Gantic has a thread and will weave a cloth. This is a thread brought to you by Gantic & Co. Bringin' change to a constantly changin' world.
The title of the thread will become apparent later, but to start off:
Three Cowboys
Just to make things clear, there were never three cowboys. Just two. One of them's got the solar-powered laptop, the other's got the rubber ducky, but they're both mavericks, all three of them. It was my idea to throw in the third cowboy, but he's as real as any of the others. The solar-powered laptop and the rubber ducky were my idea, too. So were the two cowboys. To make things clear: There were no cowboys. In the vast emptiness of the Moobes, a black craft shaped like a horse, christened the Star Straddler, cruised to what was only a small but sparkly blue-and-green marble. The captain had his boots up on the dash as his craft crawled along the moobe that would bring him to the planet that the Moogle Navigator had found. As the craft touched down on the surface, only one thought was on the captain's mind: "The Space Cowboy has landed. In Armor Games."
Side note: I went back to playing one of my favorite MUDs.
The Stranger
In a flurry, in a flutter, in a swarm, in an instant, the horse holding the Stranger captive was engulfed. The mass of wings surged and soared, carrying him with it. The Stranger did nothing but watch in awe as the dark swarm shaped and reshaped itself as it flew away. He was one again alone. The Stranger looked to the horizon to find his next destination but a familiar voice caught his ear. "Friends, Gamers, countrymen, lend me your eyes, those with which you see and those with which you imagine dream. We have ten names for the same thing and we have ten things for the same name. We create Figments upon Figments, but what are they? We give them names, but what do they mean? It is time we saw not only through our own eyes, but also through the eyes of others. And thus I give you..."
Side note is foreshadowing. Kind of. For something. Else.
Word notes: I always thought reticulated meant something else, "net-patterned python" just sounds wimpy; also: gleam, glimmer, glitter, glister, glisten, glint, glin! Interesting.
Birds of a Feather
Unseen, crystal threads burst from the ground and wove their way upward as the Crow Shepherd cawed. The Bullman was caged under a translucent dome of netting that resembled the skin of a cantaloupe. Against the sunless sky, it was almost invisible, except for faint glimmerings, but the Bullman was unaware of it until he was suddenly halted by seemingly nothing. He braced himself as he pushed against the ethereal wall. "I think we've hit the edge of the Imaginarium," the Bullman mused. He turned and walk back the way he came for a moment before he was stopped again. He pushed and kicked and butted the wall. He felt around for the way he came in. There was nothing beside the holes in the fibrous network and those were too small to allow the Bullman any grip. This was a welcome challenge, though he preferred one where his might would come in handy. The Bullman took the rubber ducky in his hoof-hand and--"I wouldn't do that," the Crowman warned.--launched a stream of water at the cage. As the water touched the threads, crystalline needles twisted inward from the dome where the water hit and they grew for every ounce of water it absorbed. The Bullman approached the wall to assess the damage he caused, he was stopped by a prickly barrier that pierced his thick skin. "Told you," the Crowman said. Definitely a challenge worth his attention.
I believe this might be the first serial to be finished. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Of course, it needs processing first.
Fog City
In the Fog we saw our dreams. The shadows beyond our grasp were the fancies on the mind. As long as we didn't know, we could hope. But when I woke from dreams of ethereal realities, the surrogate seemed much emptier. Yet, there were times when I saw the ephemeral illusion in the mist that persisted as I glanced again and again and again until it faded. It was tangible, yet it was only a semblance of what I desired. I don't know why I do anything anymore. There were moments when reasons didn't matter and "just because" was the best reason to do anything. It was optimally noncommittal and affirmative of who we were. But now, this melancholy is incriminating and melancholy was the aftertaste of dreams. Sometimes I just wait for a good dream without the aftertaste, though they are few and far between. It is better to forget or I stay awake until my eyes are too tired to stay open. And if it I slept, I could say "It really doesn't matter."
Obligatory comment for indentation, 'cause if I say anything else I give away the ending. But I might've given it away already.
Birds of a Feather
The tendrils of the crystal cage had unwound enough to allow for the passage of a swarm of feathered bodies. With the furious beat of wings, the Stallion appeared beside the Bullman. Stallion Man let out a equine groan and stood on his hooves. "What? Bullman! What did you do this time?" "Hello, Stallion Man." "Where are we?" Stallion Man asked. "In a cage." "In a cage?" "In a magical cage." "And you couldn't get out?" "Nope." "Hah! See about that." Stallion Man reached for his sword, but he realized he must've dropped it when he was carried away. The only other magical weapon available was the rubber ducky and that obviously didn't work. He dug into the ground and started throwing dirt into the air. The Bullman, realizing what Stallion was doing, followed suit. After all, the Bullman was supposedly better than Stallion Man. And all the while, Crowman waited for the return of the King.
Passivity--doing nothing, absolutely nothing--not definitive of the Bullman who is especially indignant toward delays.
Birds of a Feather
The cantaloupe skin continued along the side of the hole and wrapped around beneath the hooves of the Bullman and Stallion Man. Stallion Man had done most of the digging, as the Bullman stopped after they found some truffles that the Bullman was sure to be cow pies and retched when the Stallion Man sniffed them to assure that they were truffles. A shadow waddled over them as Stallion Man uncovered what was a crystalline potato from which the cage that held them grew. The silhouette shifted its flat top cap and peered at the duo in the hole. "Hey!" the figure called out. "Where's the sword." Crowman replied with a noncommittal answers. Jigsaw pieces snapped together in the Bullman's head. "This was a trap!" he shouted, to which Stallion Man replied, "O RLY?"
The only truffle I've ever eaten was in truffle powder. I don't know how or if truffles lose their flavor but it was still pungent. Anyway.
Three Cowboys
The Space Cowboy stumbled northward through the portal into the city and collapsed on the ground. He could not stand and his knees would not unbend. It was much too far from the furthest reaches, even with the now well-travelled paths of trampled grass and compacted dirt. The road was tough not only to the feet but the spirit under the scorn (with a dash of egoism) of passing eyes. As he looked up at the city before him, a sense of deja vu overtook his senses in a gust. It was Farmer Games sans formula, or perhaps it was the formula. A bad pun was a good pun and he had yet to see the Armor of Armor Games.
Subtle to the point of unnoticeable. Or crass. Sometimes it's nothing.
Fog City
Northeast of Fog City is a crevice in Perrick Peak through which an intermittent stream flowed. Perrickans (or Foggers) would shout their problems into the crevice. Legend had it that the spoiled grandson of Port Perrick, Peak Perrick, the uncle of the current mayor, when he ran away from home to the forest at the base of Perrick Peak at the age of twelve. He ran out of water a few days into his ill-planned venture. Thinking his father, then mayor Post Perrick, had someone watching him the entire time, he shouted out, "I'm thirsty! Get me some water!" At that point, water trickled from the crevice and swelled to a stream. Thus started the custom. Forty years later, most people now blog about their problems in ill-composed poems and now, the world gets a peek through the Fog.
The Stranger stood on familiar ground (or as familiar as nondescript moors could be). He was nothing and he ambled along, looking a comfortable spot to sit. The honk of a goose disrupted his thoughts. The Bullman and Stallion Man were in a spherical wedge of a pit and on one side above them were Crowman and Union Gander squabbling. He hadn't been keeping up with the happenings for some time. It wasn't now that he would start again. There was nothing to stop him from watching as it was being written. Stallion Man hammered at the bottom of the pit before the Bullman told him to move aside and let the muscles do the work. And of course, yet another argument was started as to who was the strongest, who was the fastest, who was the smartest, and who danced like a ballerina. This duo display of disagreements disgusted him, but he couldn't help but watch on out of the curiosity for the dynamics of interpersonal relationships or, perhaps, it wasn't his choice.
After several posts of avoiding reading everything again, it has to be said. It's a miracle to piece together a truly strange work that is still somehow coherent.
Coherency is the minimum I aim for since I haven't done a long serial before, though I might leave a few loose threads at the end, but I'm more worried whether or not the ending will be underwhelming.
Birds of a Feather
One would never mistake the Gander for a king, but maybe as the consummation of a regal swan and common duck, but no one questioned his legitimacy as the de facto ruler, because no one cared. How it came to be is an episode unfit for mass consumption. Crow's fading nonchalance toward the Gander was for another matter. The Condor was his godfather and he, Crowman, had more justification than anyone to punish those who dared to plunder the tomb. To do so was to pilfer from his dignity. And while he preferred to feed off others, he wouldn't have his dignity pilfered.
Hmm... two weeks or so since I have done anything.
Birds of a Feather
The Bullman hammered his fist into the crystal potato but the futility of his attempt reverberated in his body. This was truly a test for someone of his caliber. Heroes overcame obstacles by brains and brawn. Although he was moderately intelligent (albeit humor challenged), these sorts of puzzles required more focus that his personality would allow. The Stranger, watching the predicament of the Bullman and Stallion Man, began to engross himself with solving their situation. How could it be done? He opened up his laptop out of curiosity. There was everything there and he could get the facts and review the situation. His mind flipped in on itself in the realization of his own existence. While searching through the darkness, he had accidentally bumped the light switch and this new-found light burned his ill-adjusted eyes. The fluorescence of the light still flickered and he had brief, sporadic moments of relief from knowledge. If he could convince Stallion Man to squawk like a chicken, then he could prove whether there was a light at all.
I'm pretty sure that horse can't squawk, much less cluck.
Three Cowboys
Things felt more familiar to the Space Cowboy than just the resemblance to Farmer Games. Witnessing the silly banter within the walls of the fictional land kindled something within him that smoldered with his passage from Farmer Games to Armor Games. It took going nowhere, doing nothing, and meeting no one to discover what he wanted out of this experience and it was to explore but there was none of that here, especially not withing the halls of the Nemesis Machine which was fueled by hot air. That was a place that filled with something it was not as everyone argued nothing but facts without blinking. He had seen it before. This was of a place that was no longer in its nascence. A flame flared up within in him and he realized that he had been here before, when he was known as the Stranger.
It's easy to see where this is going and sloppily at that.
Fog City
I once had a debate with Lena as to which weapon would be more effective in a fight: a rubber chicken or a rubber ducky water gun. I don't remember which side I chose. Either one would've been as useless as a solar-powered laptop, especially in Fog City, unless you had nothing better to do that to sit in the middle of semi-arid steppelands all day not daring to venture through the desert of the major conti-lands. I left Pacarna because I could not figure out what I wanted and yet all I can think about is Pacarna. All I do is what I have done. There were only two cowboys. The third one was my idea. But they were all the same. No one remembered the Stranger. The Space Cowboy is easily forgotten. The Bullman, well, I don't know, but it's all the same.
END
Comments later. And maybe an explanation, but I don't think that's necessary.
