Author has written 28 stories for Bionicle, and Final Fantasy I-VI.
If you're reading this, you're likely one of fourteen cold, cynical souls packed into the grimy and neglected bowl of a worn oak canoe, bobbing up and down on languid compression waves on a deep black ocean 74'N and 03'E. Your rations are low and the only things keeping you alive are the stegosaurus skin parka draped snugly around your shoulders and the algae crystals drifting through the air that you harvest in clumsily crafted makeshift butterfly nets, sewn from walrus entrails and horsehairs.
It's a dreary November afternoon and so far a fortnight and seventeen hours have passed since you've departed from your sunken vessel, the Seymour 5XII, when it antagonised a sentient iceberg and got slapped across the starboard facing hull by said iceberg -- who, displaying poor sportsmanship, promptly fled the scene following that. Your fellow shipmates and yourself rushed into the lifeboats but a tragic storm appeared and flung you all in different directions.
Now you're stuck with the thirteen others on your oaken canoe today. Despite your differences, you've really managed to cooperate enough that you've located a fancy looking ice floe with some items embedded it in, encased in a fine layer of frost.
With the back of your sealskin mittens you've wrenched out a large black rectangle and dusted off the cover. Voila! It's a Captain's Log. My name is imprinted in the leatherbound face in stylized gold (yes, pure gold) and you flip open to page 394.
The words take a second to calibrate and inscribe themselves on the page. It's an old journal and there's not a really good Wi-Fi connection where you are. On page 394, there is a large stylized heading that reads 'Inclinations and Interests of the Worldman'.
You'll later come to recognise that 'Worldman' is one of my more formal titles, up there with 'He the Great' and 'the Most Interesting Man in the Galaxy', what with my co-authoring of Earth and personal legacy on such cosmic gifts to humanity as Old Spice. More on that later.
On the page you have turned to, there is a .gif that is taking its precious time to load, frame rate after frame rate. You recognise it with striking nostalgia, but you know not why. The figure depicted is a bipedal, heavily mechanical skeletal creature, with pistons and gears running over scrawny limbs and an angular face fixed in what appears to be a scowl. (It's not a scowl, trust me.)
What you are gawking open-jawed and googly-eyed at, yes I know your expression no need to be alarmed, is one of the blueprints that your native race was originally intended to be based on. Seeing as your native race is Zwalidran, there's obviously no resemblance to the diagram in the least bit. But it was a very viable option in the beginning.
Alas, back before the Zwalidrans were in their gestating phases as blue primates, I had a serious discussion with my flat mate Twilight Sparkles. He and I decided that this race, the one you currently belong to, needed to have a more organic basis and that this draft was better off in another dimension. So, I took it upon myself to tamper with the spacetime continuum and I eventually crafted another galactic realm in which this species would develop. (It may be important to note that this galactic realm possessed 13.84% more pizzazz than the previous model)
In this different galactic realm I picked up a piece of mud and made a snowball with it, a kind of mudball if you will. Then I said the magical words ("Your bond is now potato") and it swelled into a massive terrestrial planet that I christened Spherus Magna. Affixing an entirely unsafe contraption to my skull, I dislodged a number of neurons and put them on Spherus Magna to run the place. They grew increasingly snotty over time and called themselves 'Great Beings'. What's with that, anyway?
I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, your universe, the Zwalidrans. So the Zwalidrans decided that they didn't really like their name and that they were going to call themselves 'humans'. My broseph Twilight Sparkles wasn't too keen on that idea but he decided he would let it float, and they progressed and developed societal infrastructure over time so that it was reigning and completely awesome. (Still 13.84% less awesome than Spherus Magna, mind you)
Skip ahead seventeen hundred thousand years, from what base point in time I'm not very clear of. So Twilight and I are having fun and everything, right, tinkering with the galactic realm as it is. Some guy named Frederick comes up to us and says he would be really interested in being a part of our little project. I grit my teeth in indecision but Twilight is all-ears. So he goes ahead, and he takes the galactic realm that I fashioned, makes a quantum likeness of it, and implants it in the intelligence of some mortal soul named Greg Farshtey (who, by the way, isn't due to be born for a couple hundred thousand years from now). Twilight gets outraged, naturally. He doesn't know what the repercussions will be of a mortal being keen to the very functions of another galactic realm -- neither does Frederick.
The last straw comes when Frederick decides to go into my drawer of the apartment and see what I'm 'hiding' in all those vials I stash with my socks and Spongebob pajamas. The bloke unwittingly shatters seventeen out of the twelve vials I have, and an entire mess of celestially multidimensional states of existence escape, penetrating and stretching reality to all kinds of geometrical angles that I never learned in high school.
Is the Wi-Fi in this book still holding? Anyway, so there's a rampage of inception of creativity in Zwalidrans all over the planet. Farshtey is the first one; he has the fortune of an entire galactic realm being transplanted into his consciousness. Other mortals get it too, though; snippets and visions of differing scenes in reality, inundating their thoughts. They turn these visions into interpretative expression. A crude term they use to categorise this expression is 'art'. Doesn't do justice to the majesty of the phenomena, does it? Anyhow.
This page says 'Inclinations and Interests', doesn't it? Blimey, I never figured out how to fix the HTML on that to change it. Well, if you're still here and reading for interests, I guess I have to relent. The advent is what I am inclined to pay heed to, this mishmash, this forking and interception of celestial plays somehow bisecting their ways into Zwalidran minds and regurgitating themselves as what their lowly conduits call 'art'. The visual advent, the written word, the abstract thought -- these are my hobbies. These are what I was holding in those vials in my sock and Spongebob drawer, what my roomie Frederick was so reckless to shatter and spread all across the known corners of the universe. In every form, these were the apex of my creativity. And they are what I've sought since then.
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