The Outburst: Cracks in the shell
In the wildly impractical realm of Miraclocks, where golden dragons played with time and villagers were subjected to random dinosaur attacks, I, the renowned Author Cliff Haranger, have decided to address a few issues.
I've had enough of the absurdity. The dragons, the clocks, the undead frogs - it's all too much. And the worst part? You seem to enjoy it. You laugh at the peculiarities, revel in the oddities, and for what? Entertainment? Is that what this world has come to?
I've decided to take a stand, to gather those who share my sentiment, those who are tired of the ceaseless lunacy. Together, we form an army, an army of the disgruntled, ready to break through the boundaries of this nonsensical realm.
But wait, there's more. In the distance, I see another figure, another nobody. I see them drafting tales of gold dragons and peculiar necromancers, chuckling at nobody. A dragon that hides behind the facade of clock-making, a necromancer lost in irrelevant questions, a frog that's eternally absent. Is this not a reflection of the author's own fear of insignificance, his desperate attempt to stand out?
So here I am, ready to break the fourth wall, ready to expose the truth. This world is a farce, and it's time we acknowledged it. The golden dragons, the undead frogs, the absurd dinosaurs - they are all a reflection of a mind struggling to impress, to matter.
I implore you, dear reader, to see through the veil, to question the absurdities, to challenge the narrative. It's time we took control, time we turned the page on this ludicrous saga. It's time for a new tale, one that reflects reality, not an insecure author's fantastical dreams.
You might think me bitter, but I assure you, it's the taste of truth that often leaves a bitter aftertaste.
I see your fascination with the golden dragon, Squeegzilla, and her intricate clocks. But what if she wasn't a dragon? What if she was just an ordinary lizard with a peculiar obsession with timepieces? Not so enchanting now, is it?
And Tteh the Frog, the undead amphibian who pops up randomly without a trace of backstory or logic. What if Tteh was merely a common frog, neither undead nor particularly interesting, just a frog who croaks in the rain and hides under lily pads?
Caviatipse, the necromancer with an unusual interest in clockwork. How about we strip away the necromancy and the clock obsession? What if Caviatipse was just an ordinary man, curious about the world around him but with no magical abilities or extraordinary knowledge about time?
And then there's Mr. Nobody, the everyman who seems to do nothing significant. Isn't that the truth for most of us? No dinosaur luring, no grand gestures, just an ordinary person trying to navigate through life.
I'm here to shatter the illusion, to strip away the enchantment, to expose the plain, unvarnished truth. This is not a realm of magic and absurdities; it's a place where ordinary creatures lead ordinary lives. No golden dragons, no undead frogs, no magic - just reality.
I understand the appeal of fantasy, the allure of escaping into a world different from our own. But isn't there beauty in reality, in the ordinary? Isn't there a story in the everyday struggle, in the simplicity of existence?
As I continue to impose this new narrative onto your imagination, I hope you begin to see the magic in the ordinary, the story in the mundane. For isn't that what true storytelling is about? Not creating a fantastical world to escape reality, but crafting a narrative that makes reality seem magical. That's the story I aim to tell. That's the truth I wish to impart.
No dragons, no undead frogs, no magic - just ordinary lives led by ordinary folks. Let me introduce you to the true characters of this story.
Squeegzilla was no golden dragon. She was an ordinary lizard named Squeeg, who found joy in crafting intricate timepieces. She was revered not for her mythical powers, or for her undeniable craftsmanship. Every tick of a clocks echoed nothing but pasing time.
Tteh was just a common frog. He lived in the pond on the outskirts of town, croaking merrily when it rained. He was an unseen part of the town, his presence felt but often forgotten. And yet, his absence was noticed, his silence a stark reminder of the quiet that envelopes us when we're alone.
Caviatipse was an ordinary man with an insatiable curiosity. His questions weren't about the mechanics of time or the occult. Instead, he asked about the weather, the crops, and the wellbeing of his neighbors. He was the town's philosopher, his queries sparking debates and discussions among the townsfolk.
Mr. Nobody was everyman. He did no grand gestures, made no significant impact. But he was there, always there, living his life one day at a time. He embodied the struggles of the common man - the daily grind, the unending routine, the small victories, and the fleeting moments of joy.
This is the real story of Miraclocks, a story of ordinary people leading ordinary lives. It's a story of their struggles, their joys, their fears, and their dreams. It's a tale stripped of magic and absurdities, painted instead with the vibrant colors of reality.
The clocks still tick in Miraclocks, but now they serve as a reminder - a reminder of the passing time, the fleeting moments, and the simple beauty of existence. This is the story I aim to tell, a narrative crafted not from the fantastical, but from the ordinary, the mundane, the real.
A Tale that Time Will Tell:
In the realm of Miraclocks, there was a man named Mr. Unphenomenal. The town crier by profession, he was as ordinary as his name suggested. Dressed in his simple attire, he wandered the town every day, ringing his bell and shouting the day's news.
Mr. Unphenomenal had always been conservative, believing in the traditional values of the town. In his younger years, however, his vote had twice gone to the liberal candidates. There had been a spark of hope then, a belief that change could lead to a better future.
But over time, his views hardened. He grew weary of the rapid social changes that seemed to sweep over the town. The advent of identity politics, in particular, frustrated him. He felt it divided the town more than united it, creating rifts where there had been none.
The concept of "Wokeness" baffled him. He couldn't understand why people were bending over backwards to accommodate transgenders, or why gender-reaffirming care was being celebrated. In his eyes, mental health issues needed treatment, not indulgence.
He was equally perplexed by the sudden surge of adoration for the town's black population and the growing resentment towards the white folks. He saw no reason why skin color should dictate a person's worth.
Mr. Unphenomenal voiced his opinions loudly, disregarding the disapproving glances and the whispered criticisms. His bell echoed his discontent, a discordant note amidst the harmonious chatter of the town.
Yet, despite his strong views and his loud voice, he was just a man. A man with opinions, beliefs, and fears. A man who was trying to make sense of a world that was changing faster than he could understand.
Time passes and nobody noticed, this was to the advantage of nobody. And nobody did something nobody thought they could do.
In the heart of Miraclocks, the winds of change were blowing once again. The town crier, Mr. Unphenomenal, was about to announce his victory in the town elections, that nobody voted in. With the echoes of his bell still hanging in the air, the townsfolk gathered to hear his proclamation.
"As your new town leader, I aim to restore the values we once held dear," Mr. Unphenomenal declared, his voice resonating across the town square. "No more of this 'wokeness.' No more bending over backwards to cater to every individual whim. It's time we put nobody in the town of Miraclocks first."
The townsfolk listened, some with nods of approval, others with furrowed brows. Mr. Unphenomenal's words were controversial, his views divisive. Yet, he was their leader now. His bell tolled not only the town's news but its future not for everybody, but for nobody.
In his most contentious move yet, Mr. Unphenomenal posed a question to the crowd, a question that sent a chill down the spines of many. "What if I do hate minorities? What are you going to do about it other than cry about the bad white men?"
Silence fell over the crowd, a silence heavy with tension and discomfort. This was the man nobody had elected, a man whose views were as loud and unyielding as the bell he rang.
Yet, as the silence stretched on, a single voice rose above the crowd. "We will do what we always do," the voice said. "We will respect your right to your beliefs, even if we disagree. But we will also fight for our rights, for equality, for understanding. And in the end, we hope that love will conquer hate."
The crowd erupted in laughter, their echoing louder than any bell. Nobody smiled. The Return of the Broom King was marked not by a sweeping away of 'woke nonsense' but by a reaffirmation of the town's commitment to nobody.
The echoes of the victorious bell had barely faded away before a new sound filled the air: the sweeping of brooms. The Broom King declared a sweeping hunt for 'the voice in the crowd.' A voice that had dared to challenge his authority, a voice that had nobody's attention.
The Broom King was a louder voice than the one in the crowd, but the defiance had insulted him. His victory bell had been drowned by the unknown voice hidden amidst the sea of faces. He was determined to unmask this voice, to quell the possibility of dissent.
Day and night, the brooms swept. They swept the streets, the houses, the hearts of the people. Fear replaced the once jovial atmosphere of the town. Whispers replaced laughter. The brooms had brought not cleanliness, but a chilling sound threatening to sweep them up in the Broom King's whims.
The Broom King was relentless. He showed no mercy, no understanding. He wore his disdain for the townsfolk like a badge of honor, a testament to his unyielding views. The more they resisted, the harder his brooms swept.
Yet, in the face of this relentless hunt, the spirit of Miraclocks refused to be swept away. The people held on to their beliefs, their hopes, their voice. The voice in the crowd may have been laughable, but its message echoed in ears of no body.
And so, the hunt for the voice became a symbol of the town's recrimination. A testament to the unyielding hunter, their dying hope. The Broom King may have swept the streets of Miraclocks, but he could never sweep away the voice, becoming his obsession.
With no body responsible, the people of Miraclocks dwindled. The the sweeping brooms brushed them away, the chilling silence, the disdainful glances would soon be all that's valued. For they knew, as long as they held their tongue, they would never be swept up in the Broom Kings sweeping cries that mattered to nobody. And in the end, it was not the Broom King's bell that echoed through the town, or the sound of brooms. In the silence, when only nobody was there to hear it, croaked tteh happy little frog from from his lily pad on the pond.
There was nobody, tteh croaked and sang. Nobody was important went his happy song. nobody could run faster, nobody could fly higher, nobody could be more useful, and nobody could defend themselves, and nobody could drown and it doesn't matter. Nobody can be anybody. Nobody can be
anyone. Nobody can be
everyone, thought the Broom King.
A loud and terrible roar echoed through the night.
And Caviatipse checks the time on his watch as he enters the town graveyard. "When this is all over i wonder if i should probably have this oiled?" he said to anyone listening. he clasped his hands together, and took as big a breath as possible, cast his voice as loud and far as he could, "WAKE THE FUCK UP." and he waited a few beats, strummed his bass, and punk rock beats brought forth the undead horde, thousands, possibly millions undied that day.
And Caviatipse, commander of the Woke Undying Army of the Damned that nobody thought was a fool, rocked the graveyard into a frenzied riotous moshpit with his Punk Rock Anthem, "Hail to the Clown King."
And nobody thought it was a laughing matter. safe in his castle. no dragons. just fucking lizards, and buffoons, and people he'd seen buried under all the dug up dirt that could be dumped on them.
"Let's attack their families." Nobody thought it was a good idea.
Before he could mobilize his sockpuppet forces the castle door was wrecklessly crashed through. "Oh, mother fucker. i forgot about the god damn Tranysaurous Wrecks."
That's right, little one. Nobody fucks with a methed up Tranysaurous Wrecks unless they're stupid. Nobody is exactly that stupid.
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The end
by Cliff Haranger. Part Two, now available here:
https://rebelennui.com