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."
The Stranger knew fear. It was what gripped his throat with its jaws and released every time Monday came around. Since Stallion Man left, he was hired as a janitor. No one talked to him or looked at him or acknowledged his presence in any way in the months that he had been there. The new judge-in-charge was mostly busy just like the last judge-in-charge and everyone just wanted to know when the judging would be done. As a lowly janitor, he hid himself in the janitor's closet most days of the week. Someone bumped against the door. "Did you know that only 1% of judging is actually complete before the announced date?" "Really?" "Yeah." "Really really?" "Yeah." "Do you know what this means?" "IT'S OVER NINE THOUSANDTHS!!!" "So you think it's gonna be judged?" "Nah, let's go." His throat felt tighter than usual and that was always a bad omen.
"Did ya hear? The Poet's Guild imploded!" "Who cares about them? I just want first place." "But they're only 5 MB away! It coulda been us!" "Better them than us." "It says here 'The Poet's Guild mysteriously imploded early Friday morning. There have been no reported casualties and no one was known to be inside at the time of the implosion.' The sheriffs dunno what happened." "But they're supposed to know everything!" "Yeah, like that merit worthy feedback slip I left at the Arcade." "First the Great Convergence and now this! What's next? Sheep take over Armor Games?" "You act like it matters." The newest speaker sounded critically familiar to the Stranger. He dared not open the door to make sure. Today was a Saturday.
Most awesome information in entire story. About the same way of telling like Terry Pratchett has, for some reason.
Almost like a tangential almost non sequitur with matter-of-factness. Pratchett is made of awesome.
Deny it all you like, I won't believe you any longer!
But Stallion Man left for Armor Game City first... though I think it was already known you were leaving. I'm not sure.
And those are two different sentences! Right?
And just for that...
The Bullman
Crowman wasn't bad company. He was someone to talk to and a much better conversationalist than the Space Cowboy. Crowman was much more hyperactive though. It was still some megabytes to civilization, perhaps even a gigabyte. "I wouldn't go that way," Crowman said. "And why not?" "No reason. There's only a cabal out there." "An evil cabal?" The Bullman rested his handhoof on his rubber ducky. "Yeah. They vaporize people instead of leaving bodies laying around." "Sounds evil enough. Which way?" "You have prairie madness or something?" "Something." "But you don't get it. It's not any cabal. It's the Four." "The Four what?" "The Four..." Crowman looked at the Bullman for a moment wondering if his carcass was worth saving. He appeared healthy on the outside but maybe there was brain rot on the inside. "Chogs."
It looked exactly like Armor Game City except for the giant haystack where the shield-shaped building was. Sheep and cattle filled the streets. A few horse heads bobbed above the crowd. Not a person, not even an anthropomorph, was in sight. The only sign that anyone had been here was a message painted on the side of the Sunset Saloon. "Rainheart was here." It smelled like rust.
Back home, people saw shadows of ghosts in the blue fog. Out here we saw their footprints. The Dekas believed that fog was the protection of the spirits of ancestors and supernatural guardians. Once every two years, during the summer the sky around a full moon would glow blue. The Dekas called it the Dying Sun. On that night, evil spirits escaped into the world of the living. Good spirits would drape the land in fog to hide them from the evil spirits. Scientists attributed the events to the Pacarna Geyser, which spouts enormous plumes of ice, dust, and water into the sky once every two years. The man in the black hat says its bad luck to walk in the direction of footprints in the dust. When we come across footprints on the ground we walk in a different direction. We aren't going anywhere in particular, but I tend to believe him. Scientists are such spoilsports.
I hope I can get this part right. Anyone who knows what it is about (not the content but the action) would probably know. I might say something in the next post. That's likely what I'll do from now on.
The Stranger
The door was always ajar on Friday. It allowed for quick escape and quick hiding. With the flick of the wrist like to a switch the door was open or closed. The Stranger could hear the sounds outside but they were not loud enough to distract him. And since the door was opened out toward the main doors, he could see who was coming in or going out, especially if it was the rabbit guy. But that didn't stop him from not knowing who slipped a note under his door while he was inside. The Stranger was certain that it was a she, and he was certain that she had disappeared as quickly as the note had slipped under his door. The note felt of that feminine candor he knew he wanted to be familiar with. It was something he could only describe as "emotional honesty". Someone had reached out to a stranger.
"Writer" and "The Stranger" are essentially the same character. But no. It's more someone to talk to rather than someone to be with. Either way, it is impossible to succinctly define a female.
