Snapshot of ABML, June 2000

Do you remember how to play Pretend?

Let us play, shall we?

Pretend you are a weary stranger, toiling through the wilds of
Usenet.  You pass through barren deserts where no words bloom,
through medicinally cool, antiseptic lands where questions and
answers flow, or wildly enthusiastic announcements fly about
without reply, through inferno hot lands flaming with dispute
and anger.

But there, just at the corner of your eye, a hint of green.
Trees!  You hoist your heavy bag once more to your shoulder
and hike into the woods, for they engulfed you as soon as
you turned your full attention to them.

Peace and quiet.  Blooming woods.  Onward you hike, with
winter woods passing on your right, snow covered and soft,
and pink-blossomed trees from the height of spring to your
left.  You stride through a clearing, and movement overhead
catches your eye.  Looking up, you spy a ship.  A great
wooden ship from another era, sailing across the sky.
A horned figure, cloak billowing, stands near the prow.
Someone throws a brightly colored water cannon off of the
port side, and water droplets spin, glittering, out from it
as it falls.  Indignant laughter reaches your ears.  
From starboard, a rectangle of intricately patterned 
paper flies off, straight as an arrow and much faster.  
Someone cries, "Oh, I knew I shouldn't have tried that 
Find the Quest Path spell!  Anyone have another map?"
The ship veers confusedly to port, then starboard.

You pass back into the shade of the trees, and lose sight
of the air ship.

An short, plump, elf-like being pops up by your elbow, large,
pointed ears flicking rapidly.  "Pssst," he whispers,
opening one side of his trenchcoat.  "Interest you in
an Unlicensed Pedant's License?"  Startled, you simply
stare.  "No?"  The being's ears droop.  "Well, then.
Come on, Box!"  Taking a swig from a flask produced
from the depths of the coat, the being vanishes rapidly 
into the undergrowth, followed, with a rustle, by a
large, wooden Box, sporting innumerable feet flicking
rapidly around its bottom edges.

Bemused, you continue hiking.  Winter has vanished
from the woods to the left of your path, and red-crowned
autumn reigns instead.  In a clearing opening to your right
spreads a magnificent garden, though you are at a loss to
name most of the plants.  Colorful and exotic, they bloom
in beds centered on a tall fountain.  Just beyond it
you see the back of a tall building.  As you watch, a
large pie spins out of a window to splatter whitely
on a willow tree.  Moments later, a harried and 
food-splattered orangutan hurries to the tree and
slings a large bucket of water on the mess, washing
it into the earth.  You follow the spiky-furred
orangutan around the building, where he vanishes into
a doorway.  Leaning in the door you see a magnificent
kitchen, the dream of any cook, complete with polished
rails overhead by which the orangutan assistants
rapidly cross the kitchen on the orders of of a 
long-haired motherly woman deftly wielding a wooden
spoon over a pot, distractedly shoving up a golden
circlet that keeps tilting down over one eye, and keeping a 
weather eye on a shimmering circle hovering vertically 
above the central table.  In the circle you can 
just barely see a short-haired girl waving a 
brightly-painted item in one tight-clenched fist.

You back out of the busy kitchen and continue circling
the building.  A large black owl swoops into sight
around the corner, flying down a path you can now see,
that leads away from the inn - for so it appears this
building is, by the large kitchen and the odd stables
you are passing.  An inquisitive horse sticks his head
out of the open doors of the stables to watch you pass.

The inn, from the front, shows itself to be two stories,
large windows and a generously sized front door opening
onto the path you had noticed earlier.  To the right 
of the front door of the building sits an elderly gentleman,
elegantly clad in footed pajamas made of intricately-patterned
silk.  His chair tilts back against the wall, and soft 
snores float up to the sun from his peaceful face.  On 
his left stands a tall jar, tightly stoppered, which 
jigs... and rocks... and jiggles with frustrated fury, 
adding an interesting backbeat to the music of the snores.  
Knitting needles drape from one lax hand, and you step 
carefully over the feet of the half-completed pajamas, 
which fall from his lap to lie in the doorway.

The inside of the inn... well, it is just strange.  Structures
here and there across the floor, a huge bar reigning over
a wall covered in rows of glittering bottles.  And 
dusty jars.  And gleaming vials.  And anonymous bags.
An ogre - for what else can you call a walking pile of
fur 11 feet tall? - leans on the outside of the bar near 
a gentleman in a kilt, a woman with, wow!, a whole 
_lot_ of curly hair, a gently smiling woman of mature 
age, and a few others, who all recline on chairs, 
reverently holding glasses of amber liquid.  The 
gentleman has just snagged an amber bottle from the paws 
of the ogre, who reaches, chagrined and penitent, over 
the bar for a glass.

There by the fire sleeps a large man, horned helmet tilted 
over his eyes and a large wolf busy imitating a rug by his 
feet. A splash draws your attention to some of the strange 
structures in one corner of the room, and you see a wave 
of melted chocolate crest over the edge of one; from another 
rises a woman in a bikini.  Hot tubs!  Sort of.  Another 
structure moves, and you see that it is not a thing, but 
a dragon.  The dragon's body coils along the wall of the 
ground floor, but its head stretches up to allow it to 
converse with some humans sitting on a table on the balcony 
which rims the second floor of the main room, the ceiling 
of which rises up the full two stories of the building in 
the center.  A skeleton, giant feather threaded through
his ribs for easy access, stretches over the bar to grab
a black bottle; uncorking it, he pokes the emerging
tentacle back into the bottle, pours a slug into a glass,
returns the corked bottle to its spot and sips his drink.
Where the liquid goes, you can't figure out.  A large, 
a _very_ large snowcat pads, claws clicking, out of one 
of the rooms extending out of the main room, with Hands 
floating along in the air above his head.  Behind him 
you can see a tuxedoed orangutan, white napkin draped 
over one arm, waving farewell.  The cat licks its lips, 
and his teeth gleam.

You decide to go see what that owl had been flying to.

A short walk from the inn along the path, you see a lake.
Beside it a barbeque pit smokes and an ogre - surely that
can't be the same ogre?  it looks very like the other -
carefully watches a grill.  Beside him, another large
cat-creature intently eyes the cooking progress of a 
piece of salmon.   The lakeshore teems with activity;
a game of volleyball, and swimmers and rafters, a 
mother watching over a baby who lies in the sand and
waves her tiny limbs at a glittering cloud hanging over
her head, a whitish, baseball sized cloud that floats
by your head, forlornly trailing a piece of a wedding
veil, a large, green-furred cat by the edge of the water
curling his feline lip at the nasty wet stuff, an 
orangutan who hustles by, ostentatiously avoiding the 
harmless-looking cloud on his way to a white gazebo, 
carrying a tray of edible goodies, a mature gentleman 
who stands near a recliner, shedding a winter coat 
and boots before flopping down to watch the activities, 
eyes twinkling lasciviously at the pretty women.

On a padded recliner by the lakeside sleeps a newly-slender
elf.  Arcing over her head, an enormous purple flower shades
her slumber.  An orangutan sits by the recliner, waving a
palm frond oh so carefully, generating a cooling breeze that
gently stirs long, uncombed tresses tumbling off one side of the
recliner.  At the side of her recliner stands a baby carriage.
Occasionally, a small fist reaches up from the depths of the
carriage to swipe at the glowing object above it, which 
changes colors, and glitters, and swoops gently about for
the amusement of the owner of the fist.

In the middle of a grassy slope sits a blonde-haired woman,
savoring sunshine that will not burn.  One quill sticks
up from behind her ear, and another dangles, ink-tipped, from
a couple fingers of one hand.  She deftly spins the top
rod of a scroll, and rolls down the document.  As it
scrolls, a leaf falls off of it, and melts in midair.
Then a fuzzy clump of green, then a miniature cookie, and
a bit of amorphous slime.  All melt to nothing before
striking the ground.  Plainly, you conclude, the document
she now scribbles on holds some magic here.

A tall man with horns arcing up out of his forehead
stalks by.  A rubber band falls from one pocket, and 
a dozen tiny, fuzzy creatures scramble along behind him 
radiating fascinated curiousity.  Absentmindedly, as 
he passes, he drops a rose by the writing woman, a 
spray of lavendar by the sleeping elf, spinning a finger 
in midair as he passes the cradle which triggers a 
rapid spin the colorful cloud, to the cooing pleasure 
of the cradle's inhabitant, continuing on to drop a 
carnation by the cat-creature and a sunflower by the 
ogre, a forget-me-not to lodge inside the veiled cloud, 
and a sprig of holly by the man with winter clothing 
by his recliner.

You follow him, and he leads you back into the Forest,
where you lose him.  You continue on, through the
Forest and out to another land, leaving this land of
whimsical chaos and organized peculiarity behind.



-------------------------
by Megan Thomas, 6/2000