished, porcelain skin In her calculated usage of her body as a swiss-army knife.

The women in her neighborhood called her a “seductive witch” She is not affronted by these terms. Not anymore She is crafty enough to use their resentment to her advantage

Her aptitude as a finagler keeps her children well-fed Her lush, floral skirts keep her home warm

Her crimson-tinted lipstick keeps a roof over her head.

In the survival of the prettiest, she is the definite victor.